Everything begins

at some point.

Studies have origins

Their knowledge joints

Each other together.

But going to school

Brakes learning and tethers

You to these cruel

Hours of studying,

Cramming for tests impossible to score perfectly on.

Students end of crying

Attempting scoring well upon

The teacher's cruel

Forms of torture,

Designed to make students duel

Until they fall down with the fractures

Of failure.

They get up and resubmit

Hoping their words will allure,

Hoping the teacher will admit

That the students

Won the duel

With thoughts that become prudent

And their assignments do not need a renewal.

Was volunteered to play,

The memorial ceremony,

Was two days away.

I’m at the piano,

Thinking how life’s too bad.

In walks E.. From the seniors.

Everybody knows her, G7 to G12,

Drooling, saying she’s gonna be someone.

What to do when you are faced ,

With the hottest girl in school?

There must be some mistake,

I know she sings, but would she bother?

I feel exposed.

She smiles to me,

Straightens her shirt,

The neckline showing too much goodies.

No, there’s no mistake.

No, it’s really true,

She’s here to sing at the memorial.

She asks my name,

I say ‘piano’ ,

Obviously confused.

She comes close,

leans over my shoulder,

Looks at the chords i scribbled .

She asks me if we can get to work,

Because she has math later.

Oh, to study math..

I start playing and she sings.

She’s not amazing, not close,

But hormones are a perfect equaliser,

When you’re doing Harmony.

As she sings,

I need to slide myself,

Closer to the keyboard,

To hide the bulge that formed.

I imagine things and play,

Finally she catches on,

Just how ‘threatened’

i am.

She doesn’t mind,

Admiration is what she lives on,

She sings and plays with my hair,

My ridiculous jew-fro,

And i doubt very much that ,

I made no mistake, with the chords.

After the service,

And the guys asked me,

How i got to play with her,

I say, idiotically , “practice”.

Play it cool, cause I’m a dork.

Entertaining, a complete joy.

Obnoxious teenagers

I won't be annoyed.

Everything is great, I'm never bored.

With no classes in which I want to ignore.

No students who make me question society.

Wait, that might have been sarcasm in all of this writing.

"This is the best student who ever came to this school"

They called me smart

They called me the best

I was proud of being smart

Of being the best of the best

Then I wasn't

A new people, a new school

I was mediocre at best

You're so smart

You have so much potential

You're going to be great

You can do whatever you want to do

I don't know what I want to do

I have no passion, no purpose

I'm expected to shoot for the moon

and then some but

What if I can't?

What if my half baked plans fail?

What if I'm not good enough?

And what if I am?

What if I succeed at everything I do?

What if I leave everything and everyone

I care about behind so I can be great?