You clench your agile fingers into stiff fists, cramped from holding a pen

Reaching deep into yourself,
you search for the energy to start again
there’s a darting sliver, somewhere
Rubbing your stinging eyes, you sigh

This failure that flares in your face
that burns like an acid,
so much that you can’t remember
how many moles of alkali you need to neutralise it with

You remember,
from years of practice since you were seven, or earlier,
That it’s frustration you feel
And you know that frustration must die

You know, you know, you know,


Clouds have gathered in your eyes,
stars raining down your cheeks,
clumsily painted red by shame and his friend, fear

Because now, you don’t know anything

The bustling schoolhouse is empty,
dried, skeletal leaves rattling
as they are tossed mercilessly across the grating parade square ground
by an invisible force

The bustling schoolhouse is empty,
remnants of half formed thoughts
Rattling, rotting, wasting away

Your guilt begins to gain mass
accelerating you toward your certain doom

No time to check if the sources telling you
“you can make it”
are reliable

No time to look for a sign
In hazy, choking

Rubbing your stinging eyes, you sigh

You pick up your pen,
Because to try is to live,
but to fear is to die