Poem I wrote at the beginning of the school year
We all bathe here in the leaking fluid of the school's belly,
unconcerned by the world, because as far as we're concerned,
the only thing that matters are the results for a test.
Art is dying
because we are forced to hinder our creativity.
All we are left with when the seven hours are up
are impressions of our former selves.
Works of art that this world can change and indoctrinate.
Life implodes in the palm of my hand
because nothing is essential
or consequential
when you imprison it in a grade book.
I miss the days
when word and pictures would flow forth
and my mind was free to rest
instead of worrying when the day may come
that I would need to put the lock-down drills into practice.
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