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.