I realise, sitting in the library,

I am an anomaly. The others

come and collect their coffee and leave

to complete their “proper work.”

They see me sat alone, scribbling,

my tea growing cold – forgotten.

Writing means I no longer scald

my throat by drinking boiling liquids,

I am accustomed now to the taste

of stone cold tea. When I remember

I pause; take a long gulp –

and see them watching me

drilling out poetry onto a page.

I have never felt more alien.

What purpose does my frivolous scribbling

hold, while they discover cancer cures

or solve complex formula?

I feel as if in a zoo – they do a double

take, and then ogle with prying eyes.

Yes. I am an exotic bird,

a bird of poetry.

I am trying to spread my words like wings

and fill the empty space.

Colour them as brightly as I can,

to attract affection from those

who understand the point of my display.

They do not rate my blank staring as thought,

it is only stupidity, they don’t see

the connection desperately straining

towards each other in my brain,

reaching until – BOOM! A firework,

and then my frantic pace makes them panic

because how can one person write so fast

after being dumb for so long.

But soon they lose interest and leave,

safe in the knowledge that their degree

is worth more than that of the girl

who has been sat for the past two hours

staring into space and drinking tea.