fired up and flying away

I type around at the same eight sentences

The bullet points seeping sand from the weights they carry.

I thought creativity came effortlessly- at least that's what it made me believe

But now it sheds its skin leaving me cold and miserable.

Why not words with thoughts in an essay?

Why not passionate analysis of the boredom I face?

Why do I get the milky smooth bloodflow here, and not one screen over?

The performance standards mock me as the exam room darkens

A blackout as the boming sirens sound.

I do not like it here, and yet in poetry there is ease

I do not like words anymore,

But the voice in my head demands I eat.

No time, I spit back.

The piece of shit scuffles to the cave of books.

Words I am locked away from

Ideas I prolongedly replicate

Everywhere but the pressurised title page

The word counted and highlighted failures of that one particular Word Doc.

Get me out of here,

Another twang of "hunger" as the fustration continues.

Resigned to my fate I hang up the phone calls and return to the brainlessness of easy poetry.

Is this the trade?

Easy poetry for shit-up-a-hill?

Ideas I cannot materialise, find in their tattered bits

While the alpaca spits back at me

Should'a made up ya' mind. Should'a not wasted ya' time.

~