Straight A(dolescent death)

I am going to die for a number printed on a piece of worthless paper.
Five years from now, that number I shed years to get will be meaningless.
It will be stuffed in a recycling bin somewhere or flickering in flames.
I will have forgotten the lessons learned for that number,
but I will not have forgotten how mindlessly I pursued it,
how much I sacrificed to push it up even 0.01% higher.
And I know all of this now.
And will know all of this in five years.
I understand that I am shaving off what might have been my golden years for a scrap of ink.
I know that my mark on the world might be being erased for me to get my number,
yet I still chase after a higher percentage, foolishly, stupidly, unthinkingly.
As if I were programmed.
As if the desire for a larger sum were my own.
As if it will matter in the future.
As if I could want nothing more out of life.
This thirst, I can understand, can cope with.
Yet I still can’t keep myself from weeping when I hear 85.
I, who won’t shed tears for death.
I, who stands stolidly as the world is being devastated,
I, who draws blood from my own flesh unflinchingly.
I, who would take a knife to my father’s throat.
I, who sheds tears for a number printed on a piece of worthless paper.
I know why I do this too, but as with everything, I can’t stop.
I cry only from frustration, disappointment, anger, desperation,
but to think that I could feel such misery because of a tiny number out of 100.
Yet I do, and I will continue crying because it will never reach 100.
The totals will change, from 2400 to 5 to 1600 to 36.
Time will pass, whole nations will slip away like a breeze across the ocean waves,
and I will still give my years for a number that will never be high enough,
all while knowing that I am going to die for a number printed on a piece of worthless paper.

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