A Glimpse into the Mind of...

So, I'm in the middle of writing a 24+ page "brief" on Interspousal Wiretapping, and whether or not the extension telephone exemption to Title III of the Omnibus Crime Control and Safe Streets Act of 1968 can be used by a father who recorded his wife's phone conversations for over five months. (Brief answer: no) In addition, or rather, on the side I'm supposed to be writing a 30+ page paper on the legality of the Salem Witch Trials compared with more modern "Witch Hunting" done via the McCarthy hearings and the Patriot Act. On top of that, I'm supposed to keep up on my studies in Criminal Law, Constitutional Law, Contracts, hold down a part time job to pay the rent and keep Eric Jr. happy. "Ahhhhh...if only he had time enough to write a poem!" you may think. Well, I don't, but here's one anyway. If it seems really sad, it might be the subject matter surrounding it, but that's how poetry goes sometimes. It's called "Document2" because it's really a bunch of notes I rearranged on Word and mixed up with some of my meandering thoughts. DOCUMENT2 Couldn’t be that I’m suffering because I’m never giving with my future, with my life, with my love? snow fills up the parking lot and rests on the car like Tort Law. I claim I saw it coming; stopped when I found myself holding to Rule 23; The numerosity of a class action lawsuit depends greatly upon the prejudicial elements inherent in the suit, the potential winnings, the potential expenditures of the parties, the willingness of the parties to engage misanthropes. but where are they? When did they roll down the road ahead of me, and why didn’t they hold on to the same things I did. I don’t see that kind of love within your eyes—A minor followed by a major doo doo, doo-wah. Yeah, when in doubt you can spill tonight, and everyone forgives you for having a lapse of words, like a shortage on lightbulbs. an embryo of a loose factual connection What have I done? there and then left me hanging onto air Hungover on the mess within a specific time after having gained constructive or actual notice of the mess creep under the cotton, hold onto it tightly, and try to shut my eyes against the pain. Smile like friends used to hold rummaging and flinging things around the top wherein you have to think that I would. So maybe tomorrow I’ll find my way back home words smell like that, a mix of ash and chlorine, something of a hospital. They’re replaceable, like a cheap wine or a bottle of olives broken on the supermarket floor “Crisp sugar your grace.” Change your ways boy, one day you’ll be a girl, education, a learned mind and a mastered hand liable to clean up; else, you’ve breached it all your hips a broken dance on the first floor I ever stepped to get to you at the depot. cramped under the kind of therapy I need, please believe me, deadlines, time smiling back at me through the glass explain the bleeding I forged for you; relationships you developed for acquisition? A notch in the belt.