Scribble
May 11th, 2018

I’m deprived of me.  
My hands are tied; I didn’t have time to write.
Another due by midnight; timed test: let me jot down one last thought.
Finish up: it’s :51.
Good thing I wrote in pen-
but I cross out half the lines, myself:
murderous burials of ink, morelike.
Leaking,
extending the grave.
Predicting identical deaths in parallel dimensions.
Zig-zagging hashtags under the looming, cloudy swirls of gaseous direction.
Cover up the confessions so well I, even, forget how I meant them.
A silent detention between the proctor and I.
I’m preoccupied on not getting into
PST. By the way,
if I’m to be denied, I deserve the respect of spellcheck.
Did the “committee” not care enough-
not think I was smart enough to spot a typo?
Was it a test; should I have replied with the correction?
Fuck, 
I’m being tested right now.
Angst is suffocating literacy:
synonymous with sanity,
apparently.
I’m not fruitful within the dust bowl that is my unsanitary desk:
compressed with books, loose used papers, and clementine peels.
They were seedless, so I won’t be growing any after all this effort.
If only my eyes were photoautotrophic; it seems as though my lamp and laptop are always on.
Stare into them. Look away and they’ll reappear as blue memories,
now why can’t I remember anything?
Perhaps highlighting will help.
Neon reminds me of vomit,
but examination requires nothing more than regurgitation, so why not?
I’ll lose myself, but not my lunch since I haven’t eaten today, to be unchained from an assignment.
The results are in: I’m no match-
not what they were looking for.
A waste of cultivation of an undesired strain.
It’s a trap:
caught by the dominant hand.
My green thumb is bowing down and browning.
Don’t go numb, nor curl up like sweaty pages: can’t drop the pen.
It’s my only acceptable one. 
The others are too wildly colored.
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