I’m over here spending twelve stupid years
Becoming a parrot who repeats what she hears
It’s not for the learning, it is for the grade
So I turn off my brain seven hours a day.

I’m wasting, I’m wasting, I’m wasting my time
Even that phrase is a waste of a line
And I’m sick of all of these definitions
Pressing on in, getting marked in red pen—

What am I doing here?
You convinced me there’s answers for everything,
Unvarying, black-and-white lettering,
Supposedly bettering, more like you’re fettering
Me like a prisoner, mental inhibitor
Wish you were valuable, you little swindler,
I’ll play your game, ‘cause that’s all that it is,
A paper to frame, that is all that I get
But if I’m wasting away at this desk,
Forced in the system, then I’ll be the best.

I dot my i’s and
cross my t’s,
a perfect ballerina
dancing across the page.
Graceful as a butterfly
soothing like a summer sunset.
Sweet, simple, flawless.
But already there are
scribbles, mispelings,
blots of ink and suddenly
this perfect canvas is no longer
blank.
Oh, to write like a wildfire,
no remorse or formulaic
meter!
Just bared wide, torn open
displaying my wholeness as
us poets so often do.

Like a quote that I cannot remember
Like a song stuck right in my head
A fire once, now it’s an ember
Ash pages of words that were said.

Like a waft that drifts out of the kitchen
Just a hint of the past, so sweet.
I have scars that I know were once stitches
But I only recall summer heat.

Like water, like sand, to hold in your hand
To cradle when it just slips away.
It was art, it was home, not written but shown,
Now crumbled, broken pieces of clay.

I miss it!
What was it?
I miss what I lost!
It was warm, it was cold, it was piercing and soft.
It was something, just something
I feel calling me back.

I’d go to it now if I hadn’t lost track.

Heart beat-beat-beats quick
Like a drumbeat-beat-beat—or tick
Of the clock, sent speedily
From my chest cavity to my amygdala.

All neurons alive,
Just like a ******* fire,
I haven’t felt this
In a long, long time.

I thought all the good ones
Had deserted this place.

But here is a good one,
You.

Now they are all wondering
If, this time, I will reform
Or return to stumbling
Through life as if it’s a chore.

I hope I’ll be different,
To be rose-tinted, lovely.
I’ll reclaim lost innocence,
Locked, a key fitting snugly.

This, for love with conditions,
All this, to just make them proud.
I’m the newest edition,
Won’t you believe in me now?

As I write this poem,
Barrelling toward me are
College applications and
Dual enrollment classes.
Everybody dreads it but
For most of my life, I anticipated
Going to school with the
Hectic excitement that comes from
Imagination only a child can have.
Just like every year since
Kindergarten, I seriously
Lack confidence in
My ability to do what I
Need to do in order to
Overachieve as expected, but unlike
Previous years, I
Quiver with exhaustion earned by
Regurgitating information about
Systems that I will never
Truly need, but am tested on.
Useless, useless, useless,
Very, so very useless is how
We feel now, both the lessons and I.
Xanthan complexion, nauseous, nervous,
Yellow like the school buses I want to
Zap away, but climb aboard anyway.

I strain to chase my own inspiration
But ev’ry day there’s only artifacts
From my past eras, this lonely creation
Takes every fleeting feeling like a fact.

I seek, I seek, but rarely do I find
The abstract answer I was looking for;
You’d think you can’t get lost inside your mind
But sometimes you don’t own the parts you store.

It truly is a pit without a bottom
To stare the depths that lie within your heart
Because we underestimate the *****’s
Ability to turn pain into art.

Although it may appear to be a void
A writer’s well of words can’t be destroyed.