To the teachers, assassins of my creativity- I was never what you hopeed, I was not one to line up to the rules and boundaries of the square in which you imprison yourselves. I was no frequent child, I am what is known as an indigo child, only when thanks to your continued oppression of my soul, I find myself as colourless as you.
-This is no game, of words that cut once more and again -
Now all I have is myself, the only weather sheet to paint who I truly am, what I really see, what I really feel.
School, safe harbour of the mind, nurturer of the untapped potential, ha! I arrived eager, brimming with excitement of this safe house, but it was not what I thought to discover. They say school course of studys are the take up years of your life, where you are encouraged to be the best you force out be, but this is far from who you want to be.
Though I was merely young, year one to be accurate, the boulder had already been firmly located upon me to work within the lines...
Thats not how you colour a tiptop! Flowers are green with only one colour. Look at yours...purple stem? ...More than one colour for petals? This is not correct.
--Inside my veins these feelings riot--
Though prime years were not what I expected, I felt real that senior years would only get better, that the best was up to now to come.
English! Art! Drama! The fields seemed endless with promise. Where I could distill what lay within me, what I had lain repressed for so long. I thought that this was the opened window, the place where I could spread my wings, move to my own tune, to become who I was within these boundless subjects.
Of course...
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