High School

“You’re doing it wrong,” they say,

”You can’t do it like that, it has to be my way.”

Printed papers passed down straight rows,

Sit up straight, in a perfect pose,

And if you want friends, but brand new clothes.

A swoosh stitched into your socks,

Memorize what you need, nothing outside the box.

There’s only one answer to each question, 

Be this way, no room for expression. 

Now grow up, make your own decisions. 

Take it into your hands and defend your visions. 

Don’t be worried we taught you well

In this restricting, discriminating, demanding he’ll.