Durus

I don't want to label compound intervals,
I'd rather eat this.

My enemy stares at me balefully
as I glance down despairingly at the deep blue of the bed

My comrade-in-arms sits across from me, quiescent
(Physics is hard)
He flicks his pen mildly
and I throw my pencil
striking the unyielding abstraction before me, crunching the fragile former-tree, almost piercing
The white void of Its face matching the blank walls, unconcerned, unadorned, unfinished

He and I glance at each other knowingly
(Why don't I know this? I should know this.)
Resignedly I lift my pencil to the stubborn surface,
only to lower it, batted away by
incessant reminders of incompetence.
(Who uses counterpoint anyway?)

His gentle stance
betrays my own rigidity as
I struggle to maintain a semblance of composure
in the face of the harmonic onslaught
(It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t care so much)

My lips thin and white reflect the face of my foe
as I bite back the filth seeping from the folds of my subconscious
(Because I know He’ll disapprove)

The bed slumps as I bounce with frustration
And my antagonist sits there, unchanging, even under
a barrage of muttered profanity.
He glances up sharply, rebuking
“Language!”
I nod meekly (That's what friends are for)
and turn again to grapple with Its cold taunting)

(It's only music theory.)