The End

Simply,

don't understand.

No, they...

don't think I have plan?

Yes, they treat me...

like a child.

So, I'm spicy—

they're all mild.

What, a blog?

To them...

that's wild.

Poems...fill their mouths...

with bile.

Poison posts?

No, they're just rivals.

Not to me...

no,

to survival.

Tryna push back...

my arrival.

I've arrived—

there's no denial.

When every post...

becomes a trial.

When no one answers...

On speed dial.

96k hits?

Astounding.

Never dreamed...

I'd do a damned thing.

Now, I'm so close.

I've stopped counting.

Stop the Facebook spam—

I'm ranting...

They don't get me—

they don't try to.

Just another strange, opaque...

Jew.

Doesn't matter—

Soon, we'll leave school.

It won't matter—

If I look cool.

See,

There's more to life than looks.

Just ask Zoolander—

Read books.

Read books good,

Bad...

Ugly, too.

To learn...

A thing,

Or perhaps two.

To see...

A different point—

Of view.

Step into...

Someone else—

Their shoes.

Sometimes, they win.

Sometimes, I lose.

This time—

This, it comes as news.

Few months, now,

I've just hit snooze.

Actions—

I’ve still got to choose.

Circumstance—

A path, a move.

Usually it heals—

A bruise.

This one’s festering—

A wound.

The end is nigh—

The winter’s come.

Jon Snow’s not here—

Manning the wall.

I love to talk—

it’s my downfall.

But, writing—

That’s my song…my call.

To SPO,

I owe it all.

To Marky Mark,

I owe the blog.

To Mike,

My thanks, for those guest posts.

By the end, all mine stunk—

Burnt toast.

Alexi,

Thanks for being real.

For being roommates,

That’s the deal.

Last of all,

I owe a thanks.

A thanks that they think has no place.

Thank you…yes, you—

Yes, you again.

The one…I published—

No consent.

That act alone,

I must relent,

was grounds to…

never speak again?

That’s what they’d say.

But you’re different—

Yes, you’re okay.

Not scared to speak up,

You won’t shy away.

You know you have feelings.

You know what they say.

Do your best to listen—

they won’t go away.

Now,

At last,

comes a moment.

One we’ve all been awaiting.

One whose imminent nature…

Is hardly worth debating.

SPO was made for students,

And soon I’ll be one no more.

So, it’s time for one last swing.

Throw a left hook—rock their core.

I’ve said my piece—settled the score.

The consensus has spoken.

They don’t want anymore.

Now, I retire—

Retire from this.

Move on to do better—

Write poems.

Find bliss.

But, don’t think for a second, that you all won’t be missed.

I owe everything to you.

My outlet—

Your gift.

Lesson 1

A guest poem by: Alexi M.

Poetry is his vent,

That’s where all his time’s spent,

Not in the libs, just at the crib, postin’ posts like a tent.

I’ve told the kid to get working,

Because the college time is for learning,

But he’s jottin’ down on a notebook, for a rap hook we’re not yearning.

For what is rap without flow,

You buy those lyrics for the low?

Or a beat maker without a shaker, bro you ain’t no DJ Esco.

So read this and take note,

This is the first lesson on flow.

I’m sorry to say it but the truth hurts,

You either got it bro or you don’t.

So write a blog post about your life, not a fake image and stop flexin’.
Cause I swear to god if you rap again, I’ll drop another one of these lessons.

Guest Post: Summer Nothin'

A guest post by: Sophie Bailowitz

“You mean you’re not doing…anything? ...all summer?” This news has left a lot of people incredulous, so I’ll spell it out clearly: No, I’m not doing anything. All summer.

Except that I am. True, I’m not getting paid to stock shelves or scoop ice cream or sit in a lifeguard chair supervising pool-goers. I’m not traveling to exotic tropical beaches or exploring quaint European cities, and I’m not leading herds of giggling campers from arts and crafts to soccer.

I don’t mean to imply that there’s anything wrong with a summer of tourism, lifeguarding or working as a counselor. All of these options are perfectly valid ways to spend 3 months.

There’s no doubt that I’d enjoy afternoons lounging by the waves on a picturesque island or the extra cash that my working friends will have tucked into their wallets at the start of school. It’s just that, if there’s anytime for me to take a stretch of 12 weeks and declare it a leisurely, honest-to-good break spent at home, it’s now. As long as I can remember, summer has been about the little things— flip flop tans, chocolate snowballs topped with marshmallow at Tropicool, watching the Orioles play in the blazing heat. It’s been a time for spontaneous amusement park trips with friends and unhurried backyard barbeques with family, a time when my biggest concern is finding the best sunscreen for my skin—skin that’s guaranteed to burn no matter how many times I reapply anyway.

But, before I know it, this happy-go-lucky mentality will be punctured with pressures like finding that perfect internship or research project to be the cherry on top of a meticulous resume. That’s great too, in its own way; I’m looking forward to finding the internship that inspires me or the quintessential college student summer job as much as the next person. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t want to take advantage of the last time that I can unapologetically sleep until 11:30 or spend the whole day binge watching Criminal Minds, no questions asked.

What’s more (and more important to me), is that these are the last 12 weeks I’ll definitively be able to call the 410 area code home. Sure, Pikesville will always be home on some level. It holds too many memories and pieces of me for me not to identity with it in that way. But the future is murky—it’s unclear whether I’ll ever return to the state of Maryland for more than just a visit after college ends, let alone the very suburb where I learned to walk, and drive, and everything in between. There are countless things to do before my address changes to somewhere in Madison, Wisconsin—friends to reminisce with, favorite restaurants to visit, baseball games to watch, snowballs to eat. 12 weeks with no specific plans may seem like a long time, but the truth is, it’s not nearly enough.