The rows of wooden workstations.
A cell where sprawling ideas are cramped on
The rows of sheets and documents.
Young, scrappy, and hungry,
A student whispers, "I am ready."
"Examine", "discuss", and "evaluate",
The questions seduce him seemingly.
Fountains of ink soak through the papers,
Squirting and splashing varied letters.
Critique! Creativity! and Comprehension!
No response could be any better.
Grinning with pride derived from inside,
The student's adrenaline subsides.
Heaps of data jump off a cliff,
His brain matter relievedly unties.
After months of celebratory disbursement,
He and his peers return for comments.
The lights can no longer blind their glee,
But the cell once more unleashes their torment.
"44", the student looks in horror,
The number thunders in his abandoned chamber.
The missing point scars not his life,
But his hubris, repercussive of lifelong pressure.
A rotten fruit of relentless thrashing,
It's a number that should mean nothing.
It attempts to assess critical thinking, but
enslaves the child to follow rules and patterns.
Should the child or system be subject to blame?
He was merely acting in his superiors' name.
The exam hall once again lightens to
Entrap a new year of students – oh! what a shame.
His brain matter relievedly unties.
After months of celebratory disbursement,
He and his peers return for comments.
The lights can no longer blind their glee,
But the cell once more unleashes their torment.
"44", the student looks in horror,
The number thunders in his abandoned chamber.
The missing point scars not his life,
But his hubris, repercussive of lifelong pressure.
A rotten fruit of relentless thrashing,
It's a number that should mean nothing.
It attempts to assess critical thinking, but
enslaves the child to follow rules and patterns.
Should the child or system be subject to blame?
He was merely acting in his superiors' name.
The exam hall once again lightens to
Entrap a new year of students – oh! what a shame.