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.