A Struggle
in the angst
of what could be,
puzzles hook my pupils:
dark sudokus of words,
a grammar of guile.
fingers frenzy fuzzy
till letters swarm from a keyboard,
insubstantial
next to a Juliet or a Hamlet
who aren't real,
but who is,
next to such skill
at showing how great and cruel
language can be?
click click click
go fingernails
on stupid little chits,
wasting countless
procreations.
what comes of it,
in the write way?
no one eulogizes
so many failures
to thrive.
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