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xjf Aug 2023
A promiscuous note
floats across the table
I would conjure the answer, if I were able

Time strenuously stretched past comfortability
Yet I
know your fingers hold the agility
to reply in quickened fashion

Your hands lack the desired passion, they lack the action
A pen stroke holds the balance of hope
But all I got back from you was

Caosín Jul 2021
my teachers say i'm good at writing
they say i'm at
GCSE level.
But they don't understand how i work
i don't write.
The writing writes me,
the writing writes the writer.
I take inspiration as it comes,
and when it flees i'm left with nothing.
I'm thrown into a room of children
lower than my level
and they expect me to
What a ******* joke.
Juliana Apr 2021
twenty students in
perfect little rows
worker bees in training

a crooked child
shakes his hand
a silent celebration

he knows the answer

it is not one
of math or science

he cannot tell you
who won the war
but he can tell you
what makes the world

he can tell you
that knowledge is
about more than
just facts

that what’s interesting
isn’t always what’s

behind those
failing grades and
messy locker
is a child who longs
to learn
a child who is
a child who
isn’t meant to be
just another
worker bee

some children
are meant for more
then the target
of a flower
moon man Feb 2020
She looks on into the clock, wondering when the bell would signal her release from boredom. She finds herself playing with the hoodie of a classmate, hoping he'd focus on her to have someone keep her mind from the mundane atmosphere of the classroom. She always loved messing with his hoodie during class because his reactions were always funny. She tosses the piece of clothing from one hand to the other when She comes to realize the patient nature of the classmate and thanks him for not leaving her in a world of loneliness and apologizes for having to put up with her.
I have a friend in class that sits behind me and she always liked to mess with my hoodie whenever the class would bore her, one day she apologized about having to put up with her. I never really minded when she played with it.
Gift Gugu Mona Dec 2019
My kind of girl
Understands who she is
Stands for what she believes in
She cannot be broken
No one can belittle her
When trials come her way
She remains unfazed

My kind of girl
Walks with confidence
She exudes excellence
An epitome of elegance
She does due diligence
Being mindful of her intelligence
Because she knows her importance

My kind of girl
Builds her own future
A certified trailblazer
Who utilizes the power within her
To be of good influence
Always on top of her game
Yes, she keeps soaring like an eagle

My kind of girl
Takes charge of her own life
Secures her name in historical archives
For she is no ordinary woman
An extraordinary being
She dares to dream
In the world, she makes a difference

That is my kind of girl
From My Mother's Classroom: A Badge of Honour for a Remarkable Woman
Max Neumann Dec 2019
entering a classroom that
is not a classroom

my pupils inside: i haven't seen them for a long time
i want them to listen to me
yet the pupils aren't listening; they don't (want to) perceive me.
all the time i look at them, they look into another direction.

they aren't rebelling or trying to sabotage my lesson;
my lesson that isn't a lesson.

it's an encounter between an older person and
younger persons who aren't young anymore but
who haven't grown up yet.

the pupils changed into beings-in-between.

i can sense that they have become independent.
the pupils don't need a teacher anymore;
they aren't ready for making a living either.  

many teachers need to be needed.
most pupils want to be autonomous.

teachers will be disappointed by the end of a day.
pupils dislike school by the end of most lessons.

dear athena, that's wired. isn't it?
therefore we need to think about it. we need to ask ourselves:

WHAT has to be changed?
Have a great day at school. More or less.
sophie Dec 2019
piercing eyes
burn straight through me.
i feel exposed
and peeled open,
as my last rational thoughts
drizzle through the gaps
between my fingers
and pile up on the ground
like wet sand.
i take my shaky steps
like the earth is depending on me
to prevent her from quaking.
and as the hands on the clock
reach out to strangle me,
i break a sweat
and try to choke out words.
i fail,
and the judging eyes judge.
the fragile silence is broken by whispers.
EJ Lee Apr 2019
Gazing out the window, it’s beautiful outside, letting my mind wandering into the distance daydreaming about the endless possibilities. Then someone slams a ruler on my desk that caught me by surprised I nearly jump out of my chair startled. It was the teacher glaring down at me spitefully.
“Eyes up here, Grace! You need to pay attention!” said the teacher. “Didn’t you hear me? Open your text book to page 300 and keep up!” My classmates started to giggle then the teacher walked back to the front of the classroom, chalk in hand and began to write on the chalkboard, letters that I couldn’t quite make out. The teachers words start to muffle as I try and locate my binder and pencil for notes but then I hear the teacher call my name “Grace” and I look up with fear in my eye hoping she did not just call on me to answer her question.
“Grace could you please come to the front and spell the word ‘BECAUSE’ on the board?” I knew this word but I don’t remember how to spell it. I really hate going to the front of the class because I always make a mistake. I slowly get up from my desk, my hands start to sweat, and the room goes silent as I walked, with my shoes squeaking on the tile floor louder than usual, up to the teacher. I take the chalk from the teacher’s hand. As I begin to write I freeze.
Paralyzed with fear I ask the teacher “I’m sorry, can you repeat the word that you wants me to spell?”
The teacher scoffed at me and even louder said, “The word is, ‘BECAUSE’!” I nodded my head trying to remember but my mind was blank, I remember using my markers to trace out the letters of each word but this one was particularly hard to remember. I started to write B…E…K…then I’m stuck, I start to panic and I write the remaining letters that sounded right A…Z. then I immediately place the chalk down on the teacher’s desk and walk as fast as I could back to my desk. The students all start to roar in laughter, as they know I made a mistake. I look on the board and it reads ‘BEKAZ’ I know its wrong but I don’t have the answer to change it.
The teacher, unamused by the students stares at the chalk board then turns and looks straight at me as says “Grace, you will not go outside for recess instead, you will sit in the beanbag and read, if I see you slacking off, you will be tracing out your letters for the spelling test that is this Friday.” After her remark the bell rang and it was time for lunch.
A functional narrative of the reality of a child with dyslexia in a classroom with a teacher that does not understand there student
Arisa Mar 2019
i sit here in this classroom,


away from the others
while the tutor's voice blends into the walls
and i fail to melt into it with others' ears.
I wish I could focus in class.
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