They put a pencil in your hand, a big fat one
made for little fingers to copy out
letters drawn around the edges of the
ceiling.

They look pretty, so you draw them again
and again, over and over, 
pages and pages of letters,
and get awards for how perfectly they
fit together. Everyone is happy.
You are happy. All those letters 
copied over and over again –
everything should be that beautiful –
copied until you can spell out: 

"There’s no escape."

Words that belong to someone else,
generations of else’s,
carved with your fat pencil onto every 
piece of paper you can find.

That’s when you stop winning awards.

*

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