FRQ
You want me to correct myself but I refuse. According to your scale, I am shit. But you are wrong. You ask me for a printed and scripted answer. I give you heart and soul, a painting on paper, and you condemn me to your rubric.
Free response? There's nothing free about it. To meet your criteria, you ask me to abandon myself. I refuse. I write in spite of your regulation. I do not conform to your frame. You place my dough, my essence of life into your cookie cutter. My chips and my mixture is severed by your metal wall. The passion, the creativity, lost beyond that shiny silver. I am punched out like them all. Made to be like the rest and made to give a stamped answer. I offer you something you've never seen before and you shun me. The paper, my canvas, is soiled by the blacks and whites and grays of conformity. The colors of my words are strange and so as such they are isolated and marked to be incorrect or insufficient. You regulate me and you hinder me but I won't give. I'll break free from the shackles of normality and the chains of your expectations all to actually live.
