Chill Deathcore Beats to Study to

I once thought I that I had it

all figured out,

drunk with hubris, like that rabbit

going on about,

"I've got this in the bag,"

and,

"I'm the fastest one there is."

But any kid who's a whiz

comes to learn

that hers or his

was merely a dose

of exogenous brilliance —

quick,

enough to ace the pop-quiz,

but by the time that

that thick,

standardized

comprehensive test

slaps its hog on the desk,

the high is long-faded,

the comedown slow and hard.

Each question pumps the brakes,

a squeaking, grinding, agonizing ritard

of cognition and sense.

The final score,

a summation of your

academic recompense:

F is for "fucked,"

which you most thoroughly are.

Maybe next time,

once your bleary brain

has healed around the scar.

Get thee gone,

and study,

scrape the grime from those

muddy

details.

You got the gist,

but missed a list

of finer points

much too long to read amidst

these lines.

Sent away this time,

tossed upon the tumultuous

cerebral sea,

you're tumbling,

mumbling something about

fate

as your mind cracks

against the boundaries

of its calcified shipping crate.

Flipping great,

fantastic,

mental gymnastics,

just what the doctor ordered.

Cartwheel, handspring,

backbend, leap,

whatever it takes,

get beyond your borders.