“Studying at ------- University
Would afford me so many opportunities
That I could not find elsewhere…”

Personal statements are always BS
Filled with flowery phrases that
No one
In her right mind would ever actually use
My sentences had started to look like
A thesaurus had come along
And vomited up last night's party all over them
Who even talks this way?
Who can take himself so seriously as to think
That his pompous-assery would go unnoticed?
Moreover,
Who seriously wants to read all of this
Pretentiousness
Splattered all over the page
As though some English major's senior thesis
Had been brutally murdered?

“I am ready to bring my own
Determination and
Motivation
Into the equation to improve the
Lives of patients.”

I am disgusted with myself
For trying so hard
To impress a committee of nameless, faceless
Academics
To convince them
With fancy words and pretty sentences
That I am the best person ever
The more I write
The more I wonder if it even matters
If it's really so important for me to become a
Well Connected PhD
Doctor of Philosophy
Engineer Extraordinaire
Patients are going to keep dying
And there's no guarantee I can do a **** thing about it

“The Institute of Biomedical Engineering teaches engineers
To work side by side with clinicians to deliver
Meaningful healthcare results.”

Meaningful
Healthcare
Results
What a wonderfully vague phrase
It means nothing, really
Not without context
But it's Impressive and Dynamic
A phrase a committee would salivate over
(Because "drool" is too simple a word for them)
It's not enough for me to just come out and say how
For my entire life
I've dreamed of myself as Superwoman
Armed with engineering skills and a well-stocked lab
Ready to take down human suffering
I just want to heal people
And blood makes me faint
So I can't be a doctor
But I know my way around a lab now
And I can make medicines
In fact, that's all I want to do
Is to make new, better medicines
To grow cells and tissues and cures in my bioreactors
To make someone, anyone's life a little less painful
And these things cannot be told in florid prose
Because these are the messy parts of life
These are the parts that ache and ooze and itch
Keeping us up all night
Until words blur together
And all that's left are limbs and bodies and faces
So you can throw your thesaurus out the window
Because it's of no use here
None of the BS is helping anyone
Pretty words aren't going to make
A failing heart grow back
And this personal statement isn't going to
Purge anyone's cancer from their veins
But this person
Untroubled by higher diction
Might just do something useful

Isn't is amazing how there are
a finite number of words,
that try to describe my entire
existence.
They flow from my hands
like honey across computer keys.
My life in forty-seven lines.

It, to me, is inconceivable that
a text box can contain a person,
like a frame might contain a photo.
So those words
might have flown from my fingers,
but they are not me.

I am in my work.
Puzzles solved and projects planned,
each one has a small part of my
self within it's ink-stained pages.
My poetry and photography
represents me far better
than forty-seven lines.

If a university turns me away
based on a personal statement,
I would not be ashamed.
After all, those forty-seven lines
are not my words.
They belong to convention.
'Interpersonal skills' and
'self-confidence'.

I know those words are not me,
although I'll write them
because I know they are what
you want to
see.

sweet bright eyes, what can i say?
i wouldn't lie to you if i told you that your light led me down this way.
sweet amber eyes, why can't i stay?
maybe it's better that my heart is nothing more than your prey.

celestial, copper eyes, with lashes that shadow like a veil,
a stare, a glare, physique that could never compare.
lustrous, luminous eyes with the allure of a panther,
it didn't take long to see your eyes bore the answer.

i shake and shiver.
sweet brown eyes, make my soul quiver.
serrated lashes that stab like knives;
sweet bright eyes,
become my soul's reprise

I feel out the landscape of your heart,
and I know it more than this old soul,

and we trace the contours of the in between,
and we don't even want breath,
we exchange our airy breath,
like sailors lose their voices to the waves,

I fall into you like this is all there ever will be,
like I'm supposed to,
Though words, that could define us is,
what we truly seek.

We dare not speak,
we grow to fear,
the indifference of the words said,
launched without thought,
that could,
that would,
pierce the world we live,
and in this moment,
i could die knowing
I drowned in you love dear,
and that would be enough.
You'd be enough.

We sleep on couches,
we know the floor,
but with you,
my reality is a castle with secret gardens,
a sleeping beauty, awake.

and I want to bake in  the sunshine of your love dear,
pull down the covers,
and awake love.

I've counted the hours.
I've paid my time.
Willingly knowing, that there's the sun
at the end of the tunnel,
I fight the muck, I fight the mire,
May we never tire my love.

I am angry, but am not sure if I have a right to be. Between all or rather among all the other emotions I am feeling it is hard to discern and clarify the balance and reasons for my anger. Naturally I want what is best for you, that in itself is a conundrum. Is having what you want best? Or do I actually believe that what I have to offer can ultimately elate you to a higher level of happiness than that of your current situation? Another question comes to light now and that is, is what you currently want what you actually want, or is it merely that it was something which at first appeared to be and has over time slowly dissolved into something far less, into something you thought you had wanted but now see that in it's current form, really is not?
        Suppose one of these speculations takes a solid form and settles as the true idea, then in what way could any of this upset me enough to reveal itself as anger in my mind? Primarily, it would seem my own jealousy or want of you could be a proprietary perpetrator in this matter, but I am sure that the true identity of this perplexed feeling runs much wilder and entangled with a slue of uprooted inner conflicts. So then, what are they? As I reflect on the many faces of this anger, the feeling of pain surfaces, but not the kind you feel for yourself, rather it's more of the selfless type. I am, by all means, a bystander on looking the trials and troubles that lay ridden in your path. I see you struggle to hold on and in turn attempt to stay as composed as a rigid coastline baring the constant battery of each careless and possibly calculated undulation of every crashing wave which from where I stand rises more often than not than the natural course of a waxing and waning tide. And it's as if from a distance I can see and hear bits and pieces of you crumble and crash, slowly receding into the horizon with each unrelenting wave.      
        At times finding myself diving into the chaotic and churning crush of waves to gather and salvage whatever I can mange to and still keep myself afloat so that when the tides recede I, with safe passage, climb ashore to safely return to you whatever it is I managed to cradle from the depths. As I take those sandy steps I now understand the reason for my anger, if but only for a portion of it. Watching as I do from my ship, it hurts to see the waves crash, to see something so paramount in beauty, in life be so carelessly attended to. Yet, the fault is not but of one, but of two. It can hardly be helped, you are who you are, and the beauty in you is as with most, your flaw. The core of you, revealed more and more with each crashing wave, smells damp and sweet of hope. Such a hopeful being, that even after the tempest has risen a tsunami to thunder coldly on your very shores, you merely wince and hope that just maybe a windless day will break through to passing clouds to ease each tide to a lapping kiss upon your now jagged shores that in time, piece by piece, return to you what is rightfully yours.
        Throughout all this though I bare a different caliber of weather, one which strikes at my splintered ship with jagged volts of lightening, searing all aboard until your gentle rain turns its pulsing red embers into a faded glow slowly giving way to smoke and ashes. I watch from this distance angry at everything on this side of the world. Anger towards the carelessness, towards the helplessness, at the one flaw that you and I share, at knowing my selfishness in it all, toward the thought of walking on your shores but only quietly as not to summon another unwelcome tide, and finally and most perplexing of all...for being angry at all. It's what upsets me the most, that I'm even angry. Yet, I am as helpless against it as we are with the sunset of hope we both hold so close to sight and mind, for you, hope of a sleeping tempest and in return a more attentive life by the ocean, and for me, the hope of one day being able to cast my anchor down into the depths so that I may enjoy the warmth of your sand, cool nights against your moonlit caves heated by the warmth of your heart, your hope, and to above all tenderly enjoy and return to your ever-reaching shores of love all that it gives and deserves.
        But at times I see that this endless commotion disorients even the strongest of shores and that in it all , there is no surprise that a mere ship in an open sea can seem to be anything more than a flick of candlelight alongside the heat of a chaotic wild fire. Despite this pulsing surge of discouragement,I angrily, hopefully, caringly, and thoughtfully will continue to cast my net to show you that though right now I quietly wisp each flickering dance of summer light, that I too am relentless in my will, but for a different reason. I see now, that my anger is acceptable because above all else,I am your friend and wish for you only the best, for what would make you happiest. And that despite my wants, yours will always come first, whatever they be or you may think they be. My ship will sail alongside you no matter your choice, and if ever the day comes when I walk up on your shores with candle in hand, you need but kiss the tender tendrilous flame I carry to awaken its unconditional and fervent inferno that lies patiently inside, waiting.
Angrily, your loving friend