Most days are Hell. I’m torn from sleep, the only comfort I have, to throw on the quickest thing I find to wear and walk, late as usual, into a morning class that I’m struggling to pass due to multiple absences. I’m forced to stare into the face of what was once my ultimate joy and shiver in the chill of its indifference. After an hour or so of watching my unfulfilled academic potential, I leave the classroom, alone, tilting my head so that my hair hangs in front to avoid eye contact with… anyone… anyone who might see… might mock my misery. I walk towards my car and realize I feel nauseous and weak, as if any moment I could fall face first into a welcoming pavement. I often wish I would, but I never do. I drive to my next class, meeting half-hearted friends and cold-hearted enemies. How could I miss that chord? A secondary dominant. And the most obvious on the page. Never good enough. I drive home to stare at a computer screen, my brain fighting itself, for near the full hour, over whether I should eat. Time’s up. Back to class. There he is again, smiling at my frown. This used to be my favorite class. Now, my real lunch break. I think I’ll eat today. I know I should. I don’t feel like arguing. I don’t feel like fighting. Just add water. Broccoli and rice with cheese. Good enough. It’s something. My country is at war and I wish there was something I could do. My mind is at war and I wish I could become uninvolved. I should go. I’ll be late for class. But I just don’t care. Walk into a piano lab, without even my fake smile. Those seventeen muscles have gone on strike for better pay. I used to be head of the class. Now, I’ll fail another quiz and pretend to care.

Back to My Poetry
Home