I Am A Freshman

My fingers strum against the desk to a song i can't quite remember- numbers do handstands on the clock.

All eyes are fixated elsewhere while I trim thoughts blooming from my skull before the teacher sees. I keep them in my pocket, grinning at nothing in particular.

Ears ache from hearing pen glide over paper over things I may never think I'll need.

I write out Sohcahtoa on the head of my paper and Paris Peace Conference in the margin.

The sketch on my paper deserves a B, penmanship a D and this is the wrong class. I try to focus because this is important. The clock stalls for a moment.

I've never had a passion for history yet I'll rewrite my notes out of habit. I don't understand proofs but I can tell you what philosophy means.

My name is wrung out deflecting off of ironic posters and heads redirect. 

I breath fire from  my lungs and my jaw is tense. Wavering eyes stare at me, I don't know the answer or the question. I guess. I get  it right.



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