Who are we to say that there are problems?

They suggest we are Proles sedated with lab reports,

infants oppressed by stress.

But our stress isn’t just at the world,

it goes beyond that.

Beyond that of roiling governments and a dying planet.

We are told to worship the MLA with in-text citations as our prayers,

extol the College Board like a saviour propelling us to college and beyond.

But it’s not bad, and we’re not sad.

It’s all in our heads.

Carried along by hormones and

grades, college and friends--

we sway.  Awash in the surf,

anchored to the pain.

But we are constantly reminded that we don’t know pain,

that we are just students,

that this isn’t the real world,

that real problems are So Much Worse,

that this is the “best time of our lives.”

all the while pretending that these words aren't sharp.

Well, they certainly aren't dull.

Searing shards below clothing

circles of synapses adrift, misfiring.

When she can't be seen and

cannot be heard,

a tree falls alone in a silent forest,

still silent.

If only someone had heard.