Papers cover pink grey fortifications,
Although the area within would ignite phobia,
Papers and writer hears no limitations,
Except those from writers with corrupted cornea.
"Who are the writers?" some ask,
To which none reply,
Too convoluted a task,
For one mind to magnify.
Although it barely makes sense,
Not to comprehend these papers and writers,
I find it satisfying to have something so immense,
So prolific and strong, running the reciters.
The writers outside of our pink and gray rooms,
They don't see it as we see it,
Our crazy, intermingled wombs,
They think it's unfit.
Those writers start young,
Their walls strewn with but a few pamphlets,
When new and "better", replace where the scribbles had hung,
The writer's hunger for literature now lost, taste none but grey booklets.
Old writings now fill the writer's bin,
Old sketches, little meaning, little memory,
But its what those papers held within
That means the most and what the writer needs to see.
For without a bin full of senseless scribble,
How would they know we are now ready,
To follow orders, recite and repeat, assemble,
Train us to be resources, bored yet steady.
Don't throw away the ideas of youth,
You prolific writer, you!
Maintain that creativity, you charming sleuth,
Test scores, price tags, bid them adieu.
Express, explore. Don't let those lines,
Now imprinted on your face after a nap,
Tell you that you only need these faint outlines,
Show them what belongs on every educators map.