Dear Mum, BTEC

I know you don't get it

the pleasure I feel

when I push down the pedal

the turn of the wheel

 

the buzz of the sander

the whirl of the drill

I breathe in the wood

my heart starts to fill

 

No words. No numbers.

No wasps in my brain

just the weight of the hammer

the bulb of the plane.

 

my hands move

and things happen

I make grooves

and sing patterns

into pieces of trees

into plastic

and metal

feel the dust of the day

in my head start to settle

 

Sand. Repeat. Sand. Repeat

Touch. Feel. Smooth. Complete.

 

It's a language that I speak

one that's disappearing

in the forest of the school

my favourite lesson is a clearing

 

Eveything else feels like shoes

that don't fit.

I can't stare at a computer

I can't scribble while I sit

 

I have to be in it.

Touch it. Feel it

scratch my skin. Test my grip.

Show myself what real is.

 

Exams don't suit me.

I don't suit exams.

I understand the system

But, I'm drawing other plans.

 

So don't worry when I tell you

that Uni's not the path I see

I'll build a future for myself, Mum,

and you'll be proud of me.