An exam week poem

12 Jun

I’m only as good as the numbers I get,
And where my name reads in the rank,
And when it’s all through and I feel rather blue,
I’ve a lack of distinctions to thank.

I want to be special! Why can’t they see
The fire and drive in my soul?
I learn all their facts and spew them all back,
But the numbers have taken their toll.

What if they tested our imaginations?
Our dreams and our wishes and words?
Our visions and pure creativity?
The manifestation of free thought, free ourselves from the shackles of their rigid schemes of theories and textbooks

And then dance, leap through the burning sky into pools of warm honey-coloured light,

Come to rest on clouds that seep through our pores,
Enrich us, fill us up with whatever it is that links us all,
That shimmering shared consciousness that shines through
In literature and colour and protest and moist earth and the wind,

The tiny, spun-glass fragments of collective experience melted to sugary syrup
And formed into one, giant marshmallow of a dream,
A castle of sweet pockets of air and creamy walls that embrace all of us,
No matter our size
or shape
or religion
or birthplace,
Why can’t we just FEEL, and be graded on a scale of emotion and passion and feelings?

Then I remember I don’t do an arts degree.

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