Past Genius, Present Fool
Numbers rumble through my head,
equations must be remembered.
Tests are something students dread,
can't wait til December.
Knowledge judged by memorizing vomit,
spew out information computed.
Analyze a beautiful sonnet,
computer overload, so it rebooted.
Training ourselves to copy the past,
we praise ourselves from others.
Time to create our own style, at last,
and not imitate our brothers.
Artwork judged by elements and rules,
was this not what they fought against?
If they met us, they'd call us fools.
What would we say in our defense?