In high school,
they do not teach you
the important things.
You walk across the stage
and are handed a piece of paper
proving that you can survive
four years in hell;
someone makes a speech
telling you how great
and big
and new
the world is,
regurgitating well-rehearsed lies
that not even
they believe.

But they do not warn you
of the lonely nights ahead
in your new apartment
that is much too big for you
and does not feel like home,
or of the heartbreak endured
as your love walks out your door
for the very last time.
No one tells you
how quickly bills will pile up,
or how it is now up to you
to pull yourself out of bed
every morning
and pretend you are alive.

I can recite the Cell Theory in my sleep.
I dream of math equations that I will never need.
I can recite Walt Whitman like his words were once mine,
but I must’ve skipped over the chapter in my textbook
that tells me how to be alive.

Teach Me Something Useful // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet (via heartofthebitter-mindofapoet)