Tell my favourite teacher that I'm still her darling boy who used to look up to the rainy sky, miss home and cry still as cunning and playful but now prose and poetry are the toy and if she saw me play she would wonder and sigh at that boy who made everything he touched filthy for I find crisp clean pages and on them throw mud of words who's still of indifference, condemned and guilty Her little boy whose fascination was chasing butterflies and birds tell my teacher I'm still her child, still not biting my tongue but regurgitating all the bitter truth the world detests busting in rage at hypocrisy and puffing pride out my lungs I'm still bearing the eminent enmity my bluntness begets tell her I'm still firmly clinging to the slipping dreams she instilled barely floating, with waves of reality attempting to drown my talent and have her killed *tell her I'm still doing pieces out of my daily struggles and torments and posting them on social media, I'm that brave even attempting to do double Shakespearean sonnets writing about my illusive dreams and the unreachable I crave someone tell my favourite teacher that I'm still her son going against the currents of injustice instead of flowing with the river taking the bull by his horns, doing whatever I can yet sometimes giving in to detestable ways,corroding my liver tell Victorious that I'm still impossible to comprehend loving fictional writings while holding my classwork in contempt why loath lectures,but love learning,why not pretend? not even university education could be exempt I think about my teacher everyday,she's still my Mama but I hardly talk to her for my life's preoccupied with karma's drama