Poetry

My desk grew tired  
of not being used for anything else  
except homework
but it was already taking place  
at my computer's torso.  
 
Sound escaped  
through the pores of my bedroom walls;   
they were paper thin   
and we became  
an inflamed nerve.   
 
It's always the crime sonnets,   
that make the loveliest  
read  
after hours.   
 
At the rate of  
becoming a run on sentence,   
you struggled to get as much of yourself out  
as quickly as possible.   
 
And I became an uprising  
Fit solely  
For trade publication.