No Longer The Same

It's now the third week of school, and things are getting more stressful. I missed a few assignments that was due this Monday on Psychology portal website. And the Biology quiz yesterday got me shivered, but at least I've studied and answered a few questions right. During Creative Writing (Intro to writing poetry) class a few hours ago, my poem was selected to give comments/feedback. I received some useful advice, and critical comments as well, which somehow leave my heart bleed. One or two positive comments were presented to me, and I don't know whether I can try harder to improve. And when the writer (myself) was called, I stammer. Like usual. I tried to explain what the poem I wrote was about and the urge to proofread more so that I prevent from seeing typos. I was told to put in more specific details instead of just abstraction (of course). I didn't receive praise or comfort from the whole class. Just honest, yet hurtful comments. Every time in that class, I listen attentively to the comments given by the other students. And believe me, the other writers are really good, like literally. They're like professionals! Compare to myself, I'm just a low dwarf. Is taking this course a mistake? I even don't know where I'm heading to next.

Memory Poem

Title: Secondary School Days

My fingers ran on the pages

of one of my high school yearbooks.

A couple of droplets trickled from my left eye,

my mind was whizzing with illusions

of memories I had back then.

A flashback of the school filmed in my head.

The classrooms and laboratories

where I was drawn to a wide galaxy of learning,

grasping the values of discipline and responsibility,

and earning the power of hard work.

The field and courts,

where I gained skills in playing sports,

and cheered for my respective team in matches.

The hall,

where I was indulged in the same announcements

every single Monday,

bored and restless till my head yelled, “Get me out of here!”

I still can recall

the stern principal

who carries a bamboo cane everywhere he went,

barking at mischevious boys who liked to break the rules.

I remember,

the wonderful teachers

who burdened to help me to reach the goal,

as well as treated me as a second child.

I rewind

the unforgettable times I had with my dear friends,

each and every moment of fun and laughter,

and the emboldening smiles which healed my cold heart.

Those secondary school days

I will never forget.

As I took one last glance at my senior year class photograph

and the autographs of my friends

at the back of the yearbook,

the memories back home

will always remained in my heart

forever.

If I keep getting negative feedbacks, my dream as a writer is over.