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The Perfect Question

 It’s so condescending, overbearing, endless even to be here

Their laughter is sandpaper, scratching my cranium, crawling through my ears and into my mind

They’re done. 

They’re all done because what takes me hours—weeks—takes them 20 minutes.

And it’s my fault, my flaw in answering the perfect question.

Oh you know the one, that paper that has to be right

The assignment that’s a pain to start, a burden to touch because of the expectations attached to it, 

Passions plastered across the perfunctory page, useless as it’s late

It’s my error to answer the perfect question, to attempt to understand.

Obviously school work shouldn’t mean anything, as a student I shouldn’t care and write random crap I don’t care about to meet deadlines and pass.

But it's so hard when you care, when you care too much to ruin it, when you care too much to start.

When every word holds power

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