Each morning, without fail, the little alarm goes beep.
Each morning, without fail, I rise, I shower, I go.
The school bus is always just two minutes late,
relatively speaking, of course. I barely open my eyes,
until homeroom starts, and then, it's only to engage
in some pointless, repetitious conversation.
Because everything is the same, when you're
A different language, before eight am. It's stiffling,
constricting, confining. On and on could I go.
After Chinese, to social studies, to gym, to science,
lunch, to English, to design, to math and then to home.
The days blend together and sometimes I'm not
sure what I learned one day and what I learned
the next. I'll want to do math when I'm stuck in English,
and in science my muse will want to create. We study
what when they tell us what. Because in the schools,
The world's closing in around me, because what can I say?
People ask me “What's new?” and I don't have an answer.
The routine is stiffling me, locking me down. I can't write
on command, can't create or design. My hobbies feel
worthless when I'm not allowed, to jot down a poem,
a story, a song. Because I'm stuck in math.
Forty-three minutes of one specific thing, when my mind
wanders and jumps from this thing to that thing.
I hate it here, in this routine. But I'm