Poem #3862
The Pencil's Trembling Hand
A test sits on the desk, / A paper mountain, tall and grand. / My pencil is a tiny, trembling hand. // I stare at question one, / It stares right back, a stubborn foe. / My brain has packed its bags and decided to go. // I try to think of dates, / Of formulas and ancient kings. / My mind just hums a song and flaps its tiny wings. // I scribble down a guess, / A hopeful, wild, and random shot. / The answer's probably not 'a polka-dotted pot.' // The clock ticks loud and slow, / Each second is a heavy stone. / I'd trade this test for just a simple, quiet phone. // I draw a little face / Beside the multiple-choice 'C.' / It winks and says, 'Just pick me, set us both free!' // The teacher walks the rows, / I slump down low, a stealthy spy. / I wish that I could simply spread some wings and fly. // I hand the test in, done, / A mix of knowledge and of jest. / At least I gave my very, very, very best.
Prompt: test
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