As I embark upon this road,
one paved with the failure of the weak,
the fear of the timid,
the hubris of the gifted,
I cannot help but ring my ever-doubtful mind
around the lump bobbing in my throat
like a bouey in a violent storm.
But this be not the storm,
merely the calm before it.
The taunting gremlin, urging me
to hobble down the cobblestone mile
that will, in a type-A sense, make or break me.
But I cannot let it define me.
My life cannot be amassed
by the signing of my name
in my #2 blood,
dripping red with my standardized non-conformity.
These word writ, may contradict.
Bubble C in iron-rich red ink,
if life is worth the sum
of three tedious hours, and fourty-five biting minutes.
I shall not.
For this, does not define me.
It proves the strength and tenacity
within my dome,
but not my soul.
My soul has a much more vital road to hobble.
May this, be but the fork in my future…
and may I part to the side
and of prosperity.
And if my efforts be for naught,
there will be no shame about my name.
For at the end of the day,
my name means my soul.
What else have I to sign in blood
at the top of my test?
Words from my ever-changing, overflowing mind on the night before the SAT. That sounds uber lame.