UNDERACHIEVERS

Our heads hang lower than our cumulative grade
Our eyes were once sharper than any fresh razorblade
But now they've withered and weathered -
Like the hands of a 75 year-old maid.

They expect us to grow up to do nothing
But knit miniature baby blue socks
And iron puffed-up pink frocks.
They teach us to dress with great care,
And to carefully tend to our hair,
To brush a hundred strokes for bouncy black locks
And gingerly blush whenever a boy talks.

They look at us like we're timid creatures,
Blind to the fire inside us, the madness that dwells within
But it's as real as bone beneath skin.
And while they wipe their reading glasses clean
We could have set cities ablaze
And they'd be in flames, running in our own maze.
But we'd be rather be lost in this daze
This math-induced blissful haze.