moniker

By Emily Hunt

s.
r
i
a
Fridays. t
Sweating my way up the s

Terrified to make a sound
Nauseated by the though of saying something w
r
Or worse- o
being deemed n
.tnarongi g
.etauqedani

(Didn’t I have something to say?)

Sitting in a square formation
Moving desks, loudly.

Drinking coffee
Just to have something to do anxious
with my ^ hands
Unravel the hem of my black t-shirt
From incessant picking

Always look at
The Raisins and Bananas
(But never eat them).

Please speak to me first.
(Avoid eye contact).

Want to get coffee?
Yes.
(Walks alone).
Please don’t look at me as I’m writing.
Poems.
Poems.
Poems.

What do you mean poetry can’t be philosophical and appeal to the emotions?
Ears redden.
Every Friday.
Leave room quickly.
Give in, drink god-awful skcubrats
Convenient.

SPIT!
IT!
OUT!

Dehydrated headache. (Note to self: drink water, not bean juice)

Sleeping approx. 4 hours a day.
Read 200 pages a night.
Write it out.
Mind over matter?
More like nothing in excess.
Harmony?
Living as close to death as possible.

Participation in unity?
As a desire.

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