Lisa

I knew all along it was going to be a tumultuous day
Nightmares of losing my way for final exams riddled my sleep
And left me tired after hours in bed

There's a monster in one of my classes
How shall I describe the beast?
It's small and pale with withering youth and no valid opinion
(from my point of view)
I say "it" but rather it's a "she" or back again
Yet not just "she",it echoes in them all

Like in a dream I feel like I am losing myself
i've become too comfortable in my raging chaotic discomfort
What have i become, the eternal question speaks to me:
AM I A DISGRACE TO MY PASSION?

Do i have the right to call it a passion?
The monster strongly disagrees no matter what the answer
She/they somehow want me to fail
To fall, to lose, to crumble before
Their meaty eyes and sinuous jaws

The beasts red hair provokes me
i want to grab a hold of just a strand or two at a time
And yank!

How can this/these hideous creatures martyr me
For they are the heathens
The students of the tiny beast
(So tiny, my foot could crush her to bits,
i digress)
They do not learn, they are not passionate unless they steal my passion

She makes them heathens;
her wretched gnawing minions out to destroy me
How can i let her,
but how can i stop her

Once i thought she would break me
i cried; my passion slid like so much sand
Between the parted fingers that i held to my eyes
To catch my tears

i wanted to give up, maybe that would be easier
But easy isnt always the way

So I stay, and I hang on with my straining fingers
Gripping the sparkling grains of my passion

I sit there every greasy moment
Bombarded by her dank dripping fly scoured breath
Her tiny moldy fingers soil my space
And I think she smells of rotten cabbage rolls

Sometimes I hear her swallowing that slimy chunky breath
Of hers as I embarrass her
But she has the final say
And I am but an hourglass
Gripping straining against the gravity of her wickedness
That pulls the grains of my passion
From my artist hands