The insomniatic somnolence coats me.
16kHz of sound running through my eardrums.
Empty words written on the walls of bathroom cubicals.
The lifes of people who come and go,
Snagged on the emtpy soap dispensers.

***** lino floors folded at the edges.
The rattling sounds of doors locking around me.
Plastic seats flipped down to carry weights,
Of the people who come to just sit down.
The rusted hinges on doors I can't seem to leave through.

This is both my prison and my safety.

Sometimes teachers aren't the ones in front of the classroom.
Sometimes they're the people scribbling in their notebook
Sometimes they're disguised in this facade of poetry
Sometimes they're the ones failing the class,
Most times they are.
But that's only because most times they see a life outside of lesson,
realize that school is temporary tattoo knowledge
that to reach success,
you can't be afraid to be stung by needles
Most times real teachers have already been stung by needles
They reveal stories molded into their skin
but hide them with their shirt sleeves
Most times they are silenced,
only seen like a one-way mirror
their voices undermined by authority,
but still earthquakes,
shaking, yet knocking everyone of their feet
Sometimes "teachers" are confused with "students"
confused with "football player"
confused with "hipster"
confused with "band geek"
Sometimes classes do not choose teachers,
because if classes chose teachers
we would call them preachers
and most times
that's all we need.