Prison Hall
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I stand in front of the great big iron gate
Bars that separate proud from free
Staring at the dark, shiny fluorescent bulb
Sucking the soul from men and giving back degree
The gate swung open with a chilling sound
Letting me peek at voices chanting free
I stepped softly on the hallowed ground
And witnessed empty eyes in boys like me
I turned sharply in time to hear the bell ring
Like gallops of horses wildly scrambling
I saw them rushing into their cages
A man in bland wear endlessly rambling
I walk to a room to see chairs in rows
With a box kept in front
I watch intently as traffic flows
They go in sharp as nails and leave there blunt
I looked around and all looked the same
They were clad in prison clothes
Empty faces, they had no name
Moving silent like ghastly ghosts.
I saw the boy who dared to dream
I saw the light sparkle in his eyes
But then I saw the pain that dreaming brings
Slowly, slowly, I watch that light die.
But what is this place that crushes hope?
What is the darkness that the bright bulbs show?
What do these traditions connote?
And why doesn't the fluorescent glow?
This is the place where innovation dies
The prison where the bright are groomed
Where rigid rules and dead laws are praised—
It is a place called school.
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