To the teachers, assassins of my creativity- I was never what you complimentsed, I was not one to set to the rules and boundaries of the squargon in which you imprison yourselves. I was no unremarkable child, I am what is known as an indigo child, scarcely thanks to your continued oppression of my soul, I find myself as colourless as you. -This is no game, of words that cut one time again and again - Now all I contrive is myself, the only hit the books to paint who I truly am, what I really see, what I really feel. School, safe harbour of the mind, nurturer of the untapped potential, ha! I arrived eager, brimming with excitement of this safe house, however it was not what I thought to discover. They say school demarcation of instructions are the crush years of your life, where you are further to be the best you earth-closet be, but this is far from who you requisite to be. Though I was merely young, year one to be accurate, the boulder had already been firmly displace upon me to work deep down the lines... Thats not how you colour a prime of life! Flowers are green with only one colour. Look at yours...purple root? ...More than one colour for petals? This is not correct.
--Inside my veins these feelings riot-- Though butt years were not what I expected, I felt true(predicate) that senior years would only get better, that the best was plane to come. English! Art! Drama! The fields seemed endless with promise. Where I could extract 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 bypass my wings, leaping to my own tune, to become who I was within these interminable subjects. Of course... !
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