Alex Thorley Writes A Poem - SCP Foundation

Too tired to sleep.

Kept awake by gossiping

strangers up above.

Your left hand stands mightily.

Watching you.

Surveilling you from a

little perch, high in the darkness, floating there just out of reach.

You miss your hand,

its dexterous fingers,

but you know your place now, far, far away from their sinewy love.

However you plead

however you beg,

you know, deep deep down inside, you don't deserve it back.

You watch it

less-than wave.

Just courtesy. Courtesy.

The Other hand is watching too.

Watching you.

Watching you watch

no, stare, desperately, for hours at a time at its rival floating high.

Unrequited, jealous.

It doesn't deserve this,

but as hard as it tries, the Other can't make you feel the same way.

It never gets the hint.

You two don't work,

but you give the Other a little too much of a nod, and it twitches,

reinvigorated

a clumsy wave.

Much more than courtesy.

This is getting rough.

Please just reign those fingers in.

You have work to do.

You're still drowsy

fingers waving

tapping

dancing

in the air.

Almost walking

more so walking

than another useless pair.

Down below

dropped ahead

feet made much too small to roam

but your finger feet are right at home

performing in their stead

while left handed; once

you do not use it

right at home.

you left

For

work.

Work needs to be

in places for working, and that can't be here.

Move! get out of your bed and into the loving

Work place.

That took long enough.

Time to get some real work done.

No more hand business.

but

right

now

you

are

hungry

and

that's

why

you

are

tired

and

won't

work

and

also

maybe

figure out what

work is what

are you doing

here is this

good is this

work a good

bagel bagel bagel

bagel bagel bagel bagel bagel

bagel bagel bagel a bagel bagel bagel

bagel bagel a bagel bagel a bagel bagel

bagel one bagel bagel one bagel

bagel a bagel bagel a bagel

bagel a bagel bagel a bagel

bagel a bagel bagel a bagel

bagel a bagel bagel a bagel

bagel a bagel bagel a bagel

bagel a bagel bagel a bagel

bagel a bagel bagel a bagel

bagel a bagel bagel a bagel

bagel one bagel bagel one bagel

bagel bagel a bagel bagel a bagel bagel

bagel bagel bagel a bagel bagel bagel

bagel bagel bagel bagel bagel

bagel bagel bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel

bagel.

Look.

Look at you.

You can't work with

hands covered in crumbs.

Unprofessional. Wipe them down

with a napkin. Napkins are

not work. Clean

hands are

work.

That's so crazy, dude.

Now it's time to use your hands.

If not now then when.

the

balled

napkin

lands

with

a

swish

You'd have thought you'd miss.

Blame those chatty hands of yours.

Check just to be sure.

Look deep down in the trash bin.

It is

in isn't it?

It is

sitting in the bin is not a napkin

grab it

Dig down deep into the trash bin.

It is

but can

not be

sitting in the bin once you take it.

unfold it

"No."

you need to

"No."

This is not a napkin, Alex.

This is work.

And your work

Is

Pushing the pencil against a piece of paper; forcing words out of a stick caught between two fingers wildly contorting and twisting in ways you wish you didn't have to think about. As you do, you feel your grip shift, taught shift, that the only way you were comfortable holding it was wrong, and it was left at that, and the paper was left to the wayside for the scripture carved into the air, burnt into your mind, carved out of you, searing, like graphite pushing onto the page; leaving behind runes and shapes with no meaning except "pushing the pencil against a piece of paper", forcing the words to make sense as they get stuck between your fingers, twisted and contorted because you can't think in anything but poetry that shifts, taught to shift the way you think, because the way you are comfortable thinking is wrong, and that what isn't is right, your feelings left to the wayside for the scripture carved into their words, burnt into your mind, carved out of you, searing, like graphite pushing onto the page.

your eyes close

you pause

again

widen

blink

Nothing.

You're glad that's cleared up.

You don't need to know your hands

if you do no work.