The Fake Judge.

I wake.

I cry.

4 A's, but a blemish.

The single smudge on my reigning crown.

The shade on my everbright domain.

The hungry caterpillar to my blooming garden. 

The ominous C. 

An unnecessary villain, whose presence is strongly exaggerated, but was the bane of my existence.

In such a consistently crunching competition of being deemed acceptable by some higher "educational" force, that blemish could end me.

it could turn to stone the validity of my efforts, and the valor of my spirit.

The power that such a single letter can hold upon the lives of generation after generation is unspeakable. 

Your failure translates to your grandchild's failure all the way to the family pet's failure.

If poor fido is so dependant on such an unsignificantly significant result, then who am I to question its authority?

Who can flip the script on such an uncontrollable force?

Who can deem the true potential of the masses? Their heart? Their determination? 

The questions that ponder at me cease as i fall home.

I stop crying.

I sleep.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

jtdomehead

This is about the imporance of grades and their fake ability to judge talent.

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