Agonies of a Pen
My master makes me to weep in class
the habitual error he makes causes me tears
with no pay I dig for him many gardens
never once has he harvested from my sweat
He is beaten and abused before me in class
and my back is often broken by the teacher
When he fails to tell me what to write
my head he bites and pulls out my intestines
I am simply a pen in hands of my master,
not his brain, not his parent, not his fingers
I do not know why I am taken to high classes
when the right place is below- down, down
If I had a voice, if I were strong enough
I would refuse to dig in his barren gardens
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