The worms from my eraser
crawl across my paper
from all my erasing
there's no escaping
gotta write this poem
before I can roam
and do what I wanna do
and that's be there with you
but its not the weekend
when I have time to spend
doing things for myself -
not reading from the shelf
or writing cafe ryhmes
about complaining times
trying to get the "A"
Its like my payday
but all eraser worms
turn into butterflies churned
in my stomach I confirm,
"this is all I learned."
I can't see the forest for the trees
my metamorphosis only Harold Miner sees
this terrible poem must end
so screw fourth period - its the weekend!
