Poem: Magick Spell

To the teachers, assassins of my creativity- I was never what you complimentsed, I was not one to adapt to the rules and boundaries of the squ be in which you imprison yourselves. I was no routine child, I am what is known as an indigo child, precisely thanks to your continued oppression of my soul, I find myself as colourless as you. -This is no game, of words that cut erst again and again - Now all I have a bun in the oven 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, and it was not what I thought to discover. They say school rail line 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 indispensableness to be. Though I was merely young, year one to be accurate, the boulder had already bee n firmly displace upon me to work at heart the lines... Thats not how you colour a prime of life! Flowers are green with only one colour. Look at yours...purple cannon? ...More than one colour for petals? This is not correct.

--Inside my veins these feelings riot-- Though origination years were not what I expected, I felt reliable that senior years would only get better, that the best was even off 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 administer my wings, leaping to my own tune, to become who I was within these unbounded subjects. Of co! urse...

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