ISU was a wondrous trip,

And it started before the sun rose,

With me rushing here and there in panic, 

And with ice-cold wind numbing my nose. 

Then came the bus-ride, 

A frantic, exciting set of affairs,

Of people panicking to find their bus,

or trying to get up it's stairs,

Finding a seat, 

Looking around, 

Seeing friends,

Music's sweet sound,

On we went,

Tired, nervous, excitement,

The sun rose slowly,

And we made our descent. 

We arrived and entered, 

Looked around with anxious eyes,

Found our place and readied ourselves,

Then started a day that was too long to summarize,

Exhausted but happy,

We ate our lunch,

Practiced and played,

Then went back in in a bunch,

Finally we settled down to relax, 

The pace easing up for a breather to catch,

We changed and prepared, learned what little was left,

Then sat and waited for our turn at this match,

Each choir was gorgeous, 

Each group somehow bettered,

And when we went up, 

Our voices somehow were unfettered

And still we went back,

For one last turn in the light,

With each other choir up at once, 

But together without slight 

And in the end something beautiful,

A magic hard to describe,

Born from the voices,

Of a five-hundred-strong tribe,

For no matter the difference our schools have all had,

No matter the rivals each class has then made,

We stood up together and brought life to a dream,

And to one stand-up guy, deep respect we all paid,

So then off to the buses We all did troop, 

For one last ride each in our button-up suit,

To a pizza place, 

For a job well-done,

Where we feasted and drank,

And felt glad we had come,

And at last for an hour, 

In the black moonless night,

We drove on the highway,

Home at last from the 'fight',

With a victory in hand,

Built from our own work and and patience,

We all finally arrived, 

And looked like comatose patients,

As we stumbled to our cars, 

And all finally went home,

We went and slept deeply, 

Slowly returning from 'the zone'.

So what was the point of this jumble of words?

Did it help to convey how I felt- no, that's absurd. 

All that a poem can do in the end,

Is remind you what you felt on that day- start to end.

So what can you remember,

What becomes clear,

When you look back and see,

What I think was so dear?

Was it to you a good place to be?

Or was it a nightmarish, cold tired plea?

A plea to escape and to go home and rest...

I hope not, because what you'd have missed was the best. 

So look at the good parts, 

The bad, the whole slew,

Because no matter the outcome,

These events helped make you.