Personal Platform: An Existential Poem About Pre-Cut Fruit

I’d never thought I’d cry over pre-cut fruit

It lays in front of me, wrapped in plastic

The juice drips over my boots

My room is a mess, my shoes are still on

I feel isolated, as if all meaning’s gone

Today I questioned what it meant to be alive

Sat on the district line for an hour,

I ended up in Zone Five

I’m paranoid; I’m compulsive; I’m exhausted

It’s only seven

And yet, here I am, crying over a few pieces of melon

I’d never thought that what I tried to escape

Would be exactly what I now want to embrace

All the troubles back home made me feel like I’d be fine on my own

But I realise I’m not

I’d never thought I’d miss them that much, but distance has made me realise

that, sometimes, I miss them a lot

And I realised this as I paid

by placing two quid in a automatic till’s slot

One of your five a day they say

It’ll keep you healthy! It’ll keep illnesses at bay!

But this one of five has been my decay

There’s still rubbish on the floor

My OCD makes me check the door once more

And I ask myself:

What am I here for?

I’m not really sure

Quite frankly, thus far, this degree’s been a bore

Leases? Mortgages? Easements?

I couldn’t care less

The table of contents in my contract law textbook –

mistake, frustration, duress –

Describe my emotions best

I feel lost and that comes at a cost

I sigh, I cry, I lie

I’m using the vocabulary of a toddler and I don’t know why

It seems I’m still a child

In a world that’s gone wild

I don’t know how to network

And to you, my anti-capitalist nature

Makes me seem like a jerk

The stocks are up and then they’re down

You’ll get a six-figure salary

In exchange for a constant frown

The words ‘magic circle firms’

Make me feel infested with germs

Some people grin, but I shudder

They’ll milk diversity stats right out of me

As if what makes me different is just a cow’s udder

I want to make a change; I want to find what’s meant for me

But right now, I don’t know what’s in store

And now, I’m going to end this poem because I’m at the end of a page of A4

Whilst a tiny plastic fork lies in the container and I decide I want no more

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