Woodcrest Night Howl
I.
Woodcrest halls,
red-brick towers in the misty New England night,
echoing with laughter, moans, and late-night whispers,
I walk through autumn leaves,
promiscuous dreams wrapped in my hoodie,
chasing the moon,
chasing the girls with loose smiles and tighter jeans.
My soul dances with them,
brief touches in crowded rooms,
we light up the air with our want,
we drink to forget, to remember,
to feel.
II.
Beer-stained frat house couches,
the smell of weed mixing with sweat,
I’m high on life and smoke,
high on the chase of freedom,
chugging from the keg like it’s holy water.
The game’s on—football, basketball—
it doesn’t matter, we’re winning,
or losing, who cares?
We cheer, loud, like we’re invincible,
but inside, deep, we know we’re still finding the playbook to ourselves.
III.
Days are for textbooks,
eyes bloodshot but focused,
because you gotta balance the party with the grind.
Deadlines creep like the sunrise,
but I’m ready, sharp, fingers tapping away at essays,
professors throwing words at me,
I swallow them, digesting the knowledge like shots on a Saturday night.
I study, hard, deep into the night,
philosophy swirling with the smoke in my room,
thinking about the meaning of it all—
do I know myself yet?
IV.
Woodcrest, a jungle of books and bodies,
where we stumble through the wild nights and long days,
finding pieces of who we are,
between the kisses and the haze,
between the winning streaks and term papers,
between the joints we roll and the life we unravel.
This is my beat,
the rhythm of youth, the pulse of discovery,
and I howl with it,
wild and free,
until I become it.
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