Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
My average means I don’t have to take final exams.
So my bachelor's degree is a finished product.
I cranked it out, all that’s left now is the walk (May 18th).
Let’s call it my nearly forgotten masterpiece.
My schedule says that I start a 1-year ‘master of public health’ degree in 38 days.

It was my mom’s idea. She said, “You need to keep active” (pre- med-school).
It sounds crazier to me now than it did last year, when I was accepted and agreed.
Now, I feel like some chary, aging showgirl who’s about to be hustled back on-stage.
But what’s life without massive compromise?
Anyway, don’t cry for me. I’m still sizing it all up, I’ll figure it out.

I suppose we’re all out there hustling.
It’s our response to slowing med-school admissions,
those glitches in the medical, industrial education complex
or that’s how the narrative’s shaped, anyway.
It’s not the additional work that bothers me, I’m regular worker bee,

It’s the perma-threat of loneliness.
I’m already packing. Leaving feels real
and I'm surfing this maudlin wave tonight—shading deep blue.
The simple march of time will take away friends I’ve grown to love.
We’ve allegorised and transformed one another by proximity.

I’ve really loved it here.
.
.
Songs for this:
Graduation (Friends Forever) by Vitamin C
Graduation Day by Tony Rivers & The Castaways
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 04/10/25:
Chary = someone who’s cautious about doing something.
Then renewal enters--
After the longest winters,
Strengthened setting sun.
where there's darkness and endings, there's also beginnings, resilience and quiet strength.
Kindness touched a heart,  
the heart turned into a beautiful flower,
its fragrance is felt everywhere.
I’ve been stranded in a desert,
Two years behind the bars of sand.
Never tried to break free,
Just watched the sun sink with me.

Then one day— like any other,
Through my wreckage, I caught his gaze.
Shivering— I’m cold he says,
Burn me up with the fire you ignite.

Passed beyond my clouds,
Every scar of mine must be his guide.
So I’ll drop my broken heart—
Become the spark of your night
This poem got published on Everscribe Magazine/Issue 8, hope you like it too :)
I’m in a contest I can’t win
Or even come in second.
My bird has flown from the streetlight arm
And taken promise with it.

Another lands and then departs
To mock my hopeful prayers
The sky teems with symbolic fowl
But I can’t suss their meaning.

A big one flew straight over me
But I can’t read its message.
Was it promising good health
Or telling me it’s sorry

That I’ll only get just what I have
To get me through tomorrow
And if I am not strong enough
The game will then be over.

Why are birds the messengers
In answer to my pleas
They send me signals I can’t read
And I walk on in darkness.
ljm
I've fixated on birds as messengers from....God?
pearls
are my favourite
of all my jewels.
the way they're made,
from scratching, slashing, ocean water splashing fuels
intricate transformation, done in no haste,
but time.
not one is the same,
just like my curls.
Inspired by the painting by a Dutch artist: Johannes Vermeer, novel and amovie - and of course, my pearls.
Next page