When a classroom closeto silent,

 Is soon filled with grunts and moans of disgust,

One knows that the dreaded test is close on its way.

Nearby, four rows, desks and chairs, are filled to the brim

With chatty students,

 Brushing up on notes, bragging about wins in a soccer tournament,

 Not thinking about the test, or of the future.

 New fangled white boards, replacing original chalk,

smell ridiculously of whiteboard marker,

 While ancient geometry books containing a smell all their own,

lie battered against the wall,

Which I am afraid, maybreak my concentration.       

Soon, a poke on the back means a # 2 pencil is needed,

As one would need water, as if it is her lifeline.

I am unaware it is my only, and give it off in good merit.

My mind wanders to a daydream, but not of the test material

In the front, a frizzy haired teacher soon abruptly brakes it

Final words of advice
And it begins.

The test, a beast with 99/50 heads and an appetite for π, starts its attack.

My mind freezes, a blank.

Multiple choice bubbles blur.

Someone had told me once, procrastination bites you in the face when you’re not watching your back.

I suffer consequenses
as the monster who usually thrives on π,

 eats me up instead.

I didn’t study,

And I am without pencil.

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