I remember, in year seven, saying to my friends,

"You know, one day we'll be in year twelve, and we'll all be like 'we're in year twelve and this is our last year of school!'"

And here we are.
And it's been said.
Countless numbers of times.

My 13 years of schooling is finally coming to its end.
And I am not happy,
or sad,
or excited,
or scared.

Nothing feels weird or different.
It
all
feels
the
same.

I wrote this for my English exam.
Oh how I love creative writing for exams.
Although it's missing most of its rhythmical metre...
It was something to do with context studies, and we had to do it on future worlds.



I don't know what my future holds for me.
Though I prefer to hope it's something fine.
I wonder, some days, just what I will be.
I wonder also what things will be mine.

The stories tell us that it's to be feared;
That hope will dissolve right before our eyes.
In all those stories, as the future neared,
Despair seemed to falling from the skies.

I pray my future holds me oh so tight,
And keeps me safe from things with evil face.
I plead with my future to get things right:
"Set a simple course, with a pleasant pace!"

Embrace the days that we have up ahead,
Would you rather repeat the past instead?