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.
When I was young I would look down,
hiding inside of myself to avoid
looks from others as I was different,
I spoke in my own way
expressing myself inexhaustibly until I
used my entire vocabulary in a breath
but I was never heard
So I looked down.
For when I looked up I was ignored,
given looks from above that
chained my young mind aging me,
I was given words that were foreign to me but
made especially for those a little different,
and so I look down,
away from my parents
who never heard either,
away from my teachers who practiced passivity
but questioned mine.
So I looked down and saw the stairs
leading me up
away from the crowded ground
allowing me to look down,
see where I came from
forcing me to look up,
away from the sadness beneath and speak
my foreign unwanted words
until not only myself, but everyone could hear
so even if they cannot understand
they could feel the passion in my words
both crucifying and forgiving the world simultaneously.
I wish that I could dig,
bury myself deep within a tome
finding words with the strength to
lift your spirit and keep you Alive while I,
I try to thieve the pain from your eyes
that I see build and crystallize
every time you feel the need to cry.
So I try,
to make a star fall
creating a natural movement in the distance
that will astonish your’s and our Father’s eyes,
who now hears, my silent prayers as I
turn my wordless voice up to Heaven to reach his ears, for you,
to allow you to cry,
While you gently step past the years of sorrow
on your mind so you can have
the future that I want for you,
so I wish.
I hear my fingers silently reach,
delving into my denim pocket for the key
exhuming old-fashioned fantasies of adventure
juxtaposed in freshly defined black-ink,
spelling out “one way” on mass manufactured card stock.
The way however is never specified
so I recline, my serious thoughts resign to the
path set before, taking that pre-laid track
alongside others; but my trip
They know their destination,
eyes set, gleaming with determination to
get off at the right time,
others though, eyes closed or holding a gaze
with the floor stained by lament
for missing one stop,
still I enjoy my ride.
My traveled miles are arbitrary as
distance becomes useless when measuring
my memories, my childhood gets reborn on this journey,
imagination re-enters my vocabulary
re-defining my everything
until nothing is some-thing,
until I can…
halt, a sudden jerk brings an end
to previously endless seas of autumn leaves
replaced by unearthly steel
encased in adult marble.
Now my childish thoughts play on
in the back of my mind,
their only safe-haven.
I cough on the passion
that hastily builds in my larynx
enflaming, choking my eager voice
with each and every breath
as the bile in my soul becomes an
ailment taking on physical properties but I,
I will never become someone’s property
for I am the picture that my soul paints
and it shall not be sold.
The highest bidders are turned away
and attempts at thievery are
dispelled and given away by my cough,
sounding an alarm that causes heads to turn,
look towards then away
others finding it necessary to
uncover the cause of the sound but,
I wear a mask of stone.
Weathered by emotions and
eroded by time yet,
people attribute that to character
using specific vocabulary to veil
the fault lines clearly gilded on my face
burdening my lips with the gravity of weight
that will never show on a scale, but,
for whom should I be weighed?
My weight is my business but sometimes,
I wish my business sold stock
so that pieces of me could be
bought off with the expectations of
reimbursement in greater shares and so
I could alter, fix myself from the inside out,
slowly breaking down that mask
with soft, gentle tears that would
silently in private
giving use to the dark rooms that
are my thoughts, stuck forever brooding since
you left, and so I cough,
eventually forming syllables out of
combinations of inexplicable phonemes and
unintelligible sounds as I exorcise my demons
fighting them in solitude all the while
surrounded, by the deaf unknowing public.