Guilty of...

I am like a student
who is kept after school
but I must stay
for a lifetime.
And I am sentenced
to write
on the dusty chalkboard
that is my heart,
these following words:
LOVE
STRUGGLE
JUSTICE
FREEDOM
And I am still writing
although my hand
is becoming cramped
( nothing can cramp my style.)
And although my shoulders are sagging,
I move the crumbling chalk,
scrawling the eternal script:
LOVE
STRUGGLE
JUSTICE
FREEDOM
Thus, I continue
with determination
weary, but compelled.
While I wonder,
what was the infraction
that binds me to such a task?
Is it merely
that I am guilty of-
being a dreamer.

This poem is about: 
Me

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