School

Forced knowledge throbs against my skull,
Screaming for recognition,
When all I want to do
Is run and hide.
So I run,
But I cannot hide,
Because even if I run,
It outruns me over and over,
Fast as a cheetah
Until it enters my head.
The sign at my ears is a red,
Six-sided shape,
Emblazoned with the word
Slow.
For the words come thick and fast,
But come screeching to a halt,
Queuing for privileged entry into my brain.
It is not their fault.
I hear them,
But they are not in my native tongue.
They are in some strange language,
Something I was never taught by my mother.
The language of education.

    Source: geocities.com/southbeach/jetty/Jetty/8868/writing

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