I’m staring at you, blank page.
And I think that if I tried to write your essay
none of the words would make sense.
I’m easily distracted and not at all attracted
to the words that I must type.
There’s something about today,
the fog and the rain, and I really
don’t know what to do with it all.
I’m wishing, instead of finishing,
that these words would turn into
tire swings.
Wishing that someone was here,
to be boring with.
I’ve already burnt my rice, and
the bottom of the pot is black.
I don’t know why, but it scares me.
The candle’s burning.
There’s no one here to cut the cake,
and I really want a piece but
what fun is it to cut a whole cake alone?
Cheers to you, essay,
for
you’ve
yet
to
be
done.
