how did we get here?

note: this is not targeted at anyone, it’s just my opinion :)

Writing is my pulse,  
my breath,  
my way of being.  
They don’t own my words,  
my thoughts,  
my voice.  

There’s a squishy feeling, like your fingers  
pressed into soft dough,  
the way your body sinks  
into the warm, endless bed of a blanket.  

School’s great. I *love* waking up early  
to sit through hours of stuff I’ll forget.  
Lunch? A gourmet mystery I’ll never solve.  
Tests? Oh, the thrill of failing with style.