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.