Class sturdily halted my mind–it dammed me.
Or it was the iceberg in the Atlantic.
And I was Edward J. Smith.
Its attentive hands deliberately perforated my hull.
It permitted the frigid surf of thought to enter,
And I dove through it–engulfed it without ever breathing.

Yet it blocked my flow.
It broke the will of my mind’s river–
But unlike the water, I was not chill.
It forced vapid deadlines upon me,
Imminent as the threat of drowning.

“It’s just one hour a day,”
Uttered my parents in an attempt at consoling me.
“¿Solo una hora?” responded an exhausted and stretched brain.
An hour maybe, but a trapped hour that leads to Remi’s unhappiness.
Try as I did to avoid it, it stood sturdy.
My typically smooth waves slammed up against the dam with erratic slaps
As the smell of rain and the taste of seafoam clouded everything.
It felt gray–numb. 

It was the torpid waterspout of my nightmares.
It stood over mental waters and hurled their contents miles away.
Though spin as it might,
It will never break the river’s spirit.
It will continue to hurl its spirited seafoam high in the air
And soak and spread the sleepy silts,
Whose misfortune has led them to lie in its bed.