stu. dying.

When you see me what can you see? Can you see past the straight A's or the hardcore violining? Does the stink of rice curb your might to be nice? Do you assume that all I do is study hard and lose at fights? Sometimes the violence isn't on the streets but rather, when you're under house arrest -- a criminal -- for not playing that Rach passage correctly When your parents shun you for getting that B and when bragging rights is all they seem to need What they see isn't you, but that dream of success they always wanted to come true So who feels bad for you when you're staring down at the textbook pages crumpling up, feeling your life being wasted When your entire career is determined by a number and the .0000001 difference between rank 1 and 2 means life or murder by your own hand, hanged by that mis-bubbled answer You're feeling weakened, sickened by night after all-nighter There's lack of sleep and the time when when equations and algorithms become your lovers; you can calculate the accerated rate of your miserable heartbeat under the covers. The fight isn't just blood and guts, but the death of an identity, loss of your own entity, when the creature of individuality becomes nothing more than a slave to conformity.