I suppose I'm supposed to call
this thing that I'm writing
a paper.
It has all the hallmarks of one:
words on a page.
But this is not language to me.
It's academia,
science:
foreign to this part of me
that writes poetry
and spills words like water
for the thirsty ears out there listening.
I don't want to call it constraining
when the things I'm typing
are a release of all
the pent-up research
I've been magpie massing,
but the mediation gets lost
as I regurgitate for the hatchlings,
whose grading pens quiver,
all this knowledge acquired.
Still, this is not valueless work.
My privilege to complain as I
attend higher education
slows my typing hands.
"Just get it done,"
they whisper.
Click-clack translations
playing with a sleepless mind.
"Just get it done."
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