Failure
Uncomfortable in my own skin
Can't think about what went in
my brain and back out this morning
was so tragic I can't stop worrying
I did everything required of me
dotted every "I", crossed every "T"
I studied so fucking miserably
yet it all turned out so dismally
Like a prisoner held hostage in my own home
Going through pages upon pages of shit unknown
I must be crazy trying to digest this stack of facts
Ordered a pizza but my brain came back
Was happy to see it, for what I knew not
Because I killed all its tiny, fucking cells with this pot
I looked for all the facts I diligently plugged in
Hell, where was the pizza? Do I have to order again?
That's it, I'm calling it, no more pot for me
I thought I'd be okay, maybe skate with a "C"
But the sentence was passed, handed down hard
My final grade an "F", printed on the scanned card
What do I do now? I asked myself stupidly
Just wasted four months of my life so needlessly
All because that "chronic" meant too much to me
I could say it was the system, but I really failed me
©2005 – Tammy Imes
This is not a true story, entirely. However, I'm sure it did have its place in my
checkered past somewhere. It was inspired by today's Anatomy exam that I
bombed because--well--I just didn't give a shit enough to put forth the effort to
read the material. I crammed.
There was no chronic smoked for the failing of this exam nor for the making of
this poem--though some of you are wishing that there would have been I'm
sure.
Actually, I have seen so many young college students (fellow students) that do
smoke chronic, never read, rarely take notes and wonder why they get shitty
grades. Then there are those that smoke it up regularly, come to class baked,
take notes (or have their tape recorder on at least) I don't know if they read or
not, but they get good grades. So, I guess my point is this. Chronic or not.
You have to put forth effort into something to get good results.
Uncomfortable in my own skin
Can't think about what went in
my brain and back out this morning
was so tragic I can't stop worrying
I did everything required of me
dotted every "I", crossed every "T"
I studied so fucking miserably
yet it all turned out so dismally
Like a prisoner held hostage in my own home
Going through pages upon pages of shit unknown
I must be crazy trying to digest this stack of facts
Ordered a pizza but my brain came back
Was happy to see it, for what I knew not
Because I killed all its tiny, fucking cells with this pot
I looked for all the facts I diligently plugged in
Hell, where was the pizza? Do I have to order again?
That's it, I'm calling it, no more pot for me
I thought I'd be okay, maybe skate with a "C"
But the sentence was passed, handed down hard
My final grade an "F", printed on the scanned card
What do I do now? I asked myself stupidly
Just wasted four months of my life so needlessly
All because that "chronic" meant too much to me
I could say it was the system, but I really failed me
©2005 – Tammy Imes
This is not a true story, entirely. However, I'm sure it did have its place in my
checkered past somewhere. It was inspired by today's Anatomy exam that I
bombed because--well--I just didn't give a shit enough to put forth the effort to
read the material. I crammed.
There was no chronic smoked for the failing of this exam nor for the making of
this poem--though some of you are wishing that there would have been I'm
sure.
Actually, I have seen so many young college students (fellow students) that do
smoke chronic, never read, rarely take notes and wonder why they get shitty
grades. Then there are those that smoke it up regularly, come to class baked,
take notes (or have their tape recorder on at least) I don't know if they read or
not, but they get good grades. So, I guess my point is this. Chronic or not.
You have to put forth effort into something to get good results.
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