I roll out of bed,6: 15, Monday.
I can’t seem to find the motivation.
Gonna be late, what’s the point anyway?
Dreading my desk, my permanent station.
The bus is close, the harbinger of stress.
The arrival heralds my greatest fear.
Impending doom, yesterday’s science test.
Whose failing grades always bring me to tears.
Kids on the bus roaring like Dante’s shades,
Thoughts of students, teachers, and school lunches.
Does nothing except worsen my migraine.
Not enough coffee, brain hardly functions.
The school bell rings loud, a funeral dirge.
My want is for sleep, can I fight the urge?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem