we are old souls, ancient at seventeen.
we wake, stiff-backed, to the same routine.
we’re supposed to be dewy-eyed.
we’re supposed to ask questions, we’re supposed to cry.
we’re supposed to break bones while trying to fly.
we scrape by.
we are honor-roll lovers
we come home to nagging papers,
make study dates,
don’t procrastinate
the light has been robbed from us
we no longer see the point
in wasting time trying to please ourselves
there is work to be done,
there are places to go, people to see
[but not now]
we cannot allow time to distract us
i will not invest in you
because i cannot afford it
[poor college student]
i’m broke on love,
i spent it all on paper melodies
we laughed once
[oh sweet irony]
then we started studying
he waits at the brink of exhaustion.
his hands are ink-stained,
his lips chapped from reciting, and
his eyes drift to the window
don’t lose sight of your goals, son.
inside, shivering,
her hands caress the piano,
her lips murmur,
her eyes see futures
where he sees grade point averages
she spins stories. she creates excuses;
from the tip of her tongue
spill carnations,
and that’s when she knows she
has gone too far,
again.
wait for college to grow up
wait for college to become yourself
wait for college to bloom
wait to come alive
we scrape by.
–
written w15feb2012.
small me says: “as the semester drags on, we all get buried under schoolwork. as an artist, i’ve got a little less of a burden.
i wonder how they can deal with so much work. they wonder how i can slack off so much.”
–
idiography 