This poem is about school and how it forces us into unnatural moulds that deform and leave us misshapen.

Study Room

Friday supervision
in the study room
sun shines through
the mood of a November afternoon.

Time trips slow here
in the study room,
books lie neglected
under neon lights.

In the study room
Brian is in a bad mood.
He cannot talk.
He cannot move.

Teenage tension clouds the room.
Students squirm
Into plastic moulds,


Friday afternoon
In the study room.

The bell can’t go too soon.


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