A.

C.

A.

B.

D.

A.

A.

A.

Rows of circles,

Each the same.

C.

Tiny little letters

That tell no stories.

D.

E.

It’s raining.

There’s a gentle pattering,

Then it speeds up,

Then slows down,

Then up,

Then down.

A.

Perhaps there’s a princess,

Out there in the rain.

Maybe she’s cold,

Maybe she’s wet,

Maybe she’s knocking,

Hoping for sanctuary,

And not seeing

That this is a prison.

A prison…

Maybe there’s a prisoner,

In the depths of a dungeon,

Chained,

Beaten,

And starved.

Maybe the rain drips through the cracks.

Maybe he’s trying to drink it.

Maybe he’s been there for years,

And has stopped dreaming

Of freedom.

B.

The rain is slowing.

Maybe there’s a rainbow.

Maybe the world is being reborn,

Outside of these walls.

Maybe a flower is blooming.

Maybe the sidewalk is covered in worms.

Maybe there’s a child,

Jumping in a puddle.

B.

I want to jump in a puddle.

How quiet it gets,

With only the sound of paper.

If only I were in a long forgotten archive,

Where the paper smelled of dreams,

And the letters told stories.

E.

C.

C.

A.

Rows of circles,

All the same.

Rows of letters,

Never changing.

Rows of students.

I refuse to be a copy.

Are we not unique?

Must we all conform to an unknown ideal?

A.

C.

D.

B.

D.

C.

B.

C.

A.

Pencils scratch,

Onto meaningless pages.

Maybe I could stand up.

Maybe I could leave.

No…

No.

Best leave it be.

If it mattered,

Someone would have changed it by now.