EMMA PHILBROOK: STUDENT LIFE

I t's 9:06 PM. Do you know where your literary inspiration is?

Yeah. Me neither. So here's some lousy poetry.

I stare and I ponder the

clock

Which smugly continues to mock

My pent-up frustration

And sheer indignation

At having obtained writer's block.

I'm shoddy at limericks, it's true

But reader, you'll have to make do

With such clunkified verse

On a columnist's curse.

(Unless you'd prefer a haiku?)

All right, then. Here goes:

First Knowledge Bowl meet

Tomorrow morning. I should

Prob'ly go to bed.

ZZZZZ

ZZZZZZZ

ZZZZZ

ZZZ - oops, sorry. Where was I? Oh,

yeah. Poetry! Right!

A scholarship, however much it grants

And howev'r noble may be its intent

Can be a true pain in one's seat-ofpants And is sometimes mocked via a sonnet.

It's not the paperwork that causes

groans

Among us seniors, nor the date it's due

Vague essay prompts do not bestir our

moans

Nor is it reference-gathering we rue.

But dwelling on one's past for so much

time

And drowning in a sea of one's regrets -

"Why didn't I take Spanish in grade

nine?

Or join more clubs?" and other such

laments

Are just as common as this verse is poor

I'm cured of sonneting forevermore.

And I believe that I have just utilized

every form of poetry I know.

Oh, yeah, except for couplets.

My brain refuses to be inspired

"Why is that, brain?" I inquired.

"Because I'm far too tired," it said.

"Send this off and get to bed."

"I have to finish," I entreated.

"Can't sleep 'till this thing's completed."

"Of course not," it sarcasized.

"Close out Word and shut your eyes."

"I'm not sleepy," I replied.

"I can't give up 'till I've tried."

"Well then," it said with a scoff,

"You're on your own. I'm powering off."

*** (NO SIGNAL)***