Passers by turn not to greet me, smirking at a fallen child
Scriptless and so cast off, filth, a wrench in their works, a nonplayer to be forgotten
The rushing river pushes on, rate, grade, pass through blinding gate
           and jumbled process of forgotten meaning
for whom does the bell sound? for whom are the sheep herded, day after day 
           until the slaughter in some unknown cause?
Children....blinded children....born of yesterday's sin
Mindlessly they walk on by, a scrap of meat thrown in youth's direction
And rules are set, laws declared by bureaucratic pressure blind to them
Them - they who can't be seen, but only represented by societies precious 
           marks and notes upon precalculated grids and cards
placed before me, a blank uninteresting path to my ever wandering
           ever questioning and thus foul mind
This path holds the key. Is the topic, the route of thought for today's herd to follow 
           and the criteria of today's grade and note?
And so the herd sticks, minds focused upon the hoop to jump, the trick to perform
My mind wanders onward, an unforgivable sin in the endless game
Thus we are lost, and the mark, the note falls downward, a guillotine to cut the foul, 
           diseased away from societies "healthy"
Children....blinded children....born of yesterday's sin
The blind man judges, set to rate, rate compared to all the others, 
           rate in conformity, rate upon the set path, rate in thought controlled
We fall from heightened brilliance to untold sorrow caught between 
           love to think, and need to play.. need to follow the given path, 
but too late to comprehend the given task. 
           The barren path
At the base of being, the stem of individualism, a tear grows deeper, threatening to seal the choice
           too scared, too unknowing to walk the given path, incapable of following the river, 
           incapable of harnessing the thought and thus the turmoil of self knowledge v.s. need to join
           flows onward burning at the threads which hold the self together
But sorrow has no mark
Suffering gets no grade
As free thought gets no credit, only the consequence of guided mind and if the threads give away? 
What choice remains.. a mind of racing thought incapable of playing their games.
What place has this in society?
Scriptless and so cast off, filth, a wrench in their works, a nonplayer to be forgotten  
        
                                                                           Written by A. Welles at age 16