Crumpled paper drips down the walls,
Shushing and suffocating over desk
The student cannot hear herself
The noise of the clock spills over the room.
The sweet tie chokes,
The folders churn,
The floor turns to a cauldron
The fingers yearn.
Let me write something real.
Yeats is dead and gone, who cares
Of his views on gyres and ageing.
Let me write for myself.
Let my pen dance over the page, each
Letter a turn or twist of ecstasy.
Beautiful pen. Wisp of a word,
Let me hold you, bleeding
Into the page.