My tomahawk pride will shortly be coming to an end.

Every morning I wake up to the same constant battle,

Just my alarm clock

And I.

I take a cushioned seat among the crowd of seniors,

Then the bell rings.

I make my way through the maze 

Of corridors aand hidden rooms,

Which I call my high school.

And when the sunsets at a rapidly increasing pace,

The stadium lights ignite the black sky,

To reveal the students in the student section

And the vibrant blue G

Under the spikes of the football players cleats,

All the time writing this poem in my head.

What a simple thing time is,

Four letters

But consume our lives

Every waking moment.

Seventeen years ago 

I would've never thought my freshmen year would end

And my senior year would begin, 

As fast as it did.

But I guess this is just how time goes.

And with every high and every low time must be always cherished.

This four letter word has been 

Taken for granted.

Chewed up and spit out

By every adolescent.

Until the blue and white caps fly

Then it all hits you at once,

The town fills with a new generation,

As the old one takes its place out into the world.

And that time, for me,

Is June twenty-fourteen

I guess the only question left would be, 

Am I ready for this journey?