And somehow being ignorant gives me
power
after stressfully attempting to retain every
number,
letter,
word,
leaving no room untouched for
thoughts,
creations,
ideas.

This power corrupts, they say,
absorbing
your willpower to advance,
conform to what,
they say, makes you relevant;
always pushing you to the
absolute
or you might as well not exist at all
yet
I feel intelligent,
I feel educated,
I feel superior to those
who moan with sore hands and rigid backs
corrupted by their own.

I feel its flittering fingertips
across my trembling thighs
my shivering shoulders,
my wavering words,
slowly crawling its way into
my idle skin with its meandering breath.

Maybe feeling empty yet full isn't as
reckless
as they make it out to be,
or maybe this
cruel bliss
has taken yet another
prey.