I’m back to school teacher tired,
as useless as a carton of milk gone sour and expired.
My back is on fire, I’m finding it hard to respire, and my entire essence perspires.
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed barbed wire.
I’m terrified of this nervous tick I’ve acquired.
My sanity has been swallowed by a quagmire.
I’m simultaneously full of mirth and ire.
Don’t get caught in the crossfire.
In college, why did I switch my major from becoming an esquire?
I’m so exhausted even my rhyme scheme is delirious and dire.
Might as well throw this shitty poem on the funeral pyre.
When can I retire to the Berkshires, listen to nothing but Reba McEntire, and build my own reading empire?
For now, I’ll just sleep all weekend and wake up Monday refreshed and re-inspired.