When the Wings of a Building Clip Our Own
To write about thoughts or feelings
Enclosed to the idea of “learning”
Only to feed on what was spat out,
Like a bird to its offspring.
To never experience the desired path,
Of exposed dirt in the green grass.
But to follow the asphalt slabs ahead,
Built by those who have ceased to see clearly.
We swallow what the canary sings,
As absolute truth.
No question or doubt,
Only a teapot with a chipped spout.
Even so, I write down my thoughts.
Uninspired and reclusive,
Alongside many empty chairs.
In a narrow, endless hallway
With scarce rations for full ideas…
I can’t seem to finish.
But an idea is not for the student;
Yet students must be taught.
No sense of belonging,
Or even a sizable piece of joy.
The facts are shoved down
And accepted, at best.
A spoonful of cynicism,
And punch to the chest.