Classrooms are what you make of them
Empty faces, cotton filled ears
The spark of something new in the eyes of a few
The glaze of sleep in most.
Anticipating the day they are freed.

One day.

Professors who do their best not to reflect the boredom
That they sense thick as tar in the closed up space.
Windows shut, blinds down.
No distractions,
They hope their pupils make something of themselves.

One day.

One girl in the corner jotting down notes,
Too slow before they're erased.
She holds on to imagination as much as she can,
It stretches thin as it flees from her.
She hopes she can make it strong again.

One day.

The boy in the back always has his head down,
Never fully present,
Never to be whole again.
Loss is a bullet none can dodge.
He hopes the wound will heal.

One day.

And the ******* her laptop before class begins.
Typing what she sees in the guise of prose
Desperately hoping the creativity she lost,
Can find it's way back to her.

One day.