Lofty goals are good, I think,
For success.
But not so good, I think,
For happiness.

Because we have this idea
That if we reach,
Eventually we'll find
Where the grass is green.

But I've been reaching
For a long, long time.
And my goals have been set
Absurdly high.

And once I get there,
Which seems less than 4 years away,
I'll just stretch out my hands
To begin reaching again.

If my goals were about
Having something to feel,
Maybe one day
I wouldn't be reaching still.

I'd be holding.
I'd be keeping.

We don't need to set shorter goals.
We need to set different ones.

Ones that make us smile
Instead of yearn.
Ones that are more about learning
Than what we need to learn.

Change will come,
And we shouldn't forget our dreams,
But as life moves on,
We should remember what it means.

We need to do less of
Shooting for the stars,
And start feeling the beauty
Of standing where we are.

Today I walked outside and it hit me.
I had just finished my last class in this city,
The last time I'd rush to the North Building,
The last lecture on philosophy.

This was the end of an age,
An era in this life.
Now it's on to the next stage.

I don't feel all too different.
Maybe that's just a sign that I shouldn't.
After all, it's just four down, four to go.
More to learn, more to know.

So much more ahead,
It almost seems like only the beginning is behind.
But my journey isn't new
Being a doctor has long been on my mind.

When you've wanted something since eighth grade,
It's not just about undergrad.
It's about the choices you've made.
It's about staying smart and staying safe.
It's about the life you live.
And how much time you give
To each thing in it.

It does feel like something.
It feels like a child learning to walk.
Who will one day run.
It feels like a plant growing taller
To reach a place with more sun.
It feels like more than 4 years,
Or a lot of undergraduate class.
It feels like the graduation
And the evolution
Of the Zach of the past.

So when you're here, leaving class.
There's so much to see, looking back.
I could sigh, thinking of all that's been.
I could lament for this era's end.
But I think I'll remember it all
And smile instead,
And know that nothing can compare
To what lies ahead.

I keep writing poems about you.
Because I don't want to post
Some dumb comment to your page.
That impersonation of you that exists
Only so that people who loved you
Can feel like you're there.
But you aren't.
And they're just posting because
It makes them feel better.
Like my poems.

I wish I could believe they were for you.
That you could read them,
Feel them,
Somewhere.
But I don't believe that.
They're for me.
Me, me, me.
In this moment, your death is about me.
The moment that my pen
Or my hands
Or my thumbs
Put my thoughts to words,
I embrace myself.
Because I can't embrace you anymore.

It's lonely.
This pattern, this cycle.
And maybe if I knew your friends
Would see my thoughts,
I might feel better.
But I can't do that.
I can't show them all that I'm selfish, too.
Even though I know I am.
Even though there's no other way to be.

I can't truly honor you
Except in accepting how broken
You left me.
And maybe that once I wasn't selfish,
Because of how selfish I am now.

We lose things,
People,
And then we go on
Until one day,
We're the ones that are lost.

The clearest mirrors
Are the ones we cannot see
That lie within sadness, the loneliness,
And feed off of the pain
That we feel betwixt the scenes
That life plays out
For an audience which must be
Vindictive, cruel and mean
In order to clap
When the curtains drops at finale.

But we must all share something
With that ethereal audience of sadists
For it is in those moments of self-hatred
That we can most see the part
We play in this nightmarish ensemble.
It was the hunter Narcissus
That stared into the pool
And surely aroused a tumult
Of laughter,
But how sweet to be so enamored
With ourselves that we might see true
Without the mirrors of pain.
Perhaps that pool revealed to the hunter
The cosmic comedy's concealed quadrains
And in that moment he too applauded
The director's dark aims.

I too have looked into pools
Into clean metal and clear glass
And never have I had the epiphany
Of wonder that the hunter had.
But in those moments of deep despair,
Perhaps I have glimpsed
Some of myself in there.
For those without eyes keen enough to see,
The truth must be found most painfully.
And oft comes through with some of
The tomb it was buried in,
So that, knowing what is
Often makes us less comfortable
Within our own skin.

And the audience snickers
To know that in our clarity, we are still fools
And have only a tainted view of truth,
Destined to suffer on to the next miserable cue.

She's so broken
Even she'll tell you that
And I'm not trying to fix her
I'm just trying to be with her

Because when she's not around,
I miss her
Like the sand misses the wave
It's only there at high tide
And until that moment, that one moment,
All the sand can do is wait
Frustrated,
Can't it come sooner?
But then it's there
And for a second, all is fair
All is right
All is complete.

Then, the retreat
The sand grasps at the water
Receding into some unknown oblivion
Maybe to come again,
Maybe not

Shes so **** damaged
But I keep thinking I'm the one not worth it
Because I can't shut up and take it
But it just gets so lonely on the beach

Why can't I be there?
Why can't I suffer?
Why can't she be the sand
And I be the wave?

Why do I even care?
Why do they all?
Every one of them, they aren't wrong.
They she her, and they fall.
They fall and fall.
Maybe she is their destruction.
Maybe she'll be mine.

But if she can slow down,
For a just one second,
I'll catch up.
I'll ride the tide with her
Neither the sand,
Both the wave.

I still remember the flashing lights of police.
Headlines at the bottom of the screen,
The officers interviewed on TV.

I still remember wondering why my mom wasn't home.
She had no reason to be at the school,
But on that day, none of us wanted to be alone.

And I remember being in a little wagon,
Pulled by crying parents on a dark night.
We were small and didn't want to walk.
But my parents knew we needed to see the sight.

Of candles, and so many people come together.
At a park that, honestly, had really never
Been special, until that day.
When we no longer had a right to say,
That we had never felt real pain.

But that's not how the story ends.
No, Littleton was stronger than that.
Those who lost had family and friends,
On who they knew they could depend.

And the city grew up,
The city grew closer.
Not defined by pain,
But by the love that was gained.

And we never forgot,
But we weren't caged,
Tragedy, we said,
Would not be our plague.

So here we are now,
Seems an age and yet a moment has passed.
Our heads again bow,
For those in our past.

And then our heads rise,
And look to the skies.
The tears dry,
And something new is in our eyes.

A determination,
A will to go on.
Through whatever the world throws,
We know that we're strong.

And never again,
Will we wait, scared, at home.
Because in Littleton, none of us
Is ever alone.

As I walked along a path of grass,
Whistling merrily so time would pass,
I happened upon an emerald pear,
And I bit into it, right then and there.
The juice trailed happily down my chin,
And led to a most savory grin.
Then when my fruit was all but gone,
A distraught young man did come along.
He asked me with such true concern,
If of a pear he, from me, might learn.
For he, in haste, this gem had lost,
A fruit he had for worthy cause,
To give to a mother on her death bed,
For “a bite of pear” is all she said.
I, remnant core clutched in my fist,
Knew I had taken what would be missed.
I said no word, and on he went,
Bowed in sorrow, his form now bent.
And I then glanced upon my core,
Eat what’s not mine, I will no more.
So woefully slow, I walked along,
With no more life to whistle song,
Mourning my lack of natural care,
When I spied another emerald pear.