A short poem that spawned out of irritation at the time of study:
Ink stains smear shapes on my hands.
A now crooked tip flows
black, the free impressions of my insertions
in the pages and exertions of the French theologian.
should I stop?
Without the cognitive entrance,
my efforts dwindle in the exposition.
“Engage.” Brain tells Hand.
But it complains regarding Pen
“Its dulled and dry” –
“That soothes no frustration of mine.”
Calvin beckons my assail.
His cogitations not yet mine,
until the paper meets pen –
the manifest conclusion of mind.
No writer would approve this passivity.
Edwards on his mare,
the flapping paper, up and down,
mocks my easy subjugation.
How quick I yield to the pest –
the point, drifting, the alteration.
But what is a student to do?