A Humble Poem of a Sad Student

Because there is no more "later" I
will try my best to pick up my scattered
shards of Euphoria and piece them
together into something meaningful.
I will not be angry, or bitter because of
the warm & pretty lies you fed us about
senior year,
or about the questionnaire, the data
you collected on us so you can be a better colonel.
Yes, I won't mention any of that.
But I will tell you that this year has been
the best ever, and that I looked forward
to senior year, when I would have your class
again, with impatience and excitement.
"Only a year and a summer!"
But I will stop THAT thought there,
because I won't break my vow of placidity.
Ahhaha, I wonder when you planned on telling us?
The very last moment? When it would be too late
to try and make the best of the last?
Good thing I treated every moment this year
like it was the last. Or else I might be
angry, ahahha. Ha.
I realize this would mean more coming
from someone who didn't like school, or
English class, or reading, or writing, or teachers,
but sadly I cannot give you significance from there.
So I suppose this will just have to do,
for you to know that I will truly miss your class.
Because you're weird and love books, and that
truly shines in your unique classes.
I realize this would also mean more if each
year for the past five years my favorite teacher
hadn't been the year's English teacher,
but I can give you no more significance there either.
But I truly do think that it will no longer change.
Even though you never graded our summer work,
even though you don't give us our papers back,
even though "It was a few hours before the first sharks hit,"
and even though (possibly because) some days we do nothing
but talk off topic for the entire class.
I will definitely miss it. All of it.
Freaks and Geeks, and reading aloud, and
"Kati's Stuff Scavenger Hunts," corny jokes,
and 'communion,' and chi pinches.
Yes, I will miss it.
And not only that, but academic team as well.
I truly think the team will never be as good
again, without you as a coach.
And certainly never as fun.
I realize this would be more meaningful
if I could find pretty metaphoric ways to
say these things, but right now I cannot.
Right now I can only barely hold back
the sadness, and anger, and bitterness,
and tell you about all of the wonderful things that
I will miss that are making me sad, and angry, and bitter.
And so this humble poem will have to suffice,
because there is no more "later" anymore.