You tell me it isn't your problem

                             But for me this is a problem

                        I cant keep up, moving like this

                   Im sweating in the glare of these hard lights

                Every test makes me a number, a paycheck bonus

                    like another bale of cotton on the scale

                                Night in night out

          like  working in the fields with the tall stocks shooting out of the ground

                         My mom she screams and shouts

                    Yet all you expect is for me to push paper out

                             pick the numbers, letters, and rows

                       Harvest time comes, my grades will show

                I urge you for help I cant understand but all you do is fill my hand

                   with tools to work and no knowledge on how

                          I feel like a slave maybe I should bow

                         The whip lashes now and you tell me go out

                       A pink slip in hand I go back to dead mans land

                          my mom she roars, "what about college now?"

                           I feel like a slave maybe I should bow

                            I am the person everyone depends on

                                 one for the team

                               Is one for the ream                               

                          All I want is a break from the harvest

                              The picking, the judging, the rules

                          All I want is to choose my own  dream

                               But what you dont understand

                  is maybe I dont need someone to hold my hand

                                 maybe all I need is compassion

                                  show me im a person, not a tool,

                                      A way to get money

                            Show me that to you I am somebody