Pressure for perfection

So much pressure,
So much to be done,
It's a race of perfection,
There is never enough time.

Your memory blank's and tears start to flow,
Waiting for that word to come to mind,
You doodle idly in the corner of your page,
That's beginning to yellow with age.

Another night, another day,
You sit there staring at a textbook,
Getting papercuts from turning each page,
You may be reading it; but you can't take it in.