From his lips

To the paper,

To the teacher,

To the air,

To my mind that will not recall.

I will cower back, fall into my home,

Attend an institution with a constitution of prostitution,

And abide by a rule of hypocrisy in meritocracy.

Mine is set in a mindset we have yet to churn

But lay a competition in which we will burn.

See, though as I ignore a foreign wisdom,

We all believe we will encounter,

I let each grain of my skin fall with the fall,

And let them be carried by a wind I refuse to wind up in.

So follow blindly the path of an execution, the path I resent as my home.

Now tossed back to the air,

To the teacher,

To the paper;

Sealed behind his lips.

      Sincerely,        mine are too