The five point virus.

The tiny nodules,
scream out in agony.
Infected.
The virus grips them
with gloved hands,
soaked in ammonia.
They suffocate.
A dull absence.
and 16 years are lost.
Never to be regained.
Every ounce drained.
Every thread of creativity,
executed.
The guillotine blade drips
of farcical standards.
Burned.
The ashen remains set aside for a date unspecified.
Year after year.
The virus takes it's toll.
No longer malignant.
It's effects are exponential.
Taking and squeezing.
Asphyxiating and crushing.
abrogated.
The gap of definition
decreases with each wretched mark.
Alas! We are but a number.
A tally.
A score.
No face.
No name.
No significance.
The ashes of individuality are gathered.
Placed into a vase, the shell of our former selves.
Empty now.
Tied with a ribbon of compliance.
They place it in our hands.
The frail cardstock reads:
Happy graduation.




I hope this effectively expresses my utter hatred of star testing.