Enter a dull classroom and flicker,

translucent hands touch wood. Scream

your presence to the whiteboard

sucked by student loans, sighing meekly

at each deafening murmur, broken.

Add and subtract the hours spent.

Calculate your loss in fixed figures. 

Finger spaces lust for words,

dominating your page so you cram

a syllable or two in their open lips.

These walls have seen you through adolescence.

They've carved a hole in your teeming passion,

pushed for uniformity of thought.

Bright eyes dimmed by a bonjour, a Watt,

and the white guys hurling out novels.

You'll be out soon enough. Then life

begins but your soul remains here. I'll tell

you what to do, what to think. You're blank

paper, ready for my curriculum for now.

Your Battle of Hastings awaits.