I can't breathe.
I'm drowning, the knowledge they expect me to absorb like a sponge surrounds me.
But to be drowned would be too sweet an end.
When stuck at sea, one can paddle to the top.
No, I've been buried.
Everytime I wipe a "can't" from my eyes, they shovel on thrice what I've dispelled.
So why do I continue to push the dirt aside?
Because I invision that one day, perhaps with shaking arms and perspiration, I will pull myself from this hole.
Perhaps someone will wipe the dirt from my eyes and tell me I made it.
I need to show everyone that held their cursed spades over my head that they were wrong.
I can. I will. And, as they will soon hear, I have.
So I ask but one thing:
Bury me slowly.