I had a **** childhood
But at least the music was good

The table that remains a mere desk on usual days
Is now a study for me.
The hours that seem persistent to tick when bored,
Now seem to race me.

Books all around me, pen marks stain my hands that either remain clenched
In a hammering motion while memorising or
Tracing lines, page by page.
Yes, taking snaps of breaks while drawing an absurd portrait of a dog.
Creativity, I won't suppress you if you chose a better hour.

Warm tears swell up in my eye.
In the debate of no drive and greed for success.
"Scores don't matter!", "Studies are important" comments flying cross the room.
But not louder than the bedlam behind these eyes that droop.

Why don't I accept the turn out when I know I hadn't worked hard.
This greed that never stirs at the last piece of apple-crumble-with-cinnamon-hint,
Now panting like a flesh-hungry varmint.
"Success does not equal A+ on the report!"
Replying through the heavy breaths, "Right, however its only those A+'s that run the world."

Although I'm aware an ideas' value is the heaviest.
Beating the high scoring mass, looking over it in disdain.
I knock my head to spring some out.
...Nothing
Back to the table, stooping over the book aiming for the higher grade.