Schism Working Monday through Friday, brain crunching in puppet's dress, I demand a room on the first floor of mundane Education Street, where every literate robot that opens books, erases boards, writes exams has triple my worth. Yet I walk between figured pages they can't read, must clarify, shuffle, exist to feed the frenzy of ignorance. I tranquilize frustration climbing paper mountains, to precipices. I gazed below with distracted eyes to a glass river reflecting above me dense automatons.
C. Lawry Brown's Questions:
Do I convey clearly the point I am trying to get across in this
poem? Like the grasshopper and the ant, I was the ant of little value and
they were the grasshoppers. In this particular instance the grasshoppers
were the winners.
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