The teacher assigns a page of writing,
to breath the words
so that it shall be the truth
to bleed ink onto a page
and write down the story of our soul.

Thoughts awake like angry wasps.
My mind becomes a mess, much like my disaster of a life.
I can’t focus shoving my way
through a sea of rammy teens eager to escape from their academic prison.

I toss my bag across the creaky floorboards,
settling down for another night which will leave me brain dead.
Hours later, I’m beaten and bloody, but a bright grin crawls across my face.

I’m exhausted - the familiar pen against my fingers fills with life.
The first line bleeds from my heart and curls onto the lines.

They’re always telling me I’m amazing, so much to live up to.
Life’s always a balancing act, just waiting to slip up.
Proud eyes, burning holes in my confidence.
Every success just emphasizing the next failure.
I never stop running and I’m gasping to breath with a stitch in my side.

The greatness they all see, expect, cracks daily.
Nights like this, life’s just a waiting game until I crumble under pressure.

This is my page.