My Best Attempt at Eliotic Poetry, written at age 16

I wrote the first draft of this on the 20th of February 2013 (the day after my 16th birthday, at the start of year 11, not too long after I had returned from exchange in Paris) and modified it for the last time on the 9th of September of that same year. It's sort of like a combination of the scansion and enjambment and format of "Rhapsody on a Windy Night" with the themes of "Preludes" (I don't mean to talk it up very much, I don't think it's great by any means, nor do I think it *approaches* Eliotic quality. I don't rate myself as a poet at all, in fact.).

Morning Routine

8 O’clock

There’s a certain order
In the hot, humid air;
You stride down the pavement
Adjusting your hair.

And you stare straight ahead
To avert the squinting eyes
Of the thousand other workers
Who adjust their ties…

Now you look down at a little screen
To see the schedule ahead –
A meeting with ample seating
In a big, white boardroom.

9 0’Clock

You enter the big tower
Through the rotating glass doors,
Drift past white-walls and blue carpet floors;
And air-conditioning cools the sweat
Of your suited body.

Now you sit at a big IKEA table,
Surrounded by black and white colleagues
Rolling up long iPod cables.

You chat and conclude
And become bored;
You stand up and are mostly ignored.

You head back to the 7^th floor.

10 O’Clock

You enter your white cube and
Sit down at the desk.
Now your lips start to sigh
As you scan with your eyes
The million tiny black lines on white paper sheets.
And your heart rhythmically beats.

Now it’s 10:17
And you stare into a computer screen.
Your eyes dry out and itch,
You blink and your eyelids twitch.
Your white, hairy fingers press keys
To fill some black in white;
And you are bathed in bluish light.

11 O’Clock

Currently you feel a little bereft.
As you spin on your swivel chair,
Your eyes begin to stare
At the white wall on your left -

A million tiny lumps of paint…
Suddenly you feel awfully quaint.

And you become worked up
Into a frenzy of thought,
As your mind becomes panicked and
Overwrought.

You whisper to a squished fly:
“Nothing matters and I will eventually die.”

…

After that, you work until lunch.