"profs" poems
What no one ever tells you
Is it’s gonna be real tough
You’re gonna wanna give up
You’ll think you’ve had enough
What no one ever tells you
Is your books don’t always go
With the classes you have picked
They’re outdated and too old
What no one ever tells you
Is that High School doesn’t compare|
To the Profs and the people
To the classrooms and the chairs
What no one ever tells you
Or what they say instead
College is a bomb
It’s a party, so we’ve read
What no one ever tells you
Or rather so they say
You can fly through College
Without showing up a day
What no one tells you
And what I’m saying now
I’ve been there two days
And I’ve figured out just how
Much that no one ever tells you
And what they never say
College is important
In every single way
And what no one tells you
Most importantly of all
Is never to give up
When you think you’ve lost it all
What no one ever tells you
Is that though you are debt
You need this education
You’ll get through this yet
What no one ever tells you
Is there are people who care
To help you through these years
Make it out fair and square
What no one ever tells you
Is this is a challenge of sorts
But prepares you for the real world
Makes or breaks you of course
What no one ever tells you
Is you’re gonna make it through
With support systems and time
And people who love you
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
He worships at the shrine of capitalism
prays for a better fiscal quarter
with money spent in shopping malls,
a scrambling search for off-the-rack meaning
through blessèd, holy consumerism.
He gives thanks to this, our daily microwave meal,
while he mutters under his breath,
“What be the will of these, our stock-market Algorithms?"
He listens to sermons from business and econ profs preaching
from the higher-education steeples, teaching
students gathering like stampede sheeples, reaching
for a measure of worth in semester-long bursts
a silent choir scribbling in exam halls to petty praise,
leaving them burned out,
and crying on the bathroom floor,
lights out, itching for a wink
amidst insect hallucinations
adrenaline rushed
from Dexadrine or Adderall
dissociation flushed
from ketamine or alcohol
asking,
“What is wrong with me?”
Seeking answers,
he pays weekly penance to shrinks
a confessional of mental disorders from the Gospel of DSM:
“Forgive me, Doctor, for I have sinned.
It has been seven days since my last confession.
I’m obsessive, I’m depressive,
antisocial personality,
ADD or ADHD,
I’m poor as I ever was and ever will be,
I’m no service to society,
I'm squandered in sobriety,
but please
keep my hands tied
in these shackles of student debt!”
And his only act of contrition
is a medical prescription
made sweeter to swallow at communion
than the blood and body of Christ.
Welcome, the new order!
Welcome, the New Religion (TM)!
Pray it will be a better one
than what we left behind.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
They walk—no, more likely, they saunter,
Embassy functionaries, associate profs at G-Dub,
A smorgasbord of polka dots and vitae,
Leopard-print and Linkedin pages,
Sufficent and necessary in their presents and futures.
I occupy a bench in my own shambling manner,
Denim-clad most days,
Perhaps affecting a less humble khaki
If I am feeling particularly grandiloquent,
Redeployed here from more rough-and-tumble of more avenues,
Among the bar-and-concrete hosteled llamas and coyotes
(Probably closer kin, if one is being honest)
Simply an ornamental thing, overgrown garden gnome
Or bowdlerized lawn jockey, unobtrusive and unnoticed
By those who would coo at the macaos and mandarin ducks
Or shudder at the offal left uneaten by black bears and maned wolves.
And so such days proceed, from my convenience-store coffee arrival
To such time that something approximating dinner
Must be conjured or cadged from somewhere,
My thoughts tend to stray not to the lionesses
Nor sleek Catwoman-esque jaguars,
But to the unpretentious turkey vultures of the fields of my youth,
Circling warily, inexorably in threes and fours above
And I know there is neither ennobling nor annihilation to find here,
No outcome but to simply await.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
I would like to go back a thousand years ago,
just to sleep.
For I'm drenched in thoughtlessness.
I ache for some relieve.
And I'm trying, solely not to burn up.
and I do not mean to over dramatize, but I'm lost.
Which I guess is usual for being 20.
Only 20, as I eat myself up in tv shows and confusion.
And I watch the world get married and have babies, but I don't want that,
No I don't need that.
Nor do I really want that.
As profs talk as if I care, about their useless pieces of info they throw at me, except the one about dinos. I like that.
But anyways I sit and here they look at me as if I really give a ****
I want a job. Don't they understand.
And I parked in the wrong spot today,
and the critique went bad and I overpaid on an earl grey latte and wasted my day watching friends all day.
But we all have those bad days.
And I'm trying trying trying so hard not to think bad thoughts.
But the weather is rainy, and I'm still tired. This ever longing tiredness. But I drew today. I drew my sorrows away, and no matter what those stingy profs say, I can draw. I draw to keep myself together.
I draw so I don't think the bad thoughts, to keep my jealous thoughts back at bay. So I quit making a fool of myself, the only think I know how to do is draw.
And I have a wide open summer, of no plans, or prospering, or any real progress.
Isn't that sad?
To dread your own summer.
Maybe after having summer so many times, it loses it's freedom quality. It becomes just another season to endure.
And that's sad. It's sad when you can't look forward to summer.
Cause summer was once a fantasy.
A sense of adventure accompanied summer.
And I look at summer now with a dread and inability to really be ready or excited for it.
That's really sad.
And I'm not writing to make you sad, but I'm writing out of my inability to understand this sadness.
I'm trying to hold on to something...
Maybe this sadness will pass into something I can hold onto.
And coincidently were talking about the blues...in class.
Not really helping my melancholy frankly.
I think teachers are so wrapped up in their own cynical life they like to spread it onto others.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC