This is a place to learn,

a place to be safe.

This is a place to grow

a place to enjoy.

Ha!

These district members think not;

They know nothing

I must find fault in them.

Twelve years I sit here in this room, never changing, ever boring.

Letters and numbers fly past my head, past the whirlwind

I hence forde ignore.

Life seems to not be fair, it slips through fingers

whilst punishing the scared, the caged,

the fallen angels.

Asked to answer,

Asked to pay fullest attention

as the class drones on,

the teacher revisions her reflection

her gnarling skin such a frightful sight.

Ah!

But the class cares not

we are but bored.

Bored of the same old things,

Bored of texts so bad and texts long gone

to death and to ruin these books should fall.

They begin alright, but quick turns sour

like a lemon unsweetened,

a melon unripe.

As books are my love,

my soul,

we should refrain that we burn these

yet still it would lack sin if we damn them to the pit of hell.

School,

The place of woe,

a place of boredom

seeping into the soul.