Sonntag, 18. Oktober 2015
School.
quadrotriticale, 02:42h
There is this genius poem by John Betjeman called "Slough". I am kind of in love with that poem ever since January (when I was watching BBC's The Office, which is how I got to know of it). I finished school in June, but the couple of months before that were pure torture. I was already so done with everything that I mostly sat in class drawing or doodling - or writing poems.
I wrote this one in style of "Slough". So maybe you should read that first to fully appreciate mine. Your decision :) The link is here. Have it as a belated Back To School present. You'll get through this. I promise.
Looking around I understand
This poem of another's hand
'bout friendly bombs that meet the land
And leave some air
So friendly bombs, come take the school
Where some might think they're born to rule
Turning the brightest into fool
And cause despair
My bombs, I dare you to be bold
Disrupting this pretentious fold
With foreheads hot and tears so cold
We cry at home
End daydreams that are no escape
And end the pencil's pointless scrape
And end the bleached out minds they shape
And burn their throne
And smash the blackboard, hurt and stained
With chalk scars as all that remained
Teacher's been for murder trained
To play with fears
Mess up this mess they call a town
And tear the dirty buildings down
Just leave the dust the rain may drown
In coming years
February 2015
I wrote this one in style of "Slough". So maybe you should read that first to fully appreciate mine. Your decision :) The link is here. Have it as a belated Back To School present. You'll get through this. I promise.
Looking around I understand
This poem of another's hand
'bout friendly bombs that meet the land
And leave some air
So friendly bombs, come take the school
Where some might think they're born to rule
Turning the brightest into fool
And cause despair
My bombs, I dare you to be bold
Disrupting this pretentious fold
With foreheads hot and tears so cold
We cry at home
End daydreams that are no escape
And end the pencil's pointless scrape
And end the bleached out minds they shape
And burn their throne
And smash the blackboard, hurt and stained
With chalk scars as all that remained
Teacher's been for murder trained
To play with fears
Mess up this mess they call a town
And tear the dirty buildings down
Just leave the dust the rain may drown
In coming years
February 2015
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