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.