Dear exams,

      I'm sorry to say, but I've lost all interest in you. I don't see why I didn't
lose interest in you sooner to be completely honest. I use to love learning
new things and cramming useless information into my cranium, but I must
say that forcing myself to study to pass your standards is just not who I am.There's no need to throw a question I cannot answer in my face whenever you're upset. Nor do I have to explain myself to you for that matter. Has anyone told you you ask a lot of questions?

      I must admit that I am not perfect, but neither are you. You are filled
with errors and flaws that I must say are simple mistakes. I will always
remember you, but I don't think my memory of you will be a fond one...
I am grateful for all the support you've given me especially with my
grades, but I will admit that understanding you was difficult. I remember
hopelessly thinking about you all night after seeing you. I felt terrible
because I literally had no idea how to go about answering your fifty
questions. Even though you gave me choices it was still a difficult decision
to make. I went home that night disappointed thinking that I had messed
up my only chance with you.

      But now you're back, but I admit I am definitely not excited about it.
And I will see you again today, which like I said I am not excited about. I
guess that all we can ever be now is acquaintances. A student to exam
relationship that definitely bares no love what so ever. I cannot wait to be
done with you. As they say, there are a million exams in the library...
And they should all be thrown away.

P.S: The paper shredder was looking for you.

                                                                                      Sincerely,
                                                                                        The unhappy student

What are my fears, my hopes, my dreams made of—
are they made of the softest silk or a

pile
of
bricks

strewn in the corner.

Are they made of the

lightest                  or
             feathers           clouds

or are they just as heavy and ugly as my fears.

What am I made of,
Am I made of anything at all?

I can't remember the last time I felt like
I am more than a test score,
an application, a list, a graph of numbers comparing me
and a thousand other students

just
like
me.

Dear Sir,

Should I go make myself visible--too visible in your eyes? I could pour over my brother's notes and raise my hand to every question you have just to have your eyes at me.

Was that too desperate? Should I play dumb and ask you for extra lessons outside of class? I could stand quiet corner coffee shops, away from prying eyes. I'll even discard the uniform. And you can get to wear that awful tie. That's what they call a "Win-Win Scenario" in Sales, right?

I could strike every corny joke in the block, make pick-up lines, even sing off key to make you see that I'm not such a student-y student.

I could be your friend! I could be your best student. I could be your favorite--I'll try extra harder! I could be your girl. I could be your coffee buddy, your official class manager/monitor, the very person you assign extra notes to be passed on. I'll volunteer on every project you have your hands into---

I want to be yours. In every possible single way. We could hustle and bustle in shadows of people who couldn't understand; I'll get you more weird looking ties for the weekend.  I could type your exams in exchange for extra tutoring; we'll hold each others hands until this winter melts to spring.

Because I swear, when your eyes met mine; when your lips told me "I'll see you again, next time."; I knew I needed you. It's time to make you need me, too.

Twas the night before finals
And all through the dorms
Not a student was sleeping
Not even a nerd
Everyone sat with their books
And their coffee
Cramming until they
Thought they would burst

When 4AM struck
A sigh could be heard
As finally the students
Put down their heads
For at this point in time
Not a **** did they give
For an A or an F
It didn’t matter
Unemployment was inevitable
And sleep was a given.

These past few nights,
eyes sore, muscles aching,
I value something.
Something I've never valued before.

Time is precious,
that's what they say.
But why doesn't time
find favor in me?

So much to do,
so little time to do them.
Can my troubles just
fade away from existence?

Time is precious
that's what they say.
But why can't time
do them so quickly?

These past few nights,
mouth dry, hands hurting,
I value something.
Something I've never valued before.

We were wild and eager in the cold,
Wanting to explore
Life lived by each minute-
Shot-
We wanted more and more.
And these are the nights remembered, in September
And we were told to enjoy them, remember, September

You have just one chance,
Don’t you know that child
Drink, smoke and dance,
Don’t care,  
Go wild
Have no regrets, you shouldn’t care,
Please that’s what they say
But we feel pain, tears pour like rain
When we wake up the next day

But those are the nights remembered, in September
Force yourself, enjoy them,
Those nights,
In September

Go insane and feel no pain
They don’t know what to say,
When you wake up and look around
At the hurt caused the next day

I let the under cooked carrot cubes play with ginger hues and pork broth in my mouth. Their dull edges slightly carved my tongue but the soup did pass like ocean waves to the seashore. It left me essentially wanting more. Down my esophagus it goes as I cramp down the vitamin C, B12(?) and a sorry excuse to a quick fix dinner. It was good all the same. It was those spring onion stems that bonded together next to the pork. Crunches of fresh grass and a morning Sun.
My laptop holds the key to what could possibly be my ticket to the bed in no where near the intention...the drive to dream. My mind is too tired to think of good planets...of worlds that are created for my craving to rest on clouds or probably fat people that can run for miles against the fit. But my head is still on the screen...Typing and wishing words were closer to my "academic thoughts".

How the hell am I supposed to know
who I am?
We sit in rows.
I feel my creativity,
running away from the ideas I'm
supposed to have.
Why are people so persistent
about telling me what I'm supposed
to say;
and what I'm not.
The more I 'learn'
the less I know
about who I really am

Exemplify without try
Each teacher bears the
Burden of account,
But the only way
They carry it is with
The strength of humility
--The emptiness to learn,
The fullness to teach--
And they do it without speaking,
Flowing like a river
Through a fountain
--Ever depleting,
Ever replenishing--