Cold hard seats. 

I tug at my sweater a little more.

The A.C. kicks on

And I feel like meat

Hanging in a locker.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The girl in front

Of me taps her pencil

Against the desk. 

Attention is 

Absent like the

Empty seat in

Front of me.

One boy snores

As he dreams of summer.

"Turn to page forty."

Pages upon pages

Begin to flip

Making me think of bird wings.

Wings that can fly.

Fly anywhere.

Teachers ask us for

creativity

yet they steal it from us 

in our youth. 

"Regurgitate what I 

taught you last week

on this paper."

Did I really learn or memorize?

The bird flies somewhere

New everyday. 

Everyday I sit 

In the same place.

There are no windows 

Here in my cold cell. 

Anticipating a bell.

Something.

Anything 

To get us out 

Of these

Cold

Hard

Seats.