Divert

A swish of the pencil, flicked longingly on paper,
Eyes in the distance, Philosophy on board,
The ideas and memories, suppressed by our elders,
Those feelings and thoughts that we diligently hoard,
For an hour a day they are released into wild,
They breathe and escape in the mid morning air,
Moving and streaming in complex tight patterns,
They have no restrictions, they are everywhere,
And as that last pencil beat is disturbed by sound,
And the wonderful reverie is broken, in past,
The resignation comes with a heavy last breath,
You can never escape a history class.