The Weight of the Bell

The morning bell tolls, a solemn chime,

Dragging us forward through corridors of time.

Gray walls whisper stories of dreams left behind,

Of spirits once bright, now tethered and confined.

The clock’s steady tick is a mocking refrain,

Marking hours of silence, of effort in vain.

Questions unanswered, not from lack of skill,

But from a system that bends to its will.

The sunlight fades in the classroom's haze,

Replaced by the glare of fluorescent malaise.

Eyes scan the page but absorb not a line,

For the weight of the day is a mountain to climb.

Each lesson a script, rehearsed and contrived,

Creativity stifled, yet we’re told to thrive.

We’re numbers on spreadsheets, statistics in rows,

Chasing ambitions no one truly knows.

Friendships falter under pressures unseen,

Strained by the grind of this relentless machine.

Laughter is fleeting, a ghost in the hall,

Drowned by the echo of a teacher’s call.

And yet, there’s a spark that refuses to die,

A stubborn ember beneath the dull sky.

A whisper of hope that one day we’ll find,

A path of our choosing, unshackled, unlined.

Until then, we march with heavy hearts,

Through this labyrinth of lessons, charts, and parts.

For school may be dark, but beyond its door,

There’s a world waiting—so much more.