They carved my name in silence, not gold,
In the ledger of “useless,” bitter and cold.  
One slip just one and the scroll rewrote,
Years of grace drowned in a single note.  

I bowed with reverence, not for their crown,
But for the myth that teachers don’t look down.  
Yet they measured worth by tuition paid,
Not by the soul or scars I’ve displayed.  

They smiled at rebels, gave them light,
While I, the quiet, was cloaked in night.  
No reward for being good, no balm,
Just the echo of blame, void of calm.  

So let me be bad, if good is unseen,
Let me wear thorns, not petals pristine.  
If virtue’s currency is never spent,
Then let me rise from their contempt.  

I am not their puppet, nor their pawn,
I am the storm that breaks their dawn.  
Time will etch me in truths they missed,
In the ink of fire, not a teacher’s list.  

Let them choke on the silence they gave,
While I build sanctuaries from every grave.  
I’ll prove my worth not for their gaze  
But for the stars that know my blaze.