You gave me a pen and told me to write,
so I opened my mind and spoke,
then you told me it was not right.
You told me to see the world one way
and now I'm not so sure.

You told me to open my books and inhale the world
so I breathed in,
but you told me I took to big a breath.
You told me to close the book
just as I began to learn.

You gave me a piece of poetry
and told me what to see
I looked and saw something else
so you took the poem away from me.

You gave me a mircroscope and told me to look
but did not let me examine.
You gave me a labled piece of paper
and threw away my blank, white, pure, unlined scrap of linen.

If I looked through your eyes I would only see
the primaries
what I need are my eyes so do not put that blind fold on
let me see for myself.