Mitchel Delawson - D11 - FIN - CB2/4

I never quite got the whole agricultural thing.  My parents worked hard to grow and harvest what they could, and I usually hid in the corner writing random poems here and there because I couldn’t be bothered to help pick the vegetables that we grew. 

Even though I wasn’t the best at reading and writing, I still gave it a shot, because one day, I would be lucky enough to become something more than a harvester in the field. 

I saw the world in broken hues of black and blue and wrote about how much I hated being in this district.  However, I knew that no one would see these poems.  I hid them under my mattress for safe keeping.  They were my way of expressing what I wanted to say, even though I couldn’t read them fully myself.

However, I didn’t see that as a bad thing, I saw it as a second form of protection, from prying eyes that might be nosy in what goes through my mind.  I loved my family, and I loved the life I was given, but no matter how you spun it, I would always feel like a slave here.

Watched, judged, and locked away.