As I sit here and write this, sitting in my desk, quietly as I should, I can feel the stares, hear the whispers and smell the scent of rotten, wet wood. As I sit here in this desk, I sit with my face resting in my palm. Stiff in my back, exhaustion in my head. I wonder when this ache will begone As I sit here and think of the words, I remember every other poem I have made. Poems about darkness, love, even pain. I don't think it was boredom those words slayed. As I sit here and bring this poem to an end, I feel as if there is nothing else to say. I will come back to this awful place. As it will be just another day.