Soul Crushers
Sometimes, when I’m at work, and I look around, this is what I see:
They’re not monsters,
they’re Soul Crushers.
An angry man—puffed, rosy cheeks, belly and all—waved his finger
“No, no, no,”
Stifled their fantasies,
darkened
their once effervescent eyes.
They are
raccoons
scurrying through the halls,
their bruised eyes
evidence
of abuse and neglect.
They are
tortured birds
whose wildly colored wings have been
clipped
so they cannot fly.
They are
zombies.
Battered—
and barely undead.
They are
ready to return the favor.
Or, rather, ready to pay it forward.
They will pronounce that the whole world is a farce,
that we are
slaves,
that we are
clones.
Creativity is a lie,
like the tooth fairy, or the Easter Bunny,
and children would do well to learn that
lesson
early, thankyouverymuch!
Forget equations, probabilities, photosynthesis, and Shakespeare.
If there is anything worth studying,it is
disappointment.
Better to arm the youth
than to submit them
unto the
perilous night,
thus unbraced,
baring their bosoms to the
thunder-stone.
They’re soul crushers,
but not on purpose.
Hands tied, shackled, and
duck taped to their desks,
what more can they do?
Caged, evaluated, standardized,
ostracized, penalized, vilified,
where more can they go?
They’re soul crushers,
but they’d rather not be,
and they’d be
heroes
if they were
free.
