Dear Adults,
I hate it when you look down on those of us in high school,
As if there's some sort of unspoken rule
That the time we spend in such a place
Is supposed to be sublime.

"Stop complaining."
I'm sorry, I assumed that when you asked about my day
I wasn't supposed to mask what I say
And tell you that everything is swell.

To what extent will you dismiss my discontent
Toward the discipline with hardly any discipline nowadays?

"You'll miss it. Just wait until you get into the real world."
The "real world"?
Why, suddenly, is my world not real enough for you?
From all I've been through in my life,
High school has presented me with the most strife, and so
Since when is a bit of resentment
Unjustified?

The nerve you pride
Yourself in having, presuming
That there is any amount of artificiality in my reality
Is infuriatingly consuming.

How can you think we could make any sense
Of the difficulties surrounding anything but what we've experienced?
This I cannot comprehend.
But maybe you want us to pretend?

"How was school today?"
Oh, it was okay.
I only dealt with misunderstanding,
The pressure of classes being so demanding,
The difficulty of self consciousness
That is amplified each day by bullies' relentlessness.
I only endured mental exhaustion
From switching subjects each hour, without option.
I simply struggled with your expectation
That colleges should long to give me an invitation,
Even though I'm being forced to commit to
A life plan I've made based off the little I've been through.

School is a privilege, we know,
Yet, so is possessing a job.
So why, then, am I a snob,
When you're allowed to 'complain'?

I realise that life could be much worse for me,
And someday high school might seem like a breeze,
But until the day comes when I become aware
That the troubles of high school cannot compare,
Let me have my time to vent, please.