Ode to a Blank Dry Erase Board

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Dry Erase BoardUpon my wall there lives a board;
It’s white in color with blue sides,
And there upon its surface stored
Whatever marks my mind decides
Should go upon that board now clear,
Then be erased in future days
When other things I scribble here.
If I see errors in my ways
And choose to wipe those marks away,
They dissapper without a trace.
I wish that real life work’d that way,
And all mistakes could be erased,
And that all things that I regret
Could be so easy to forget.


‘Twas the Middle of Finals

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paper snowflakes

From last December: Paper snowflakes made from class notes

‘Twas the middle of finals and I was concerned
about all the stuff I still hadn’t learned.
Books were piled all over the floor,
the desk, the bed, and blocking the door.
Ten pages of notes I held in my hand
but at least nine pages, I didn’t understand.
“Just wait till you see,” my brain said with a sneer,
“How your GPA will diminish this year.”
“Quiet, brain,” said I, “I’m trying to study
and you’re not making it easy here, buddy.”
But my brain didn’t think that plan sounded fun
so it came up with a totally different one.
“Here’s a thought,” said my mind in a tone of persuasion,
“I know what we can do until Christmas vacation!
Let’s watch stuff online, let’s make paper snowflakes,
let’s listen to music for our sanities’ sakes.
Let’s play scrabble and chess for hours on end
and do logic puzzles so we can pretend
that the things we are doing have intellectual value.
Doesn’t that sound like a good thing to do?”
Said I to my brain, “That would be a mistake.
Besides, I’ll have time for that stuff over the break.
But preparing for finals is what matters today.
If you’re not going to help me, then please go away.”
I shouldn’t have said it because my brain did agree
and went to play games all day without me,
while I kept on studying and then I did find
that it’s hard to do finals when I’ve lost my mind.


writing hand(This poem was written approximatly a year ago. I put it on youtube, but youtube isn’t the best medium for stuff without audio, so I’m bringing this poem back as a blog post. Sorry about the flawed meter. I didn’t put much effort into this; I made it up in my head while I was busy doing other stuff.)


A poem about the floor in the writing center

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I’ve spent much time inside this room,

throughout the months of recent years,

in times of gladness, times of gloom,

with cause for mirth and cause for fears.

This floor with squares of var’ous hues

has often been here in my sight

and stayed right here beneath my shoes

while I pace, thinking, late at night.

And as I walk around in rings

following an unchanged course,

would my mind think diff’rent things

if my feet walked diff’rent floors?

Oh goodness! Self, think this no more;

read words in books, forget the floor.

The Plaque By the Stairs: A Poem

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Who is this guy who runs down stairs so fast
he leaves a trail of fire in his wake?
Perhaps the flames destroyed him in the past;
the sign is here now for his mem’ry’s sake.
The story on this sign is not complete.
When I run down the stairs, they don’t ignite.
He must have super powers in his feet
that make them shoot out flames when he takes flight.
Why do they put this sign by ev’ry door
that leads to stairs around here ev’rywhere?
Is it some kind of caution, warning, or
a plaque to tell us of what happened there?
I wish the sign would tell the tale to me.
Instead, it just says this is staircase B.