First bell rings, the shuffle begins—
sunburnt stories dragged from skin.
“Write what you did,” the prompt repeats,
while I juggle rosters, forms, receipts.
They groan, they stall, they stare at air,
I sip cold coffee, feign repair.
This rite of passage, tired and true,
a paper bridge from June to school.
Pencils tap, a groan or two,
blank pages stare like skies unblue.
Some scribble tales of poolside bliss,
of yachts, of fame, of movie scripts—
a flex, a boast, a gilded lie,
too polished for a child to try.
Others barely scratch the page,
a sentence gasped, a silent cage.
Then one—misspelled, a tangled thread,
but something in it softly bled.
A whisper lost in syntax storm,
a cry disguised in fractured form.
A paper torn, the margins frayed,
each crooked line a truth conveyed.
No yacht, no beach, no firework show—
just hunger etched in undertow.
My breath halts, the room goes still,
the clamor fades, replaced by will.
This child—this voice—this silent scream,
not fiction, not a summer dream.
I read again, then once again,
each misspelled word a thread of pain.
No time for tears, no space for fear,
the path is clear, the need is near.
How do I reach, not scare away?
How do I help, not go astray?
This is the test, the sacred fight—
to see, to act, to get it right.
