Prerogative of An Oppressed Freshman

each stroke of greased fingers on the mohawk was a result of a genius work of art an outlet where my soul barely peeks yet you cut with your hypocritical shears and your rusty hand and you call it discipline and you call it concern I call it bullshit the shadows on my eyelids were davincis and picassos sketched in a magnificent representation of inner self which you all want to see yet suffocate by your rotten curricula and you call it quality and you call it excellence I call it bullshit the silver that glitters in these ears conceals the tortures of my youth the horrors that dwell in my every sleep yet you rip from my skin you are unworthy of touch and you call it decency and you call it suitability I call it bullshit An Entrant into SKAT ACE's POEMS OF ATTITUDE Contest