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Literature Text
His tongue pushes thoughts faster than pencil,
and his eyes are watching the turtles.
I don't understand his math,
and the sound his shoulders make
when they slump
are the same as his lonely footsteps
in the crystalline snow.
He is my mad scientist.
Give this child a lab coat
and free reign over the elements;
you'd judge him,
his movements a wrecking ball,
but we'd be nowhere without
our own explosions.
We are trapped in our glass misunderstandings
of measuring his dimensions for him:
"Here is your square,
you must stay inside
or we will burn you."
All he grasps for is the ability
to knock aside our microscope
and show us his pointillist self-portrait,
i's we've dotted for him that
scatter his self-image.
We, the connoisseurs,
are so quick to judge the art
that we disregard
the artist.
How long have I closed my eyes
to such a gallery?
God grant me the patience
to observe it.
and his eyes are watching the turtles.
I don't understand his math,
and the sound his shoulders make
when they slump
are the same as his lonely footsteps
in the crystalline snow.
He is my mad scientist.
Give this child a lab coat
and free reign over the elements;
you'd judge him,
his movements a wrecking ball,
but we'd be nowhere without
our own explosions.
We are trapped in our glass misunderstandings
of measuring his dimensions for him:
"Here is your square,
you must stay inside
or we will burn you."
All he grasps for is the ability
to knock aside our microscope
and show us his pointillist self-portrait,
i's we've dotted for him that
scatter his self-image.
We, the connoisseurs,
are so quick to judge the art
that we disregard
the artist.
How long have I closed my eyes
to such a gallery?
God grant me the patience
to observe it.
Literature
and even so, you stayed
I taste rain on your lips
and I know you’ve been
writing poetry again.
I breathe into the touch
of your fingers
cascading in a soft scale
down the cage of bones
around my heartbeat.
you kiss me
knowing
the colors that drift
in my mind
like water beneath
all the bridges that were
burned for me
and you stay.
Literature
sweaterse
when you've a love
in repose,
all quiets
are woven together.
all worries and
worships and
weathering
kept, cared,
covered.
every summer
warms, every winter
draws closer.
and the silences
sweeter than
heaven.
Literature
grow
To the dandelion,
In this part of the world,
the heart of July is frigid.
Frost renders the clay-earth firm as concrete
while gusts from the snowies
raze any hope of warmth.
Things do not thrive here,
yet this is where fate cast your seed
and you, unwillingly, grew your roots,
and became mangled
by what should have nurtured.
But spoiler alert:
survival is no pretty thing.
You are no spring tulip,
no summer orchid,
no autumn rose.
Though it shames you now,
the day will come
where you are proud
of having grown
out of a crack in pavement.
Suggested Collections
Teachers may be divided here, but as a student teacher now, I firmly believe that at the heart of all issues in the classroom is a child crying to be understood.
Comments11
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This is a really powerful piece. I am also a student teacher and I fully agree with you - most problems in the classroom arise due to miscommunication/lack of understanding or acceptance between teachers and their students. Your piece definitely addresses this issue and is cleverly written - great work! 