My Backpack

There are days when my backpack is so heavy I can 

barely walk down the hall,

Barely ascend a staircase,

Without feeling weak.

When the weight on my shoulders feels as if it might just crush me,

As if I might crumble to the floor 

Like a building hit with a wrecking ball.

There are days

When the weight of the knowledge 

In my heavy books

Makes me feel dense,

My brain,

A rich dessert,

A tray of brownies 

made with one egg.

When I feel weighty because 

I have inhaled information,

Binged on biology for breakfast,

Lapped up my lit homework for lunch,

And consumed my AP Calculus textbook 

For a late night snack.

Despite these days, 

There are also days,

Though few and far between, 

That my backpack 

Is a helium balloon

That carries me through the hallways,

Buoyant and light.

It aligns 

my formerly slouched shoulders

And curved spine.

The knowledge acquired 

From the countless sleepless nights 

Of studying,

Guides me to class even when my backpack is empty,

Because the days where I lack homework 

Are the ones where 

I hunger to learn the most.