Yesterday I went to school.
I solved for x and never found why.
I threw away my dreams so I could find it’s projectile motion. I met a spineless textbook with a covered face.
We had lunch together.
My hands are still blistered from the crackling heat of the whiteboard.
Today I’m going to school.
I’m going to swallow seven different classes. They’re all going to taste the same.
I’ll have teachers shovel facts down my throat. So I can vomit them up onto the exam.
I remember running to class, just to sweat away my creativity.
This week, I’ll spend five days out of seven calculating stacks of binders, wonder- ing why they’re adding up greater than my sleepless hours.
I want to swim in the world’s amazements.
Not drown in books, teaching me first hand about enslavement. I’m starting to think I’m Atlas,
I’m tired of holding up my backpack.
School hates me.
She disdains my selfish need of expression.
She does not extend her caring warmth around my back. She does not come to my aid when I fall.
She traps me here. Segregates me to a time out. How can I be this weak?
How can I be bullied so easily?
She makes my pride roar in outrage.
Isolated here, I’m reduced to a temper tantrum. Shouting, I scrape and scrap for who I am.
This is why I stutter like thunder, because I refuse to be put under. I refuse to succumb to my persuading, pitying father.
I open my backpack, reach into the dark abyss and yank out my resourcefulness.
I’m finally educated.
She has mothered out the best of me.
Who am I to disagree?