I look down at what they have given me.

Copied in black and white,

A poem lies innocently.

I flip the paper to look...

And just what I thought:

Multiple choice.

With a sinking feeling,

I adjust to their view of the world,

Adapt to the circumstance,

And analyze this work of art

With their cold eyes.

I demand questions of it.

Wring it for information.

With quick motions,

I mark it with ink.

Like a python, I squeeze.

Like a rabbit, I jump through it,

Then move to the questions.

I finish and look up.

I have finished first,

Like I usually do.

So I sit.

Keep my mind blank.

The time is called.

Sighs are let out as pencils drop.

I get one out of ten wrong.

No surprise,

Because I was not the one

To answer thier rigid questions.

Before I turn in my paper,

I look again at what was

A work of art.

The analysis is harsh grafiti.

The beauty of expression

Has been wrung dry.

Sorrow hits me,

But this is what they wanted.