Writing Exercises from a Chocolate Wrapper

"Trust with your heart, not
your head," adolescent sentiment,
Arms folded, puzzled, stern,
above makeshift lectern I discern
minor nods of unkempt, untended,
unused heads. Rhythmically, alongside
secrecy, written and crossed out,
community avoided with eight scribbled x's.

Icy black mechanical pencils move in angst
across the tablets of the holy and
frustrated. Tired, he writes, I'm tired
of trouble and those who do nothing and
thus compose it. Perversity? Bury it.
Fresh falling snow of January, contain it
like the frozen, bent limbs in the school courtyard,
until we give it up for Lent, I guess.

Lying beneath rippled round tables,
wrapping matted strands around lead
stained hands, and constantly reaching,
with innocence, imagination of adult desire.
Blissful depression marks this cursive that
strips the page of its pure white,
a hanging sadness of what its never known.
Live life scratched with fear,

she sits in skinny jeans and leans,
scrawny elbows against raw umber desk.
Tiny foil curls from the milk chocolate
her parents provided as Christmas tokens
of thanks cascade in reflection to the floor,
her auburn falls aside her hand and scrapes
across metallic notebook rings with no sound.
Perhaps this is the place for trite advice:

"Laugh until your heart overflows."