I spilled a mug of coffee today
across four pages of math problems
psychology notes,
a borrowed book,
and some scrawling lines of cursive
that tried to form the soul of a poem.
I sit and stare as brown clouds bleed
over white pages, lined and inked;
it’s a strange and bitter release
of anxiety and relief
mixed with brown grit
rolling off my cheek.
Tears stained with mascara, eyeliner,
whatever artificial attempt made at glory
dripping down, dancing in circles
destroying
the fragile marks
that defined intellect, integrity
Pause
to laugh at the irony
that I could simply care less
that my coffee spilled today
and it wasn’t an accident.