I constantly feel like I'm running out of time,
the fine grains of it slipping through my fingers like sand,

like a drop of rain in the Sahara, I search for some relief,
some feeling of completion or satisfaction.

but instead I am met
with deadline after deadline
of work that I love to do

so I toil relentlessly
to hold onto the sand
as the wind blows furiously around me.

The schemes and political day dreams of the polymorphic school deans
They don't know how the youth wind blows, how the bored thought flows. But there's something better. Those. Those who've gone and escaped that mind race
Those who managed that fast taste of freedom through blasted treason
Of not reading those books and setting fire to the reading nooks.
How's that for a reason?