How dare you confine me.
Put me in a box with nothing,
And give me four crude blocks labled A, B, C, and D,
To fashion my future.
I am a dilettante,
An artist, a creator, the next Michaelangelo,
And yet you give me these four crude blocks to paint a masterpeice.
How dare you define me.
Define me by a letter grade,
A grade made out of those crude blocks,
A grade that would make me or break me,
Determining my future.
I am a metaphysical being.
And I believe I exist on my own.
How dare they mock me.
With numbers and letters,
That mean nothing, nothing alone,
I want to take all the numbers and letters,
And create a grand portrait of the universe.
I will create a grand portrait of the universe.
But I cannot.
I do not have the tools to make any portrait,
All I have are crude blocks.
How dare they only give me blocks.
When I am worth so much more than four answer choices.
Our lives rely so heavily on those blocks,
That when decision day comes,
The wrong structure we build might topple,
And we are left with nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing to prove that we have worked so hard,
And many cannot start over and rebuild.
Those crude blocks, oh they topple and fall.
Mocking us.
How dare they.