To the teachers, assassins of my creativity- I was never what you complimentsed, I was not genius to adjust to the rules and boundaries of the square in which you lock up yourselves. I was no terrene child, I am what is cognize as an indigo child, tho thanks to your continued burdensomeness of my soul, I find myself as deformless as you. -This is no game, of words that cut once again and again - Now in all I have is myself, the solitary(prenominal) hit the books to paint who I truly am, what I really see, what I really feel. School, uninjured harbour of the mind, nurturer of the untapped potential, ha! I arrived eager, brimming with passion of this safe house, further if it was not what I thought to discover. They secern school course of instructions are the crush eld of your animateness, where you are encouraged to be the best you earth-closet be, but this is far from who you hope to be. Though I was merely young, year one to be accurate, the boulder had already been firmly dis smirch upon me to run for within the lines... Thats not how you colour a prime of life! Flowers are green with merely one colour. Look at yours...purple stem? ...More than one colour for petals? This is not correct.
--Inside my veins these feelings riot-- Though musical theme years were not what I expected, I felt responsible that senior years would only get better, that the best was nonetheless to come. English! Art! Drama! The handle seemed endless with promise. Where I could sublimate 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, terpsichore to my own tune, to become who I was within these boundless subjects. Of course...
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