Literary Arts Magazine

JUNE 2021

THE LITERARY ARTS MAGAZINE

ACS ATHENS

A PUBLICATION OF THE LITERARY ARTS SOCIETY OF ACS ATHENS

Arianna Adamopoulou

Contents The Rain by Anonymous…………………........................................................................................

The Storm by Elina Pipas…..……………………...............................................................................

Wear Your D*** Mask by Michaela Gregoriou…..……….....................................................

The Nature of Human Connection by Michaela Gregoriou…..……...............................

A Perfect Dream by Linda Tiano…………………........................................................................

Beauty Standards by Khush Siddique………….......................................................................

The Little Red Trail by Euthymia Soulanticas…………..........................................................

Personal Narrative by Nova Miller……………………................................................................

Sudan Pastiche by Christina Tiritas…………………...................................................................

What does it mean to be educated? by Elina Pipas…………...........................................

Credits & Acknowledgements The ACS Athens Literary Arts Society: Michaela Gregoriou, Grace McAtee, Klio Papageorgopoulos, Elina Pipas, Maya Pipera, Linda Tiano Front and Back Cover Art: Janine Ginena Content Art: Arianna Adamopoulou, Ian Brown, Marios Chlympatsos, Elisaveta Korsakova, Max Makarigakis, Jo Manta, Alexandros Markidis, Ellie Michaelidou, Nova Miller, Jelena Rocco, Irini Stavropoulou, Michaela Vonatsou Faculty Advisor: Mr. Mark Frangos Special Thanks: Ms. Trina Langsenkamp, Mr. John Papadakis

Ian Brown

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The Rain

By Anonymous Athens was not ready for the rain.

The puddles collect in every rock corner, every marble step, no welcome mats to rid the incoming shoes of every water drop caught up in the massacre.

The sky is the dreariest gray, on every classroom roof, the thrumming of cascading tears can be heard all throughout.

From the soaking water comes an incredibly unpleasant smell.

The earth is not used to the rain; she is overwhelmed with the consistent drip-drip of the sky’s despair.

Athens was not ready for the rain.

She is a place of happiness with a big blue sky and the exterior disposition of all things beautiful.

The rain is a reminder of the underlying ugly interior that is only glimpsed if you look closely, through the shadows, small alleys and hard cement patches.

I walk by the bright-faced children dancing in the courtyard, arms flung wide, eyes and mouths open, eagerly welcoming the change.

One day they will understand what it’s like to see the rain and be reminded once again.

Photograph by Marios Chlympatsos

Wear Your D*** Mask

By Michaela Gregoriou Though it may seem hard to believe the sight of desolate streets is a sight of love.

The vision of an empty swing, Enlivened by the wind, singing of scraping metal, The poorly paved roads, an uninterrupted sea of cement, The unoccupied office chairs, The board marker rolling off the table, With no hand to stop it, crashing to the floor.

No direct human touch, But only humanity could breathe this into existence.

All of us, lovers of life, Extending our hands toward a social responsibility that cannot be comprehended from within our confinements.

These confinements being ourselves, our own four walls of tissue and bone.

For our hand will always reach farther than we know, Grazing that which remains unseen.

A love of life, A love for one’s neighbor, A love for the way things once were.

Whatever the case may be, It is love which stitches us together, and forces us to sacrifice.

This is history, This is our contribution, Our echo of influence, Which roars in the silence.

Alexandros Markidis

The storm

By Elina Pipas It seemed like the calm before the storm.

Only, This was the storm.

The city streets: empty, lifeless, with no soul.

My birthplace, my home, a sight unseen before, Waves not crashing upon the shore, As if time has frozen, unable to tick away, But death and sorrow spread day to day.

The sole sound: a siren far away.

A message saying one more victim is due, One of many held up in the queue Not knowing when their perils will end, The hospital staff their only family and friend.

The only sight: piercing eyes behind masks.

Somber looks of sadness, worry and fear, Feeling uncertainty for a future unclear, Scared to return to the world, when the storm has passed, Not knowing how long this will last.

The one thought: survival.

Our health, our number one concern, And then the money we can earn, For children to have enough food, Now that they can’t go to school for good.

The next thought: (in)sanity.

A look at the ceiling, for the thousandth time, Wondering what can be a pastime, Distanced at home with no human connection, To minimize the risk of everyone’s infection.

The one action: turning on the news.

Cases, rates, deaths and statisticsConfusing numbers, too many logistics, As if nothing good happening in the world, Wanting to escape in a dreamworld.

The only hope: the ones around us.

Ordinary heroes- doctors, workers, volunteers Sacrificing themselves, to eliminate our fears, Giving us strength to continue our fight, To illuminate our future with a blinding light.

The only solution: patience and love.

Patience for time to restart, For life to continue, with safety at heart, Our hearts with love in them too, For the people who saved us from this flu.

The sole feeling: unity.

A world united is a world saved, Of course, our losses always engraved, For those in memory to continue to live, And always remember our gratitude to give.

It seemed like the calm before the stormOnly, The storm will pass.

Dedicated to everyone contributing to the fight against the invisible enemy.

Thank you for everything you do.

Irini Stavropoulou

The Nature of Human Connection

By Michaela Gregoriou There exists a metaphysical connection between ourselves and others, like Ariadne’s red thread, only infinite in length and insatiable in spirit. And as I proceed to withdraw from others, taking a step back, leaving all other paths vacant, the only true loss is experienced by my physical senses. My mind, however, nourishes that invisible thread which pierces the soul and relents.

And relents. I can try to sever this connection all I want, but there is very little to be done about the impression that one’s connection leaves. Whether we accept it or not, we are always merely a composition of influences, which fight to mask one another.

As I stare at you, across the way, I drown in the emotional expanse between us, widening with every passing moment. This chasm, a divide, which can only feed itself. But perhaps ‘stare’ is not appropriate a word, since I cannot dare to look you in the eye. Instead, my gaze can only dart around, to the flashing of your metal rings, which add a charm to an otherwise unimpressive hand, to the tips of your fingernails which tap tap tap against your glass, erratic. I catalogue every minute detail of your appearance, pretending that this is not a pointless effort to ease my thoughts, but rather a conscious appreciation of how you look. Though my scrutiny is forced, because it definitely is, it is necessary.

Can you feel it too? The haunting of this moment, the way it condemns us to this hollowing?

For no matter how we fill the silence, no matter what words we choose to appear polite, no matter the familiar order which they will appear in, we will remain stagnant, chained to this selfimposed chasm. There is no correspondence, no unraveling of one mind in exchange for the unraveling of the other. Only small talk—what a tragedy that is.

Or is it all in my head, am I merely interpreting the heaviness of the moment? Maybe you cannot sense it at all: the deep resentment yet equal yearning I hold for you. There is so much between us, so much left unsaid, and I know I am partly, or, according to my code of selfloathing, wholly to blame. So I suppose it’s a deep anger that fuels this resentment, keeping it ebbing. An anger towards myself for my perceived ineptitude to reach out and mend, and an anger towards you, for the comfort you assume in the face of this distance. But my yearning betrays me. Deprives me of solace. Because of course I want to connect, of course I want to be charming enough, and brave enough, and cool enough to command your attention, to crack open the shell that is your mind and watch the golden yolk that is your thought drip down my fingers, shining. I know my interest in you could be misguided—it could be that you aren’t nearly as vibrant as I’ve assumed you to be—but for the time being I only want to be disappointed in myself, not in others.

I have painted on a mask of smooth indifference, plastered on my skin like china, and, for all intents and purposes, I appear placid. I meet your eyes out of pure instinct, but soon fumble with what I encounter. My apparent disinterest mirrors your own, as you languidly trace the edge of your glass, the sound bored and unimpressed. The chiming is intolerable. It’s as if I am staring at a blank wall. A glare of white light reflects upon your eye, not as an interruption to the lifelessness of your stare, but as a punctuation of its impersonality, its sterility. A slash of white paint across an otherwise picturesque canvas. And I realise, caught in this terrible atmosphere of scraping glass and shallow depths, it isn’t you that is terrifying, so much as this ritual is.

Maybe I should redefine the metaphysical connection between ourselves and others.

Perhaps what joins us to others is but an ocean which does not seek to grow, but to attune. To attune itself to different currents, and yield to their force. This ocean is a mere amalgamation of waves, which can either resurge or kill off each other. Nevertheless, we can be selective in the ring of energy that we send out. Whether we are choosing to guide a single finger along the surface of the water, sending out the smallest ringlets of force, or whether we are slamming our hands down ferociously, water hitting skin like pavement, we are our own center of influence, resolute and reckless. At the same time, we belong to a larger continuum of force, which demands that we surrender. And surrender we do, for the sake of connection, for the illusion of self growth. Because to connect, in part, is to yield, and to yield, in part, is to grow.

Elisaveta Korsakova

A Perfect Dream

By Linda Tiano Face of a fawn Mischievous nose Live young deer Ancient vase painting A wish come true Bright blue and silver Sudden delight Lazy lids heavy with plans Of things that will be One day you’ll know everything Sweet smiling mouth Honey on a hot day Sugar and fresh fruit Delicious wine I never really knew you Sun curls on your head And spills all over One day by the lake I had a perfect dream of you And I was comforted

Jelena Rocco

The Little Red Trail

By Euthymia Soulanticas My cousin and I stood guard at the dining room window, curiously scanning the backyard. A few agonizing minutes seemed to last hours. At last, I could wait no longer! A light or so I thought - tug, sent the curtain tumbling down. A bright red liquid spilled across the kitchen floor, soaked the grass on the front lawn and followed me across the seats of my aunt’s car. At four years old, my head had cracked open.

The rest of my childhood followed suit. My reckless impatience and curiosity opened every inch of my skin. My hands became coarse and covered in blisters from my afternoon adventures on the monkey bars. My legs and arms were littered with cuts and bruises and burns. Scars from stitches cover my fingers, reminding me of my age-old battle with sliding glass doors. I can still feel a light thread cutting through my brow, and the presence of a gruesome and growing scar on the side of my thigh. The bright red trail tagged along on all my ventures outside.

But the little red trail began to manifest itself in other ways. Little red spots covered my nose, my forehead, spread over my cheeks and chin and crawled down my shoulder and back. Red oozed out of my gums as the wires on my teeth were tightened, bits of food stuck between them. My cheeks burned red as my grandma called me, congratulating me on becoming a ‘woman’. I had onced admired the little red trail, a gentle reminder of my endurance, but now I felt nothing but red hot shame and anger. I couldn’t understand why I held myself back when I wanted to wander, to ask, and to explore. Perhaps it was the little red spots spoiling my vanity, forcing me to speak out of order, or taking risks I’m not sure I could afford.

The little red trail pulled my tongue off its base and taunted me like I was a dog and it was a treat. Left without a tongue, I was forced to think. As the trail reprimanded me, urging me to follow the rules it had set out, I came to the realization that it was right. My childhood had passed without hindrance, it was filled with adventure, friendship, and joy, but it had come to an end. I decided that I had to grow up, that my curiosity could remain boundless while not being reckless. The line I walked on was not a chord above a canyon, but a plank that rested on the ground, a compromise between unhindered childhood and early adolescence.

Soon enough, the little red spots disappeared, my adventures on the monkey bars stalled, and the bruises, burns, and cuts, left behind faint little white lines. I realize now that there are lessons held in this little red trail and the white lines it left behind. A cut will always heal, a burn will stop sizzling, and the red dots will begin to fade. Each time, they leave a little mark, a reminder that they were there. I acknowledge where my curiosity may guide me, how it may reappear as a papercut or a cat scratch, a bruise from a soccer ball or a question unrelated to the syllabus. Little bits of red accompany as I run, or deliver speeches.

It is this unrelenting curiosity I’ve carried throughout my childhood that defines me today, that inspires me to learn and explore, and for that, I will forever be grateful.

Digital Art by Jo Manta

Beauty Standards

By Khush Siddique The women that struggle with self acceptance due to beauty standards need a voice and to stand up. Women should no longer have to cry in vain of others while selfishly degrading themselves. Imagine: she cries herself to sleep.

Everywhere she looks, all she sees are lies. Lies that she wants to succumb to because that's how she will feel accepted. What is society's role in stopping her from completely losing her path and virtues? Knowing she will be defeated by society, why can’t she see the truth - that she is beautiful in her imperfections. Why doesn’t she understand that perfection isn’t special? Perfection is boring and bitter like the lies she wants to become. The distorted and cruel beauty standards don’t allow her to accept the fact that she is beautiful.

I recently found a Pinterest image of a skinny underwear model walking down the runway with the text reading, “It’s crazy how when we see an animal's ribs, hip bones and collar bones we think of it as sad and abusive, but when we see it on a woman it's a form of beauty.” Society has put on beauty standards that have targeted and negatively affected women. Women are changing themselves in order to feel accepted. Societal manipulation is detrimentally impacting women’s self esteem and mental health. These destructive effects are caused by the idea and the definition of the term “beauty”. The mental health of half the population is a vital societal concern and requires us to seek solutions and raise the questions: what is beauty? What is perfection? What are beauty standards? Beauty standards are standards that society has imposed on women in order to “teach” them what beauty is and what makes an attractive person. Beauty standards change as if it is a trend. These evolving and excruciating standards involve body shaming leading to anorexia or women undergoing plastic surgery only to receive more hate about their weight or being called fake. Societal beauty standards vary culturally, but they all have the same consequences that lead to body image issues and mental health issues, primarily through the new advancement of social media.

While beauty standards vary culturally, all similarly cause the same negative feedback and consequences. Personally, coming from the very opinionated Desi culture, consisting of people who are not scared to point out insecurities that you didn’t have or gave any attention to, it has been very frustrating. In my culture, a beautiful and perfect girl is defined by the image that she is supposed to be skinny and fair skinned. Now this is going to sound tragic, but ever since I was 12, a young impressionable age, I have been insecure about my body and I have struggled with my appearance. I’m only 16 and people think it’s normal to target young adults and to make them self conscious about their appearance. The targeting could be possibly due to jealousy of youth, but I believe it is primarily due to these repulsive beauty standards and how others view “pretty.” Yet, 16 year olds struggle to accept the way we are, while trying to ignore what other people say and their opinions. Girls and women possess different personalities and appearances, and we should project our uniqueness and embrace our individual beauty. When I feel down, I usually give myself some pep talk to make myself feel better. Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I feel beautiful and I just feel so empowered and positive. In those moments I love everything about myself and let all my positive feelings out. I accept myself. This has made me realize that some of us hide our true feelings because we are afraid to project them, and that we are afraid that if we tell society that we feel beautiful the way we are, then we will be judged just because of the ‘ideal standard of beauty’ nonsense. The standard does not exist, but my message to all women is: You exist, your personality and appearance are yours and belong to no one else. You are beautiful just the way you are. We live in such an advanced time, with over 7 billion people and we are told by our loved ones that we are all unique and beautiful the way we are. Although, no matter how advanced we get, our mentalities and attitude towards others won't change. We are shown through social media the ugly lies, that we are aware are lies, but still we tend to fall in the trap. Personally, there aren’t any beauty standards, it's just society manipulating an individual to purchase beauty clothes and products. Beauty standards are standards that some delusional society made up and tried to define beauty and what makes a person attractive. Primarily these attacks are made on women rather than men. Everyone has different images of perfection. But what people fail to understand is that perfection isn’t fun. The number one thing that women are made insecure of their body, leading to eating disorders and anorexia. Because apparently, nowadays according to advertising, movies and social media men find skinny women attractive and healthy.

Women tend to change themselves for others in order to please them or to primarily impress their crushes . While completely disregarding the fact that appearance doesn’t build a relationship, it doesn’t build happiness, rather those insecurities ruin themselves leading to serious illnesses such as depression. People fail to understand that beauty comes within someone's soul and heart. I mean, you could meet society’s definition of beauty, and have a dull personality.

Ever since the internet became a thing, it has caused a lot of controversies and an increase in insecurities and other mental health issues. One of the main sources, causing self esteem issues and mental health issues is social media. It has progressed in presenting what ‘perfect’ or ‘beautiful’ is based on the two genders, causing an impact on self esteem. We all know that everything posted on social media is a lie. All people post is showing themselves happy or running away from reality. Social media is so unrealistic and fake, that while knowing the truth, we individuals tend to fall in the gruesome trap. Through social media, many teenagers and people in general keep up to date with their idols and favorite celebrities, or just use the platform to showcase their life. Girls tend to get depressed while scrolling through their feeds because they are targeted on body image. They tend to wish that they were as pretty as the girl on their screen, with that so-called ‘perfect body’. All these lies are framed by editing apps which make you show yourself as unrealistic which a lot of celebrities and non celebs use to make them feel better about themselves and show themselves as perfect. The things these young adults view cause serious damage to their mental health, causing eating disorders and other forms of mental disorders. One post highlighting this terrible truth came from @Impact on Instagram that stated that a child is 242 times more likely to have eating disorders than they are having diabetes and that by 9 years old, 50% of girls have dieted or restricted their food intake somehow. These studies have shown that 42% of 1st - 3rd graders want to be thinner and 81% of 10years old are afraid of being fat. These kids are more afraid of being fat than they are of cancer, war and death.

Whereas at this age kids should be stress free and are supposed to be playing around.

We individuals have a tendency to belong, causing us to conform to things. We spend so much time in our thoughts and on social media, damaging our own health, just because we want to be accepted and loved by others. We waste so much time in realizing our own self worth, that by the time we accept how wrong we were thinking you have lost a lot of valuable time. Leaving you with nothing but regret. We must learn to accept ourselves. Since, in order for other people to accept us, we must accept ourselves, our identity and appearance.

We must be confident in who we are, as confidence is key to a beautiful mentality and life.

As said all cultures vary in beauty standards but the negative outcome is the same. These outcomes make us hate out body image, wishing we were like that skinny underwear model. Although who knows what that skinny underwear model had to do, to accomplish her dream of modeling. Beauty standards have affected the mental health of many which has led to depression and eating disorders. The most common places these immoral standards are attacked are on social media. Which is where all teenagers spend their whole day, viewing other people’s fake lives and making themselves feel bad about who they are, and hurting themselves to be “perfect” for a delusional society. That even if you do meet their standards, they will still not stop and keep on imposing contradicting standards or even harshen them. No matter what you do, you can’t please others, while you indeed yourself aren’t pleased or happy.

Rather we should learn to embrace ourselves and our appearance. Because what might seem ugly to one, might not be ugly to another. Just the way we all have an ideal house, or an ideal partner, the same way we should accept and be the ideal we want us to be, not what some unrealistic society wants us to be.

So when you are struggling with yourself and feeling low and unaccepted just remember the words of author Abhijit Naska, “Say to yourself, I am perfect, the way I am. Say to yourself, I am beautiful the way I am. Say to yourself, those who do not accept me the way I am, do not deserve me in their life.” I would advise to never keep your feelings in you, as they will build up and break you. Rather, stand up for yourself and project your feelings by letting them out to yourself or to someone who gives you comfort or you could even write them down in a personal diary for stress relief.

Express your feelings, let them be free, and don’t let the standards of others break you, but rather, build up your own confidence because you are accepted just the way you are.

Ellie Michaelidou

Personal Narrative

By Nova Miller I leave my house at 7:17 am every morning. I know I could leave at twenty past but leaving at seventeen past gave me three minutes to walk to my bike and unlock it without having to worry about arriving late at the train station. Outside it’s still dark as night, only by the clock on my phone I can tell the difference between the time to sleep and the time to rise.

Early mornings are their own type of reward. The buildings and houses are nothing more than dark silhouettes surrounding me, there is no drone of cars and chatter, the only noise you can hear at this time is the soft chirping of little birds as they wake from their slumber. The cold air licks at my face and creeps under my clothes as it spreads across my skin like ice on a frigid lake taking the heat from my body. Although I’d lived here for almost four years I’d never quite gotten used to that first breath of air you take when you walk outside, where it feels like the insides of your lungs are coated with a thin layer of frost.

Winters in New York were almost unbearable. I remember being wrapped up in three jackets, mittens, a scarf and a hat as the numbing cold would snatch my breath away from me and bite at my face till it was pink. It’s the type of cold you don’t ever seem to forget. My street is filled with an ominous bitter silence as I begin to bike, my street is as dark as an old-school black and white film, the street lights glow with a quiet humming noise as my shadow sneakily stalks me, hopping in between the circles that the soft yellow hue of the street lamps provide. The repetitive rhythmic whirr of my chain as my pedals go up and down in a circular motion motivates me to continue moving to warm myself

Nova Miller

up. I can feel my heart beating in my chest trying to unfreeze my veins and get blood flowing through my body.

Every time I inhale the air stings the back of my throat with it’s icy kiss. The roads are coated with a thin layer of morning dew as my bike light guides me through the thick sea of fog, and the sky is no longer painted charcoal but rather a sort of deep blue.

I arrive at the train station at 7:37 am every morning. My nose is red and my breath is made of vapor. I lock my bike as my feet numbly carry me to my platform. The escalator slowly takes me from the ground floor to the first, and as I rise I see the small crowd of businessmen and businesswomen clutching their bags and briefcases with blue tinted hands. As part of my routine, I like to walk to the end of my platform and stand next to the second to last pole there. Here I watch the city wake up as the sun peeks out from the horizon, sleepily painting the sky with a faint orange glow.

My train arrives at the station at 7:46 am every morning. I stand up and walk towards the doors, they open as the warm air greets and welcomes me inside, it’s important I go upstairs and find a seat by the window so I can look outside on my journey. I sit down opposite an old man with a checkered flat cap on. His nose is big and round, the wrinkles by his eyes and in the corner of his mouth tell me he’s lived a life full of love and laughter. His jacket is tweed and his scarf is striped. In his hands rests a book in a foreign language, the spine is cracked and the pages are yellowing, every time he turns a page he brings his thumb to his mouth and licks his fingertip. I look outside the window and watch the fields of farmland rush past me, my eyes follow the wires from the utility poles then focus on the cows and horses resting, the bed of low hanging mist grazing on grass. I’ve always loved taking the train. It never really mattered where I was going. There was just something about the stillness, the look of tiredness and early morning exhaustion on everyone’s faces, and the noise of the train’s wheels on the train tracks.

My train stops at the central station at 8:13 am every morning. I step out of the train as the wind wraps its icy arms around me and squeezes all the warmth out of my body. I exhale deeply and walk off of the train platform and walk down the path leading me to the school gates. The sky is light now, soft clouds covering the winter sun. I smile knowing I’ll be inside and warm soon.

Sudan Pastiche

By Christina Tiritas There is a lovely view as the plane lands in the scorching heat of Khartoum. This city is covered with a warm layer of golden sand, which becomes warmer and warmer as the bright sun hits it. The city is filled with large pale-colored apartments and in the middle of them is a large oval-shaped building that at night lights up the whole city. Beyond all the sand and the buildings is the Nile river which is as still as oil and surrounded by animals and large trees, that seems as though they are dying, yet they are full of life.

Khartoum is a lively city, filled with different social classes and cultures.

People walk around the streets working every chance they get. The shops are small and don’t contain much but much is not needed. As you walk down the streets you can see people riding donkeys and horses as if it is normal and as if cars were not a thing. So stand in the city and watch the people as they walk. Acknowledge what they do and the way they walk.

Hold on to that memory as you find your way home and then come back the next day and see if you remember it the same.

Where you stand in the city matters. So stand next to the presidential palace and watch it light up at night. Look at the large garden outside and the building’s classical architecture. You can go inside and look up at its beautiful large dome ceiling. When you are done, walk to the Al Nour Mosque and feel its marble floors beneath you. Stay there till nightfall and watch it as it lights up and looks as though it is glowing. Talk to the people inside and ask them what they believe in, ask them, and see what they tell you.

Though there is beauty in Khartoum their economy is shot. The city is going through an economic crisis and the people are struggling to stay afloat. Protesters are being killed every day just because they don’t believe in their government. Imagine being led by an autocratic leader where you have no say in what happens to the country you grew up in, a country you have loved for years. As you walk through the city you can see lines that go on for miles just so people can get bread to make sure their families don’t starve. So as you see that, appreciate the clothes on your back and the food you are given every day.

While you watch the people walk, think about what they are going through. While you look at the presidential palace, think about what’s going on inside, think about what the president might be doing to help, or maybe if he’s the problem. As you walk into the mosque, think about what they might be praying for. Lastly, as you feel the golden sand on your feet wonder where it came from, whether it started in Khartoum or came from somewhere else.

Artwork by Michaela Vonatsou

What does it mean to be educated?

By Elina Pipas

What does it mean to be educated?

A question as old as time.

One that can never be evaded, One that it’s answer can be a crime.

They view education as a multitude, Of loving, living, learning, Nothing to do with aptitude, Merely for Aristotle’s eudaimonia yearning.

For some the answer is one, Like a multiple choice test, Right or wrong with no rerun, Showing only who is best.

To them, who is educated?

Only a virtuous person, a kind soul, Giving to others what they have accumulated, Not someone with a degree as their goal.

For them education merely a result, a college acceptance, a perfect score In their minds a degree-clad adult, Their brains with numbers, sore.

Without these people the future is damned, For humanity would no longer aspire, With ideas of “success” in our heads crammed, But the youth can save us too with their fire.

The mindset of society they describe, A different view arduous to find, Read to give any bribe, To achieve the new goal of mankind.

I see the light in children every day, Burning bright with a zest for learning, In hospital beds, school miles away, An education denied, but still the fire’s burning.

Wake up, get dressed, Go to school, take a test, Remember you are blessed!

Go home, and memorize the rest.

These kids love school, A thing we all take for granted, We say that for us it is so cruel, But for them it is a paradise enchanted.

A report card incoming, A joy! Your grades a perfect sight, Or if unlucky they are shortcoming, In that case, get ready for a fright.

These are the kids that honor education, Attain a love for learning we are losing, We need to preserve the mindset of their damnation, Shows us that in education we are wrong in choosing.

We have adopted a cut and paste mind, Wanting everything to be alike, To uniqueness we have become blind, Creating between us a major dislike.

But there is still hope within us, In the people wanting change, The people open to discuss, In making education rearrange.

They inspire the youth to explore, The boundaries of mind and souls, realizing what is it we want to live for, Setting ourselves our individual goals.

It is a shame if you think about it, Humans loving learning only if being denied it, Having to be dying to appreciate it, Where healthy kids have been taught to hate it.

I wish I could put them out of their pain, Take them to school with me, But this is a wish that is truly vain, Merely a fantasy within me.

What I can do however, Is to understand why this is happening, To end it once in forever, By making others realize what we are battling

We are battling a mindset full of goals, Rotten ones, unsustainable, manufactured by society, Full of results, and numbers, empty souls, And combat them with a love for living in variety.

Open to ideas, people, experiences Our minds flourishing with new information, Letting us put aside our differences, Old society experiencing an abdication.

What does it mean to be educated?

A person that laughs, loves, lives A person for learning created, A person whom for society gives.

A person for grades, results, not caring, A person wanting to create a reform, A person for life’s hardships to be bearing, A person for the world to generate a storm.

A person’s whose voice will be heard, Like mine within these pages, My thoughts in the moment not blurred, Now we can all leave the dark ages.

All I need is your support.

I hope you can give it to me, A platform for my voice to report, You won’t regret it, leave it to me.

Max Makarigakis

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