I find that my profession is exhausted,
hoping that our tomorrows will be better than our today
as we spend our hours lesson planning.
Eventually breathing meaning into pale lifeless chalk
that elegantly colors our thoughts
in a manner less often described as art and rather,
as something done by those who cannot do themselves.
I have barely begun,
yet I too, am tired.
Tired of a strangers disrespect,
of open unintentional animosity, backed by pity
as I hear a freshly cleared throat utter the words,
“Are you sure you want to become a teacher?”
Every time I put my faith in a furnace,
their words are my trial by fire
galvanizing my iron-will
as I fortify my un-malleable resolve
to take a deep breath
before I exhaust myself,
to prove them wrong.