i sit crosslegged on my bed praying that

my professor won't notice what i wasn't able to get done.

i accept the fact that i'm a little too busy for my own good,

in between classes and studying and meetings meetings meetings meetings meet

me in the middle, else i might be drawn and quartered between all my obligations.

 

the light of a still morning graces my room from the cracks in the curtains

while my roommate sleeps, finally.

 

i try to fool people too much, tell them

"of course i write things other than poetry" or

"yeah, i can do it!" or anything else they want to hear

but in reality, no, i don't write anything other than poetry

because everything is lyric and line and stanza and rhyme in my mind,

there's no way to extrapolate my experiences from the form marked "Freedom".

and no, i'm not sure if i can do it, i can try but please be at my back with arms

wide open to catch me when i fall because frankly this ladder you gave me to boost me up

is awfully slippery, and if i were to tumble down from this height without anyone to catch me, well,

no lie here, i might surely regret it.

 

the light of a still morning drips through my window, taking it's sweet time to hit the pale skin of my arms,

i cross them over myself in a stretch, then bring them palms together in front of my chest,

and though i don't remember who i dedicate this act to, i think it's called 'praying',

and if so, i'm 'praying' that i learn myself a little better.