Original: Anticipation
Random poetry-drivel done in MSNgr in the spirit of a challenge. Not very good, I'm afraid, but fun nonetheless. Any edits will be done in the morning when I'm less sleepy.
Based on the recent examination results I obtained. Name subjected to change if a better one strikes me anytime soon.
Anticipation
Fingers shaking
clattering across a keyboard
that doesn't stay still long enough
for the address to be typed in; here is a missing
http:// and that's twice the name misspelt
and she thinks, this is the end
(The chill says so).
Scroll down, down, down
Futures are made of alphabets in this world
where your self-worth is printed on pieces of paper
signed by people who think they matter
(whom you agree with).
Scroll down, down, down
past the name and id; irrelevant
to the table that dictate everything that shouldn't be important
but is because it is
(She still shakes; why won't the keyboard stay still).
One down two down, three down
four; two more to go
and the mouse is infernally slow
As the page crawls up obligingly
One click at a time.
(but would she have had it any other way?)
She thinks T.S Eliot thoughts
Is this how the world ends?
And some from Hamlet
scraps of revision still embedded in her mind
For what, she asks, but Lit's a go
So is Semantics and Grammar
(Only Journalism left).
It is the last blow that's hardest
in legends; like Goliath,
the hopes come tumbling down
like Jericho
She sits numbly, finger paused
(Still quaking in her nightgown)
Thoughts of omens, dreams and mistakes
made in the spur of the moment
stare at her in pixels
Almost taunting, but
At least it's not Critical Thinking
(She sighs and goes to bed).
Based on the recent examination results I obtained. Name subjected to change if a better one strikes me anytime soon.
Anticipation
Fingers shaking
clattering across a keyboard
that doesn't stay still long enough
for the address to be typed in; here is a missing
http:// and that's twice the name misspelt
and she thinks, this is the end
(The chill says so).
Scroll down, down, down
Futures are made of alphabets in this world
where your self-worth is printed on pieces of paper
signed by people who think they matter
(whom you agree with).
Scroll down, down, down
past the name and id; irrelevant
to the table that dictate everything that shouldn't be important
but is because it is
(She still shakes; why won't the keyboard stay still).
One down two down, three down
four; two more to go
and the mouse is infernally slow
As the page crawls up obligingly
One click at a time.
(but would she have had it any other way?)
She thinks T.S Eliot thoughts
Is this how the world ends?
And some from Hamlet
scraps of revision still embedded in her mind
For what, she asks, but Lit's a go
So is Semantics and Grammar
(Only Journalism left).
It is the last blow that's hardest
in legends; like Goliath,
the hopes come tumbling down
like Jericho
She sits numbly, finger paused
(Still quaking in her nightgown)
Thoughts of omens, dreams and mistakes
made in the spur of the moment
stare at her in pixels
Almost taunting, but
At least it's not Critical Thinking
(She sighs and goes to bed).