Senior Year
I’m sitting in the kitchen of a house that smells like grout
From the time I helped retile it, your average Eagle scout
It’s less of a viewfinder
Than a bittersweet reminder
That this was the day this time last May when mom and I moved out
My dad had an affair and so we scored a new abode
Which is sick because my boyfriend lives four minutes up the road
The new arrangement’s better
But I’m always the abetter
Set to smother all my mother’s latest manic episodes
Thanks to God in all His goodness I am happy to recall
That despite the weights atop my head, I’m really growing tall
I’m no longer scared of college
Since I’m brimming with the knowledge
That those I love are never far, and all I have to do is call
I’m very near eighteen now and I don’t know how to drive
But no car will bring me closer to the goal for which I strive
I want to be a writer,
Which is infinitely tighter
Than my last year’s chit, which I’ll admit, was simply to survive
I want to be a writer with a deep voracious itch
(Or a maybe a librarian, I haven’t chosen which)
So others, then, may see
Books like those that guided me
Books that teach you, no, beseech you, when your life has come unhitched
I want to take the messy bits that once filled me with fright
And use them to help others, which is why I plan to write
Sometimes when you’re alone
You’re more likely to be prone
To accept advice, the paradise, that it will be alright
I’m twenty-six pounds lighter than I was this time last June
And I’ve got ambitions rising like a little red balloon
From high up there I will gaze
Across promising new days
With a telescope I really hope that I will see them soon