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.