You push my creativity
into a tight black box.
Organized. Labeled. Placed
next to the other traits you refuse.
I sit in your classroom.
Sit still you tell me
don’t move, don’t speak,
don’t think.
My creativity bursts in its box.
The shelf croaks, the lid stretches-
my creativity has a mind of its own.
And it threatens to spill.
You gasp, grasp at the opening-
too late. Yet you won’t believe.
You cannot allow my colour to
S.
P.
R.
E.
A.
D.
But oh! How it spreads!!
Stars and shimmers coat my page:
Creeping into cracks and groves.
Never more bound;
NO!
MY COLOUR will not be taken.
MY COLOUR will not be pushed in a box.
My COLOUR is mine.