It may not be too surprising, maybe it is
But the question I field the most in high school
Has nothing to do with calculus, nothing to do with biology
Hell, it doesn’t even have anything to do with colleges
People most want to know if I’m Chinese, Japanese, or Korean

Sometimes, when they think they’re funny
They like to pull their skin back to thin their eyes into slits
And their friends erupt into prepubescent sidekick laughter
And I’d laugh right along
Not because I was a prepubescent sidekick
But because those jokes didn’t bother me
That much

The first person to ask me that was a black kid who maybe stood 6 foot
As a freshman
Wearing his new LeBron jersey with the Miami Heat logo plastered in front
Complete with Air Jordan’s and official NBA socks
He asked me politely with his head bowed
Maybe a bit too low
I think I saw him snicker, but I was too naïve to be sure

Well honestly bro, I know which one I am
But I can’t tell you the difference between the Chinese, the Japanese, or the Koreans
Or in some of your cases, the Chinks, the Japos, and the *****
Cause’ even if I could, it wouldn’t matter
I’ve seen some of you ignorant ******* taste Sushi
and widely proclaim it as the weirdest Chinese **** you have ever tasted
Sushi comes from the Land of The Rising Sun, fyi
And one would think that you Americans would know more about the country
You guys basically nuked 65 years ago

But let me tell you about being Asian
Let me tell you about the ridiculous Asian accents done by ignorant classmates and even friends
Let me tell you about teaching simple words to the curious
Only to discover they’re really just interested in learning foreign swear words
C’mon kids, there’s Google translate for that garbage

Let me express the frustrations and embarrassment when you’re young
and only good at counting thus far
Yet you already speak the English language better than your parents
I used to always insist on leaning over my mother’s lap
So I could holler into the speaker at McDonald’s drive-thru

You guys want to rip me on my own driving too
Well I got styles yo, just like my hair
I got my Tokyo Drift, my Jeremy Lin, my Mario Kart
Or my turn signal on for the last five miles
And once you step into that high school everyone,
and I mean everyone, thinks you’re good at math and
expects you to give out answers in bulk like fortune cookies
You all think that I know the clever tricks
that Asians use for their grade-point-averages
Well, I have a C in AP calc
They say A stands for Asian
Well, does my C stand for, Caucasian?

Did ya’ll know that every year, my Swim team would travel upstate to Pekin High for a meet
And until 1980, they were known as the Chinks
And every time their football team scored a TD, a white kid dressed in Asian gear
Would bang on a gong while some players and fans would bow solemnly?

And when my boy Jeremy was dubbed by your boy LeBron
You guys all laughed and jeered when ESPN was headlined the next day with the phrase
“***** In The Armor”

For a while, I felt a shame for being Asian
I would express my private desires to be White or Black if I had the choice
Drawing the patient lectures from my parents that were admittedly, in poorly spoken English

Even now these so-called friends would still rib me about my ethnicity
This is where colleges come in kids
And yes, I got into a great school
But it is not the purpose of my life to get good grades, good colleges, or
satisfaction from my dad
I only strive to do what you all strive to do
and that makes me as American as you all
So it would be fitting for me to address the jury the way I am about to
Therefore to all you calc cheaters and arrogant good drivers,
to all of the fake friends and prepubescent sidekicks
*******

A few hours after midnight; the world is fast asleep.
Alone and cold do I wander. Like a nightmare do I creep.
With the intent of nothing I sit and watch the street.
It’s a week after Halloween and my shoes are on my feet.
I near my house, I think I’ll shave, (My chin has an itch.)
But at my feet upon the ground a color doesn’t fit;
Black on black with a spot of white doesn’t sit quite right.
You’d think they’d be more careful, ornery little gits.
Yet here at my feet, some candy lies plainly in my sight.
I stop to stare and wonder, and my brain does a nervous twitch.
 
So here I am; with a piece of candy that might have mange
Meanwhile my mind is discovering a whole new range
For all the pain we go through, to keep the world nice,
 Nothing anyone does ever seems to pay the price.
I’ve got a new hybrid car, gets 50 to the gallon plus it’s electric.
And when I finish a snack trash is out the window. Are we epileptic?
I mean you’ve got to be kidding me, who can say that they are not
A miserable little hypocrite? World is full of betrayal and lies.
Filling with anger, righteous and hot, I feel a change in my soul.
I’ll be better! I’ll change the world or the two of us will sever ties!
The earth will follow my example and we’ll hold to higher goal.
Give me a few years and then lets see what we’ve got!
 
I hold onto the fantasy for a while, sad to let it slip.
But the truth does sink in and reality has a tighter grip.
Even if I spoke who would listen? One cry in a thousand’s not so great.
I’m not saying we shouldn’t try, to resign ourselves to our fate.
I’ve never been a pessimist, just a realistic optimist you understand.
If you want change, aim for what you can hold in your hand.
Think you can bring about world peace, think you’ve got the might?
Try to keep peace in your town, or your block, or home without a fight.
I stand and think to myself one more Sucker here and there,
Isn’t going to change a thing. If ten men vowed never to let themselves repeat
Their mistakes, the next day a chance would come, one would stand,
Nine would shudder and forsake him. Alone he’d return to his seat.
I step away and head home. I return my thoughts to the matters at hand.
Like my homework; a poem and some calc. I’ve still got to lose some ****** hair

Dear Ignorance,

You're everywhere; suffocating the minds of people I see and encounter every day.

Especially today in my calculus class. But this kind of ignorance hit me ******* a more personal level.

Three girls talking before class. The normal, boring stuff. I wasn't particularly listening but the next thing they said I wish never came out of their mouths.

"I could never be anorexic, I just love food too much."

Her friends giggle and agree quietly but they don't know how hard those words hit me. I know they didn't mean it to be insulting but that's exactly how I took it and for the next 60 minutes of class I replayed that sentence in my head about 100 times.

To think that people could be that ignorant about eating disorders. As if it is the people who hate food that decide it is a good idea to starve themselves.

I decided to write this letter because I want to change the way people view eating disorders. Because, if I could go back and talk to those girls I would. Not to yell at them but to educate them. To have them understand why saying something that ignorant can be hurtful to the people around them. But, I can't go back and that's why I am writing to you, whoever you may be. I don't know you or your view on eating disorders but I'd like to educate you a little from my personal experience.

I love food. I always have. Growing up I never had to worry about my weight because I had sports. But, as sports began to slowly stop as I grew up, so did the food I ate.

Now I could blame it on society's view on what beautiful is or the death of someone close in my family or even the boy who broke my heart in high school that made me decide to stop eating. Of course those were factors in my eating disorder but in reality it was my own decision. I started to gain weight fast and with that, my self confidence lowered. And as my self confidence lowered, well, so did my calorie intake.

When someone is dealing with an eating disorder that person is having DAILY arguments with their mind because they LOVE food. They WANT food. They CRAVE it.

So what stops them?

Their mind

You: "One more granola bar won't make me too fat right?"
Mind: "Are you kidding? One more granola bar and you'll pop out of your size two jeans. You don't want to go up ANOTHER size, do you?

Little does the mind know your body only consumed about 80 calories that day to begin with and you're lightheaded; so lightheaded you're afraid you'll pass out.


It was a long struggle but now, five years later, I can honestly say that I am beautiful. I can say that food does not define me. My weight does not define my beauty. I can love food and still be healthy. I can love food and still love my body. I'll admit it's hard at some points. Sometimes I feel weak. Sometimes I look in the mirror and am not entirely happy with what I see but I have friends and family who love me and remind me daily how strong I am and how loved I am.

So, to the three girls in my calc class. Don't think that being anorexic is simply "not enjoying food." It's much more than that; much different than that; much more complicated than that. Everyone experiences eating disorders differently. So next time before assuming things about topics you don't know a single thing about, stay quiet and educate yourselves.

Sincerely,
A girl who loves food more than anything.

It was confused and dark, dark, so dark,
dark like when Charlie got drunk for the first time, came back, and stumbled-open the door long after Sam had screamed at everyone to leave her the f--- alone.  

And Jesse is standing there, swaying slightly with the beer and the pounding music, and Charlene feels her ribcage shiver with each bass beat.  The pale light oozing off the stage silvers Jesse’s angled face like water, soaks the black shapes around her, pools in each eye as the constant ripple and shudder of the crowd shifts her hips.  Somehow her thin, bare shoulders speak her excitement, and in the dim shuffle of the audience she’s half drunk and lovely.  “You know that calc test is tomorrow,” Charlene screams over the straight roar of chaos. “Don’t remind me! God!” Lovely Jesse laughs and her hand sketches a lazy gun that jerks at her head -- don’t remind me, God don’t don’t don’t --  and Charlene clenches her eyes shut and still that flashes, dark dark dark, her loose-jointed fingers flicking up, twitching in sickening unison with her mocking head, again again again-- don’t remind me, God,
don’t remindmegoddon’t remind megod god oh God,
Sam loved drinking herself sick, stumbling home with her arm ‘round Charlie’s neck, slurring alcohol love and despair to her ‘bes’ fren, besh’ roomate evr, Charlene a.k.a. Charlie.  And “a.k.a.” as Sam loved to call her, was always there to pick Sam up and clean Sam up and sober Sam the **** up.  And every stupid drunk party night that semester she told Charlie over and over again: ‘listen, a.k.a., here’s a funny story: a girl went to buy her mother aspirin cause her mother had a terrible ******* headache and she bought some from her dear second cousin Kurt the cashier who was a trublueblooded Eagle scout mama’s boy back from college, that sonofabitch and she came home, but her momma didn’t have that headache anymore and gave her a mostly delicious popsicle and it was red strawberry, the end.’  And every stupid drunk party night that semester Charlie watched and listened as Sam made up new stories about aspirin (always ending with popsicles).
See, Charlie was always there. Charlie never drank.  And Charlie, she always listened to the stupid f---ing drunk-strawberry-popsicle story.  And Charlie never gave a **** about Sam, did she? She sure didn’t, no, Charlie didn’t.  

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom” Charlie screams into Jesse’s ear and plunges out into the sea of dark shadows circling her.  The door struggles open, then she’s crushing it shut, crushing splinters into her palms, she’s bending over the counter, both hands white-pressed onto its imitation marble, choking down these sharp sparks of nausea bursting like fireworks inside, and the music’s faded out, its just the thud of that ******* drum that pulses over and over and over --god stop it-- fills the room, rattles the stalls, over and over and Charlie’s convinced its a heartbeat, its Sam’s heartbeat, thud thud thud, god its going on and on and pounding, OH GOD, charlie screams, IT STOPPED, no no no no SAM no SAM SAM SAM OH GOD it stopped no no GOD
next song. drum starts again. and the room is inside of the drum, it is the inside, the taut air’s quivering with each beat, taut ribcage quivering with each beat. Charlie is inside a drum. beat beat beat drumbeat heartbeat thud, thud, thud,
god I look awful, Charlie’s looking at her face in the dim vibrating mirror: blue shadows under her dull eyes, pale, dead-tired, dead-drunk, and so f---ing dead-alive,
she goes back to Jesse, wriggling through the black lumps: lovers making out, heavy spellbound listeners, uneasy loners, angry drunks, drunk as-- drunk as Charlie’s first drunk night.

Sam was so ****** that night and Charlie dragged her home to their dorm, sick of Sam’s tangy alcohol breath and her sagging, skinny weight on her shoulder. “I’m sick of your breath, Sam.” sick of it, god Sam, just stop it, wish that breath would go away, I mean,
it was blowing all over my cheek Sam, cause your **** beautiful face was lying on my neck-- that’s why I said that, I didn’t mean that, Sam.
And then you said ‘well, all right Charlie, I’ll tell you a funny story Charlie,’ and I said ‘oh god Sam, not again,’ and you said ‘no, its different this time’ and you said ‘one day there was a little girl who went to the store to buy aspirin for her mom and the cashier took her into the back of the store and hurt her and she came home and told her mom and her mom slapped her and told her to stop talking ***** and shut the **** up and then that little girl’s throat sure did ache, Charlie, even after a popsicle it did. And Charlie, Charlie, a.k.a. Charlene, sure did hate her breath. see, that’s my story and isn’t it a funny story...”
you drop your drunk roommate on the gritty hallway carpet, give her the key say
‘’bye Samantha", goodbye samgoodbye, bye bye Sam, "I’m going to go get drunk don’t be too much of a ***** while I’m gone.’

floormates told Charlie later that Sam screamed at everyone “hey, all you motherf---ers, leave me the f--- alone,” then laughed, slammed the door. and they did leave her alone.
Charlie came back *****-drunk, touched the doorknob and heard the shot, the door opens,
Sam’s falling and Charlie watches her beautiful, bony wrist flick back as she gets blood all over and ruins her face and Charlie sobers up really f---ing fast.  She always was good at that.
There's a note on the desk in Crayola washable marker (purple): "well, a.k.a., I guess I am being way too much of a ***** while you’re gone. you’re welcome. sorry for ******* it all up again as usual"
*Thanks for that Sam, thanks a lot Sam thanks thanks f--- you

Pretty Princess, primped in pink, never really stops to think about the idiocy she spews on a daily basis.  The dog cowers in the corner, afraid to be faced with her scarily unchaste, omniscient hands.  She certainly possesses a vast knowledge of the canine race QUICK, before the vet arrives, act in haste, lest the dog be victim to her knowledgeless, black-hold gaze!

Pretty Princess, never faulting, ever daunting, continues the endless flaunting of her limitless skill.  Planar geometry and collegiate calc are no problem for the persistent resident Isaac Newton, who scribbles phony calculations and bogus numerations on a Hello Kitty scratch pad.

Pretty Princess works by the candlelight of her over-bright, tower-tall, double-wide lamp and paces across her pink and purple flower-*** rug as she fantasizes about the greasy local pint-size **** who’s oh-so dreamy in his Nike cut-off dishrag.  From her desk, she scrawls the inane on a beat up, college ruled, blue-green, hand-painted notebook, for all to see, but none to name.

Pretty Princess is unstoppable, tearing through the grocery aisle where Earl Grey and Einstein fall into place betwixt bacon, sausage, and salmon paste, and then for show, she takes the liberty of becoming the resident nutritionist, which here means “amateur ‘botchulist’”, as she tells us what we’re doing wrong.

Pretty Princess keeps a hidden diary wherein are written all her fiery rants and new to-hit lists, saving space for all the boys she wants to kiss and yes, even room a tear stain or six BUT, she claims, it doesn’t exist.

Pretty Princess is afraid of her secrets, afraid of leaking them to the outside world where that entire girl would become just another whirl in the machine of elementary girls’ gossip.  That unrelenting pack of wolfish half-wit rug-rats, teeth bared and armed with magic hands, would seize the Princess in their dastardly plans BUT, they say, it’s only for a single day that Pretty Princess is robbed of her dramatic time at play.

Pretty Princess is unheard outside her environment, her voice never reaches above the casement of the teacher’s oblivious predicament because she’s completely preoccupied with the class’s rampant evil stride of impending doom.  The classroom bully sits, high atop his throne, and from his face is evil shown only to those who know how to see it.

Pretty Princess knows how to see it.

Pretty Princess comes home crying more often than not, misunderstood by her snotty, hot-headed teacher or “witchess”, and storms to her room in haste, leaving Mother to pick up the pace, lest the wrath of a pre-teen girl blow up in her face BUT, much to her disbelief and in some sense a strange relief, the truth comes out.

Pretty Princess just wants to be heard.

four students
printed out sudoku
ac unit whirrs in the room

the disappointment pressed
slacks
too sunk for
integrals and L'Grange

krooser warms my desk
eyelids drooping
sentences left in the birches

like swirling colors, we begin at a party.
at a school
in a town
and a time on earth with the people and the streets and the trees.
tv’s/

like swirling oil of holy alignment. we begin
as a glob  (or embryo)
tiny little me/you/each
   (organic ******).

as children, involved and wearing warm hats,
we wait
on furniture.

the home stretch is free
unto college,
unto seasons, moss or mold, to bud new spells.
boy dunked in the river/
baptized.
transformed into horror.
(summer slash winter)

little brother,
little baby orb of water / air / mountain(s).
fish.
my son becomes a stoner.
he puts a giant-squid on his head
& dances the cha-cha.

star ghoul &
star-calc, skull of light/
bits of she beaming through and known only as the sky at night.
charted;
astro-logically.

in goatsblood.
& the mathematic sacraments of babylon.
meat and feast on forests of tall city steel beasts in beams; towers;
with the blood of men to raise them;
molochi.
(the consumed one)
(consumers)
swallowing dreams and family force nutrients for more and more and
more; as said to sustain.
for life is to devour.

Another Monday comes and goes
and with it brings a new set of woes.
More ******* assignments
and papers to write
about **** that I don't care about
but I'm forced to try.

Got my graded calc test
I scored a 68.
Because I don't care about your curves
or if the line is straight.
Teach me something useful
like how to be an adult.
Don't fill my head with nonsense
That I'll never use at all.

College is a joke.
Such a cleverly crafted scheme.
To get us to throw money at them
because we "need them to succeed."
But I grow tired of the *******
and I'm sick of your games.
Just give me my degree,
and I'll be on my way.

I thought walking was hard,
But then I tried running.
I thought cleaning up my toys was hard,
But then I had to clean my house.
I thought addition was hard,
But then I learned pre-calc.
I thought school was hard,
But then I went to college.
I thought losing my dog hurt,
But then I lost my grandma.
I thought I wanted to grow up so fast,
But sometimes I just wish I was a kid again.
Looking back, these hurdles I thought were so big were just tiny stepping stones creating the path for today.
Looking back, I look forward to the new hurdles,
The new challenges I will conquer.

There are many things
that you could teach me.
      to snowboard
      to be good at Mario Kart
      to laugh and have fun on my own
      to kiss with passion
      to let my walls down
There are some things
that I could teach you.
      to drive a stick-shift
      to do Pre-Calc
      to speak French
      to love other sports
There are things
we could help each other on.
      to get better at soccer
      to fix cars
Mario Kart is your SPECIALTY-as you say.
I've been driving a manual for three years.
I know about classic cars.
You know about new ones under the classic name.
I'd like to say that maybe we could have deeper conversations,
but we already do that now.
What could beat the PG-13 discussions we have?
If anyone took them out of context,
they'd be rated X.
By our word choice.
But within context,
they're perfectly harmless.
We make plans
but if we're gonna do anything
you might as well fill those shoes and take care of me.
Because I'd do the same for you.
*Parce, bébé, je pense que je suis tomber pour vous.

While they spent a couple years in college learning calculus, I was emotionally imbalanced and so behaviorally challenged.
When I was on meds and learning music, they were learning differential equations, linear algebra, and real analysis.
When I changed majors to philosophy of religion, they were reading hundreds of math papers from journals in grad school.
When I was getting a master's in criminal justice, taking my first statistics course, they were working on their dissertation.
When I was getting an electronics degree, they were getting published and doing research at universities.

After that I started studying physics, then math.
I struggle still to finish basic Calc 2&3 problems, and find it hard to get help with linear algebra.
All I know is that my trajectory is anything but common.
And the way I cover material would not be taught in most schools and universities.
It is more like the Montessori schools: I have an innate path to psychological development, and I act freely, supposedly creating my optimal way.

Papers stained with the intention of creation not to mention inspiration; what else is there to say?
Words don’t rhyme, rhythm off?
Forget proper grammar; it don’t even matter.
Writing quick ‘cause it’s killing me; the words blind me ‘til they’re all I see ‘i’ ‘c’, ‘i’ before ‘e’ except after ‘c’; there’s a rule for the grammar **** in me, all for some nonsense poetry.
Don’t peg me as a revolutionary; I’m just a girl trying to find her place in a world not ready to see with eyes like hers. But there’s a poet in me.
A poetic soul, like a void inside, a deep dark hole only these words can hide.
Lay down my expectations and last minute explanations ‘cause I’m running out of time to sell you this line or lie – whichever you prefer.
Open to negotiation but not your adaptation or alteration; I’m sick of it.
Don’t censor me, above the ******* industry; I’m writing ******* prophecy.
Strung out like another me, alternate reality, nothing between but blackness, a time lapse, a ******* realm of nonsense or maybe it’s just poetic license.
It’s hard to tell with everybody screaming at me. All of ‘em telling me to be or not to be but it isn’t real, least not to me, but it doesn’t matter.
This world’s gonna beat the soul right outta me and Imma let it.
Don’t have the ******* drive to make it happen; just sit back and watch the action like a scene straight off the silver screen, reading lines derived from the paradigm meaning ‘til they’re meaningless, even less, lower than the score on my last Pre-Calc test.
It’s for the best I guess, cause the pressures off (though if it was ever on it had me fooled from start to finish).
I’m in this and don’t think I can’t win this; there’s nothing I can’t accomplish if I put my mind to it and invest my time.
This is mine; a personal test of triumph over temptation versus all’s clear and smooth sailing. I’d rather bust my *** and fail than be worthless, getting everything my way on a silver dish.
I’m strong as iron, tough as nails, and with the wind in my sails I’m taking off, blasting off, into that nothing between here and actuality.
I’ll see you on the other side if you’ve got the ***** to try and follow me.

I’m so bored now,
You don’t even know,
I’m in the calc-room,
From 2 to 3:30.

We’re all bored,
Just look, we’re sleeping,
In the classroom,
While she keeps teaching
ZZZzzzzzzzz

He looks at me and with a wink
Suggests "why don't we study biology?"
I looked back at him and with a wink,
"Maybe study our chemistry?"
...
   ...
       ...
           Across the room a boy says
"Yall in the wrong class, this is calc"
...
   ...
      ...
He looks at me with a wink and says,
"Want to derive our equations?"
I looked at him with a wink,
"Want to see the gradient of our tangents?"
...
   ...
       ...
The boy speaks again,
       "I think you two were made for each other. Now go into Theology classes and determine whether that's true."

don't get me wrong
it's not you that i'm fond of,
it's definitely not you.

in fact, it may be your
chino pants.
they are of
exquisite material,
the type with creases that make you fall
deeply in love

or, it may be the tips of your hair
the craggy peaks of
period 5 physics,
they stand rigid yet leaning like
Smooth Criminal

perhaps your calculator
it's the same color as mine
as you've pointed out

"ayyyyy i like your calc--"

-- nope
definitely not you.

Academia can *******
Had to learn trig to pass
A test pre req for a class

That algebra is all that needs to be known
Intro chem is not a place for tan, cos, and sin
Yet I had to learn and teach it all on my own

After Doing the teaching and learning
They came around and started charging
Hundreds and thousands for nothing

So academia can *******
Had to learn calc to pass
A test pre req for a class

Do your ******* job teach me how to get a job
These administrators are just some ******* slobs
Paid three hundred grand to play with their knobs

If the systems broken fix it or at least override it
Instead you support it while students go into debt
How the **** do you run at a deficit and yet

You take every sweaty blood stained penny
Shake down every downtrodden who looks sorry
Sorry that college was the only choice outta poverty

Academia can eat my ******* ***
Didn't learn **** but I'll still pass
Cause they don't teach **** in the class

Hey,

I miss you a lot, but I think it would be impossible to ever tell you how much.
And you know that I’ve always been bad with words.
You remember I never knew what to say, when we sat together at the table for all of the “failing” kids in pre-calc, but you always knew what to say back then.
I remember you always knew what to say.
Even when we talked about nothing, you could tell me something.

I miss you a lot.
I think now that even if it were impossible to ever tell you how much, that I have to at least tell you how I cope.
Because then maybe you could understand somehow.
Somehow maybe you could understand.

I’m in college now and I don't go back home too much.
I pretend like I’m too important, or that I have too much going on to be there.
But you know the truth, you know it hurts too much.
But I go back sometimes, and when I do I go to the Freddy's parking lot, and I sit in my car. In that old plaza we used to work in.

And I put on “To This Day” by Shane Kocyzan and I shut my eyes as tightly as I can.
I listen a few times and pretend like you’re in the passenger’s seat listening with me, and sometimes I cry.
And sometimes I don’t.
Every time it hurts the same.
But I have to do it.

I have to do it to remember you, because I can’t ever forget you.
I do it hoping you’ll see me and sit with me.
Like really sit with me, just for a few minutes.
All I need is a few minutes.

I have to do it because maybe it’ll make me miss you less.
Or maybe you’ll see me and you’ll know how sorry I am.
How sorry I am that I didn’t go to your memorial.
I have to do it because I didn’t go to your memorial.

I do it because I have to tell you that we love you and that it wasn’t your fault, but you know that it wasn’t your fault and you know that we love you.
And I hope you know how sorry I am that I didn’t go to your memorial.
But you know that I’ve always been bad with words, and you always knew what to say.
And even if it’s impossible for you to hear me, I have to tell you how sorry I am.
That I didn't go to your memorial.
Then I turn up “to this day” and I remember you and I have to do it because I miss you too much.

Sincerely,

Your remorseful friend, V

it is the long weekend
How could those days be fading so soon
Fake tattoos on my arms
I've come to terms with
My lack of soul
And I seek only the mission ahead
Where I am to leave
And never be heard from again
But theres a calc test tomorrow
It's too much to ask
For me to set aside my daydreams
Of settling in the void