A Student's Desk

Bound into scholastic pages with linings drawn in number two pencils. Seated never comfortably inside the cage that is this studious desk. So below me it would be to stick my gum underneath that which holds up my future. So below them it would look if even for a second they took into consideration the feelings of the ones they teach. But whiteboards and marker go dry without use, and offices need workers, and streets need lights to guide the people through the darkest nights. 

So little does it matter to have this note or that, to have gotten a letter in the alphabet that isn’t tacked with bitter connotations and sour expressions. How often we do crawl under uniform bathroom stalls to reach a door that only opens one way. Of course, to my dismay, the shortest road to hotels of gold is by way of selling the soul. The sword which we must draw to slay the beast, behold, is held within the clasp of a system dead and old. Its grimy hands can somehow stick with great strength and avarice onto the hilt of something so pure. Yet once it’s drawn the blade is dull, and the dragon finds itself with more food to eat. 

But that’s not my concern at the moment, you see. Unfortunately there will be no dragon slaying for me while I’m taped against the wooden frame of a chair so clean. Clean, aside from the marks scrawled in pen, and the holes dug by termites, and compartments filled with things best left in the shade it throws. The view outside is nice with all its trees and squirrels and blades of grass my feet have never felt, but I must admit that it’s hard to quit being a learner. It’s hard to say I’d like to stand when my legs have pruned and curled into boneless flesh that look far better underneath my desk.

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