T.B.T. (To Be Titled)

Feelin drained

can't focus.

like Ive been hit with a ton of bricks.

just killin myself on the weights, and killin myself in classes.

doesn't make it any easier to report,
to write,
to splash my creative juices onto a computer screen.

so I switch it up,
start scribblin scraps onto a paper with pen.

just reminds me of interviews I don't care to remember til tomorrow.
that's when I have to write the fuckin thing, damn.

the innocent freedom of a young boy playing football in his back yard
the ease with which success was placed in front of him
and the way happiness seemed to find him in every moment of everyday

these things were lost to the wind,
and the memory of them has been fading for years

all that is left is this faint recollection
of a boy living without any advantages
but always seemed to be the best at what he did.

Now he's gotta kill himself to succeed,
kill himself on the bench to feel freedom,
and kill himself looking for happiness under each shallow rock

but happiness is buried under boulders.
freedom cant be bought in sweat.
and success might just prove to be too elusive.

:
the suburban crisis of an american undergrad