I sit here, alone, in the middle of a storm,
Their laughter echoes, but I’m caught, torn.
Notes in hand, lines neat and true,
A map of hard work, painted just for you.
“Can I borrow them?” they ask with ease,
A smile for me, but they don’t see the freeze.
The weight I carry, the silence I keep,
How I long for a moment, just mine, to seep.
I hand them the pages, a silent sigh,
But inside, I’m wondering why they pass by.
When I speak of books, where do they go?
Do they see me, really see me? I’ll never know.
I’m more than the grades, more than the lines,
More than the answers they seek in confines.
I wish they’d care, beyond what they take,
But for now, it’s just the smile I fake.
