English.

I’ve become so used to you
Your cold, smooth blue restrictions, which we seemingly continuously rest on;
These restrictions stop us
From enjoying the exquisiteness of the outdoors

So we cope for those two periods by sitting on our solid, slightly bluer settees,
Resting our elbows on our uninviting books
My senses are so used to your smell. Perfume!
Overwhelming. Crushing.

OUTDOORS

To my left, to my right girls. Why do they feel the need to impress so endlessly?
Endless conversing. Why?!
5,4,3,2,1. Quiet.
‘I’d like to begin.’

This is my pathetic attempt at a poem for English. Whatever.