15
Despair smells like
Souring yoghurt, bran flakes
crushed under rolling wheels
concrete steps, bulk carpet squares
judging stares of printer and copier
“Why are you still here?”
and, my contacts are falling out
not even tears of fatigue
will provide comfort,
or distraction from the
layers of misery built up in
keyboard and mouse.
I fucking hate the library.
This poem brought to you by procrastination and Olin Library.
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