The room is silent,
yet my mind hums like a swarm of unseen bees,
each thought stinging in the dark.
The books lie open like wounded birds,
their pages fluttering with words I can’t make land.
The clock ticks louder than my heartbeat,
each second a drop of doubt echoing in my ribs.
I try to breathe,
but the air feels too aware of me,
too heavy with questions I have not yet answered.
The paper I will face tomorrow waits somewhere,
cold and pale as the moon,
and I can already feel its gaze,
it doesn’t see effort,
it only sees outcome.
My fingers trace formulas and phrases like prayer beads,
hoping repetition will become salvation.
But knowledge slips through me like water through trembling hands,
and my faith in myself dissolves into sleeplessness.
The shadows whisper,
“What if you forget? What if you fail?”
and those words taste like iron,
bitter and metallic,
as if my mind has turned into a battlefield I can’t flee.
Outside, the night stretches wide and endless,
a dark ocean of possibility and fear.
The stars seem so calm,
as if they have never been tested,
as if they have never had to prove their light.
My chest tightens with invisible hands,
and I wonder if this is what growing up means,
to fight wars no one sees,
to smile while drowning quietly in your own expectations.
But somewhere, beneath the weight of it all,
a small voice whispers, not loud but true,
that nervousness is not weakness,
it is proof that I care enough to shake,
that I am alive enough to fear falling,
and brave enough to try anyway.
So I close my books,
let the silence cradle what’s left of me,
and trust that tomorrow,
when the sun rises over my trembling hands,
I will not need to be fearless,
only faithful to the effort I have made.
November, 2025
