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