The Best Years of Your Life, Relatively.

It's mid-February now, 
and soon I'll be waring the Ides of March.
Then it's April showers,
and waiting with bated breath for May flowers.


This is my fourth year in the same school with the same people;
everything I've known is almost over.
It's hard to remember to be thankful.


The new teacher this year is literally the worst.
His lessons are boring,
and he assigns too much work. 


Don't get me started on winters and breaks.
We only get off if our lives are at stake.
The day before Easter, and that's all we get.
The rest is for learning so we won't have to guess.


One hundred and nine days until the freedome we've earned,
getting my cap to stay on is my only concern.
I'll have my degree in my hand, 
and decorations to be strung.
If we're being honest here, I don't really want a party,
but I'm just obeying my mum.


No worries, no cares,
just sweet summer songs.
That is, until college comes creeping along.


And then we're back where we started,
with new schools and fears.
No more clapping and celebrating,
just essays and jeers.
I hear that it's fun, though--
the late nights and new friends.
They're the best of your years
that no one wishes would end.

This poem is about: 
My community


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