Calendar (Poem)

 

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Calendar

 The purpose for me explaining my sentiments

Is that I don't belong, due and undone, I hope

That I had more proof than this that I even exist

And that my history is not an empty grope.


Three hundred and sixty five days, half of which,

having been compiled and imbued with knowledge,

Being swapped and switched, compile! Swap and switch!

Formulating, reformulating, preparing for college!


And what purpose, to what dispose does this deposit?

Beowulf for scientists; Ionic bonds for authors;

Is this the best that the eagle can send to it?

Should we give to all specialized scholars their own galore?


But, of course, such quandaries are but speculation,

The best and finest way to proceed towards ambitions

Is not by hope, prayer, or incantation,

Is not to give in, MAKE others listen!



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