I walk home with my books in my bag,
Down the long road that I am sick of
looking at.
I think to myself,
This will be one of the last times I walk
this road.
I keep going,
Pressing my feet into the pavement as hard as I
can,
I stomp away the days I wasted in this place.
I try to think of the
day when I’ll be free of it,
Try to imagine what those steps would feel
like,
The steps leading to that all powerful rolled piece of paper.
I kick
little rocks into the future ahead of me,
I keep going,
My step lightens
as I wonder of the future,
Will those steps lead to more years of hated roads
and books and bags,
Or will those steps lead to my dream.

i like this poem because i feel the same as the writer of the poem who just wants to get out and off of the path that they keep walking daily.

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