When I walked into the first day of class in the first grade in Ms. Jones classroom,
That’s J-O-N-E-S no more no less children,
And I saw squares all around.
A square desk a square room and a square head on my teacher’s shoulders,
Built of bricks hard as steel, bricks made from the burnt fingers of children whose faces are black with ashes, black like the color of night because they get no sunshine,
But these things are all on the outside of the brick and on the inside there’s nothing but air,
Air polluted with thoughts of perfections that don’t exist,
Like when she told me I had to be square like her,
Perfect on all sides and angles so I can fit in place like pieces of a puzzle,
Like squares on a checkerboard so my pieces can make it across the board and become Kings.
And I said no.
The only puzzles I ever wanna fit into are the faded ones that you can never put together,
If I’m a square I’m not me ‘cause I’m a circle that’s not all there, like a crescent moon
And not even my rough edges are even ‘cause if they were then I’d be like
The gears in a clock with time ticking down and God knows my clocks are all broken
Cause my gears don’t turn quite right,
And as long as they time will stand still for me.
And no, Ms. J-O-N-E-S your head is not a f***in’ square, it’s a rectangle,
Not all the sides are the same ad if I do ever meet someone who’s square,
Then I’ll burn this paper.
But until then I stand by my words ‘cause I think maybe they’re true.