Locked Out

The struggle to put into words
The thoughts that run in my mind like a herd.
Shall I speak of my life?
Or a fictional lie?
Whichever I choose, it's still not doing me any good
I might as well put in my earphones and pop on my hood.
I swear It feels as if I've done this a thousand times
But the minutes are inconsiderate even for a girl who's about to cry.
How is it that I'm not used to this by now?
Maybe it's because my teacher doesn't let me understand how.
It's clear this is not my forte
But who knows, maybe I could've been America's next best seller.
It's time that I've given up because the job is not for me
So I'll rely on other authors to construct the books that are sold to me.
It sounds pretty selfish to the ears of a writer
But tell me who would enjoy reading my book of a plain old spider?
How sad, I still haven't written a word
A side of me no one knows, considering I'm always the "nerd".
The pretty posters on the wall
How did my teacher get that up there? She's not even that tall.
Oh no, I forgot I'm supposed to be writing an argumentative essay over
political issues
Who's our president again? I don't know, I just remember he had a fancy
tissue.
As I turn half way to check the countdown,
Filing of a pencil led is what I hear from the girl with her hair down.
I can't even check the time without getting distracted
I wish i lived in a make believe world that was enchanted.
No, no, no you're supposed to be writing your introduction
I can already tell my paper's going to get a deduction.
"Rinnnnnng!" I hear the timer.
Wait, what just happened? I feel like I have alzheimers.
I haven't made a move with my led perfectly sharpened
It wouldn't be a surprise if my body has ripened.
Times up. I glance down at my sheet
I still haven't written a word, but my art is pretty sleek.
It's not fair to force all to go through this
For some it's just a complete miss.
But for I, it is what brings me joy,

This mental sickness is my insane toy.

Good luck to those who are barely beginning
My prayers are with you and your future living.
But for me, tomorrow I'll be going through this again
Even my medication can't put my anxiety to an end.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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