The whatever it was called ballroom

Chinese test of DOOM!
and I'm finding pleasure in smelling like smoke, shaman prom, and having friends on a
cell phone,
why can't I cope with the fact that I'll never be
president? Why can't I "deal?"
Why can't I cope that I can't
write a poem every day
and that I enjoyed spending time with Yuanxin
at that talk at the St. Paul Student Center,
with the Martin Luther King Chinese guy
and that one girl who talked to me,
on a pretty Spring, lukewarm, white-sky day
when we had to move the tables
in the whatever it was called ballroom,
and that I have to go to bed.
Should I have ended that with a question mark
because life ends with question marks
only I don't know any Marks,
I only have questions.