Late at night, I sit with my book open wide.
My pens lie around as I squint in the dim light.
My fingers numb and cold, they know that they shouldn't stop.
The sets of paints lie untouched and millions of thoughts to sort.
My efficiency hurts my cells who want success at any cost.
My blood dried, eyes crazy bright, the smile never insight.
A thousand questions in two days he said,
I look at my diary with thirty on them, so lost.
Frustrated veins, thinking of my father's collar with stars, I cried.
The material, the brains, the doubts possessed by others trouble me all night.
But here I am trying to write, in pride, my turbulent fears I hide.
The incomplete paintings, like my notes, practice sums, goals and efforts, on top of a superstitious frame of luck.
I will collapse, but only after I succeed, leaving others down in the muck.
I will not forget the sound of my pencil scratching against the paper,
And of course the examiner's grill and still,
I win.
~DIVYANGANA
