This isn't even a poem, it's just me on a huge self-pity trip fuelled by sugary tea.
#2
"You may begin" A rustling of paper the tentative first steps of a pen and the first barely stifled sob Lines blurring together whenisthebestequilibriumyieldofammoniaobtained whateffectdoesthetemperaturehaveonthereactants words don't look like words any more.
"Ten minutes until the end" Cue the sound of scratching, pens flying across paper, and the panicked breathing as the walls start to close in. Flick through the pages, three ... no, four questions left pickupthepace, pickupthepace
"Time's up." Pens are put down, dreams are dropped, the room breathes again
"It is curious how often you humans manage to obtain that which you do not want."
)
