i wrote this

for my creative writing class, which happens to be the biggest joke of a class in, um, the world. so i don't try very hard. guess what it's about.


At Six They Bring Breakfast

The ceiling is a battleground of electric emotion:
Greedy, encroaching CAPITAL LETTERS invade the territories of timid, fragile pleas for help,
letting no inch over my cot be spared from their conflict of obscenities and misspellings.
A pencil stub, the complacent messenger, sits inquiringly at the head of my mattress
offering his service if I feel a need to likewise join the fray -
leave my never-ending graphite smear on the icy concrete of infinity.
But for this second I am ignoring them all
to continue my staring contest with the security camera above me.
I blink first, but we're both up for another round -
We lay exercising our right to remain silent under a deafening battle overhead.