Swamped to Death

This post is old, so what you see here may not reflect my current opinion and mindset, certain information may be outdated, and links may be broken.

Oh, how I miss my lazy days,
where I bummed around here and fro,
with nothing else to do but waste my time.

Now that I am back to work,
that has extremely reduced my time
to do the things I long to do.

At work things are crazy;
my hours zoom by like the copying
machine I spend most time at.

Either that or I am lecturing and
admonishing about the rules
students never want to follow.

I stand by gritting my teeth
from the urge to curse at every
single things that annoy me.

Along with school, I have no life.
Face-to-face or online,
whatever it may be, I’m occupied.

Whitman or Dickinson, their poetry
unravels in my mind as something
too foreign for me to comprehend.

Perhaps, I need to purchase
five-hundred dollars worth
of heroin as my daddy said.

To get high to understand Kerouac’s
handsome and forever eternal
Dean Moriarty, the poster boy for everyone.

But alas, alas! These readings kill me as
I drudge through my days at
the high and middle school.

I am already at my death doors,
wondering when this never-ending,
aggravating hell would end.

I hunger for my hot, sweltering
summer days of laziness,
where I had all the time in the world.

But that is all gone now. Gone.
Taken from me because of the need
to work and to get an education.

Will all this troubles be worth it?
All the pains and sufferings?
Or am I simply exaggerating?

Exaggerating or not, agree with me
that working and schooling is quite
an ugly combination.

Swamped to death and
death to swamped. I shall
conquer it all, through and all.

— The abysmally-insane author of this blog.

Do not ask why I wrote this horribly written thing that I call poetry. I think my sickness from the last few days has funkified my brain cells. And if you’re wondering, yes I just wrote this right now out of impulse. Instead of reading Whitman’s poetry like I should be, I decided to just write my own. Go figure.

Comments

  1. Dark Maylee on

    *applauds* Poetry isn’t poetry unless you’re honest about it. If not, then it’s all fancy words.

    But lazy days seem a mile away, eh? In the past there was always a little bit of nice free time.

    But now….

  2. Its the Beats! They’re getting to you already!

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