Class.

She had heard of the city of sharp edges.
But she stayed where she was.

She was stuck to where she was. A union of her thighs to the chair. A marriage of heat and a rash decision to wear shorts that morning.

The chair.
The chair that bore her weigh yet offered no comfort. The chair that bore the weight of many others and still retained its force of will never to bend to anyone’s will.
…And there was a boy. And once there was laughter.
Now there was occasional amusement. But it was enough. Some laugher is better than total silence.

The chair offered nothing.

There was noise.
Noise she learns to drown out and noise that stands out more than it ought to.
Because it came with the constant factor of annoyance, of ignorance.

Education is deemed necessary I’m told.

Shifting for the unreachable comfort. The metal reflecting her agony, mocking her all the while.

The poke in her spine because the student behind her pays her no attention. Her presence is ignored unless something is wanted of her. Unless she is hit with a binder. Just enough to snap her out of her miserable reverie.

She sees the boy again, absently drumming the desk with his fingers. She hears a noise. Not in reality, but imagined, for it has become ingrained in her. Ingrained like everything else she witnesses.
The monotonous drone of her teacher. She looks towards him, not hearing a word he spews. Boredom has gradually tuned him out and now she only catches snatches of the conversation. Always hearing the amusing parts and perking up when someone starts to laugh.

Dropping her pen for she is too lazy to grip it properly. Telling her teacher to shut up inside her head. The safety in her thoughts. One minute remains.

Buckling under the weight of her backpack. With friends once again. The bell rings its impossible sound. Freedom.

Passion is good but in the wrong areas, not so much. I had 11 hours (seriously) of art homework Thursday night.

Humans are born, educated with things they don't care about (because they don't know how bad it can really be) fall in love, fall out of love, have kids they view as problematic and try to control with punishments and medication. work to buy things that look good, that they care about for 5 minutes, that they wasted their money on because you can't use it when your dead.

So it turns out that beauty is based on math. How odd. Does that make beauty just then?

Yesterday a friend asked me if the world would be a better place if no one wore shoes.

I think it would.

"How can I find you?"
"Hunt me down by smoke signals and interpretive dance."
And so he began his journey.

It was a rainy night. The dampness adding to the already grimy city. A bar light cast a nauseating shadow on the pavement in a section of town that was forgotten by society. A society that fit into a certain class, already categorized for life. But it didn't matter, he was waiting for her.
It had been months of searching, through heartache on the verge of giving up. But every time he was on the brink, he got closer.

She arrived, sunken and broken. He wanted to run to her but fear kept his feet firmly planted to the ground. She made the first move.

Many teachers appear to be sadists. I suposse it is a fitting profession for a sadist.

Wanting to leave and not being able to is the worst thing in the world.
I fear if I stay, it will overpower me.

We take so much for granted and don't even realize.

It was a warm spring day in a town who's name is unimportant, at least for the moment. It was a Sunday afternoon and the local church that centered the town was having a "jump rope for Jesus" fundraiser. The church, white with a big bell tower, shone in the blazing sun. Mothers in lawn dresses secretly boasted as they shared cake recipes and scorned their children about getting grass stains on their Sunday best.

She stood a bit off to the side, leaning against a white picket fence. The pleasant commotion that surrounded her bore her no interest. Her current worry was trying to master the one lock of hair that refused to be in unison with the others. Her hair, a color deemed strawberry blonde, was something she never took to mind. Until this very moment due to the extreme boredom that was often common in this region. But only she seemed to notice it.

Put emotion in it

As much as you can

Let it eat away at you and taunt you

and wake you up at night

That is what art is for me.

The scuff marks on the floor
Constant shifting
An awkward place to sit /with no comfort to offer
The constant crack of nearby knuckles
A throat to be cleared
Again
And again
The buzz of the lights
Necessary
But taunting
Agony
Boredom
Anger coaxed by boredom
For all these noises
Add to the constant tick of one's own mind

The artists curse goes as follows.

You create a work and work on it till you despise it, and thus, you only see its flaws while others see its beauty.

The wind was taunting the leaves as they shivered in their designated positions. The sky peered through the treetops in strewn segments, never showing its full self.
I walked down the path that was filled with invisible stories, my head seeking warmth in a scarf from my grandmother.
Despite the fact that it was noon, only a paltry amount of light reached my surrondings.
That is my attempt at poet's prose, how did I do? I guess that stuff isn't expected from a stick thin girl in skinny jeans and high tops.

Screw writers block and screw the hectic life I currently have.