They say the paper is light,
but it feels like marble on my chest,
each question a stone carved with my worth,
each number a silent verdict pressed into my skin.
My pencil moves like a shaking breath,
the air thick with invisible eyes,
every answer I write feels like a confession,
as if knowledge means nothing without perfection.
The clock ticks louder than my thoughts,
each second a countdown to failure,
and I wonder when learning became survival,
when curiosity began to wear a collar of fear.
My parents smile with stars in their eyes,
but even light can burn when you reach too close.
They say “just do your best,”
but my best feels like blood on the page.
Grades fall like rain on the window of my heart,
an A feels like sunlight, a B like storm,
and I keep drowning quietly under the surface,
afraid they’ll see the water before I do.
At night I dream of a classroom with no walls,
where knowledge blooms wild and unmarked,
and I can breathe again without counting,
just learning for the love of the light.
Because somewhere behind the ink and fear,
a small voice still whispers through the noise—
you are not your grades,
you are the spark that keeps writing.
October, 2025
