[cue fanfare]
Before I do this, I really want to explain a few things:
- Palladium is, of course, what this poem is really about.
- A level up from that, it's a conglomeration of rants, some of which I myself wouldn't rant about.
- Superficially, this poem is about pencils and pencil erasers. You won't know what I'm talking about if you haven't used such a pencil. It's a personal pet peeve.
- As always, YMMV. Some people liked it; you don't have to.
- Finally, I kinda like this one. Therefore, this work is copyrighted to me, bersl2. You may redistribute this poem verbatim, so long as I am the attributed author. All other rights are granted by fair use. In summary: MEH!
Pencils
What's the point of going to school without a pencil?
Such awful things I'll write
Lunch is for eating, fallen behind
Didn't do work this morning; I have no time
Must shame be so much pain
I must apologize for these
Problems I am having with pencils.
I have brought none with me.
The library provides some for
Students to sign-out books.
Ripe for an "extended" loan.
No one's at the desk, therefore
I walk up, scribble something, walk away.
Need, ignore tiny Paranoia:
Or is it guilt?
return to my desk.
Shining paper lay in front of me
Open for exploitation by
Thief!
look at this particular pencil when about to begin
It's brand-new, school yellow---
An intriguing play upon my
Flesh and the table---
(It's rather informative: Name of
Corporation Name of Country of Origin Made
From Recycled Material Environmentally-Friendly)
As it now flips in my fingers
It feels like a broad sword.
However sleek and glistening it looks, instead
Snags on own skin, a splinter
Scurrilous scoundrel!
You ingrate! I offer my
Services, and this is what I get?
Restore me, for indeed: am I that imperfect?
have now something written detestably
Without an eraser. This is not an eraser at the end.
This is a useless piece of plastic.
I cannot undo my mistake.
I try without regard; but the black lead smears to smut.
My god, what have I done?
The pencil is flung against the outside wall and lands in the grass
It's such an inconsequential thing---this pencil
The pencil lands in the grass and is stomped upon
No reason---is there?---any at all?---in breaking pencils
Especially if you're dissatisfied with its "services" and you try to go back
But it doesn't let you?
The pencil ruined my afternoon
I never did my work it wouldn't let me
The tools of knowledge and art ought to be
Left alone by abusive forces of power
Comforting and not unwieldy
Under the control of creativity---in a word
free
Random thoughts:
Stallman-esque, dontcha think? Especially the last part.
This and other poems are a relic from my uber-depressed period. The work described is my school work. Failing school was fun, back in the day...
Posting this gimme the jibblies...
