I learned to read from my father.
My first book was about a little train that beat a big one in a race, And my first word was, “GO!”
I drank in the nonsense of Dr. Seuss,
That always held magic for those who would listen, And at 9, I wrote my first poem, About my love for the green things of this earth.
 
In the classroom, though, we must labor under watchful eyes, Learning to follow rules and guidelines in our writing, And how to silence our hearts, And speak when we have nothing to say.
We learn for the sake of a test,
Laying aside our own minds in favor of the straightforward and uncomplex.
 
So, hail to academia!
For teaching us that language can be measured, That it is precise, following unwavering rules of spelling and grammar.
Certainly we have need of such knowledge!  This much grades can tell us.
But is it enough?

There is music in words, though its glorious strains fall on deaf ears.
The first orators were not lecturers in great halls, cold and calculating.
They were singers.
They sang soft, sweet hymns that rang of simple joy, and quiet grief, Or threw back their heads and screamed to the heavens a desperate prayer for loved ones now lost to eternity.

And now, we sit at wooden desks, measuring indents and margins, where once were tried men’s souls.
; No, it is not enough