“What’s so bad about this?” she asked.
It was the chatter in the room, which seemed to grow louder,
And the tapping of feet and the clicking of pens.
It was the weight of my eyes under too long without sleep,
And the sweat that pooled in the grooves of my palms.
It was my backpack, with two binders and five folders,
And the way it tugged mercilessly at my spine.
It was the sun, far too bright for the hour,
And its painful white rays that stabbed at my eyes.
It was the feeling of fabric against my bare neck,
And the way my sweater became a woolen prison.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Nothing, really.”
VP • May 24, 2024 at 11:15 am
I liked this poem because it is a kind of inner body experience we have all had. When you are feeling uncomfortable but everything seems ordinary to others. 👏 Great Job!