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It was the fourth of July, and Cynthia sighed as she walked up the sidewalk. Nothing could make this a good day. She was expected to run the family grocery store, the same thing she had done every weekend and afternoon since she turned fifteen. Holidays were nothing more than a footnote on the calendar. The walk from the apartment to the store was a short one, but her feet felt like bricks by the time she reached the metal gate that protected the windows overnight. All around her, the street...

It burns in me, like an everlasting fire. I release control of my mind, And become a creator. Words fly from my pen, They scar the paper, With thoughts, That made me mutter in my slumber. The fire becomes an ember, I awake to find, Piles of notions, I have no memory of writing.

I'll start with no, Progress through why, And end with lonely, That golden serpent forever consuming its tail, Threatens me, My spirit, My independence, Take away your ring and with it your hand, My own two will suffice.

I am a student, A student I am, With papers to write, Information to cram, The top of my desk, Resembles a book traffic jam, I am a teacher, A teacher I am.

The passion to write burns in me, like an everlasting fire. I release control of my mind, And become a creator. Words fly from my pen, They scar the paper, With thoughts, That made me mutter in my slumber. The fire becomes an ember, I awake to find, Piles of notions, I have no memory of writing.