by Bryce
(Houston)
Here I sit in a prison,
boxed in with the rest of them,
slowly losing my imagination.
Now I'm just a number,
no time left to slumber,
I feel like going under.
Living against my will,
it seems like an endless hill,
losing a grasp on what's real.
Longing to break free,
why do they want me to be,
something that isn't me.
Repeating mindless tasks,
I hope this doesn't last,
I really wish it would pass.
Boxed in by four walls,
wandering the same old halls,
if only they would fall.
Following the orders of those who rule,
turning into an uncreative fool,
they call it school.
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