To the teachers, assassins of my creativity- I was never what you complimentsed, I was non maven to set to the rules and boundaries of the square in which you dispose yourselves. I was no quotidian child, I am what is know as an indigo child, entirely thanks to your continued onerousness of my soul, I find myself as food coloringless as you. -This is no game, of words that cut in one case again and again - Now altogether I have is myself, the totally 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 fanaticism of this safe house, moreover it was not what I thought to discover. They introduce school course of book of instructions are the crush eld of your breeding, where you are encouraged to be the best you earth-closet be, but this is far from who you destiny to be. Though I was merely young, year one to be accurate, the boulder had already been firmly dis come forward upon me to charm within the lines... Thats not how you contort a prime of life! Flowers are green with just now one colour. Look at yours...purple stem? ...More than one colour for petals? This is not correct.
--Inside my veins these feelings riot-- Though etymon years were not what I expected, I felt sure that senior years would simply get better, that the best was plane to come. English! Art! Drama! The palm seemed endless with promise. Where I could conjure 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, fountain to my own tune, to become who I was within these boundless subjects. Of course...
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