Pen and paper.
Stains of ink.
The trouble I put to finish the incomplete.
Just for it to be discarded and unappreciated.
Words and thoughts, to make you proud.
Dear teacher, please give me a chance now.
Don't be so cruel and look at my efforts.
Blood, sweat and tears.
Though it may not be the best, at least I did it.
Why overlook my pain with cheer?
Why focus on those who did it right and ignore those who put effort?
Or scold those who did not?
Teacher hear me once, I just need thought and appreciation.

I'm sorry...

-Sound Advice



Listen oh reader to my advice I have for you,

You'll find it deeply unsettling but I swear it's true.

Now, I am very sorry, I hate to be that guy,

But real friends dont exist, it's all a big fat lie.

Human nature is so fickle, that's just who they are.

People come and then they go just like a shooting star.

So, do not let yourself get attached to anyone,

Treat everyone as an acquaintance under the sun.

And if you take my advice, your life will be stressfree,

No drama, no sorrow, no abuse, I guarantee.

Ms Anderson, Ms Anderson,
Wherefore art thou my teacher?
Grant my pen a poet's gift
Let me scribble my pencil thin,
Writing, kindling your blossom smile.
You, beautiful as you flip my file
Which has me commit to your homework, while
Sitting at home with a radiant smile.

Ms Anderson, Ms Anderson,
Wherefore art thou my teacher?
'tis true, nobody's perfect -- nobody but you.
Naughty I was and punish you did that's true.
"Write, 'I will listen in class.'" you said demure,
"on each line of those two pages; and stop being immature."
I'd Sit and contemplate, drool and scribble,
"Lovely miss Anderson. My miss Anderson"

Ms Anderson, Ms Anderson,
Wherefore art thou my elder?
Were you younger, by a decade or two,
I grant I'd hop and merrily skip,
With you on the park and  buy you a sweet.
I'd look in your eyes, and call you Anderson.
My dear Anderson.

Lord, give me the heart of a seeker
Give me the love of a teacher
The patience of a caring parent
The wisdom of the aged ones
The energy and joy of the young

Lord, give me the heart of a seeker
Give me the vision of the dreamer
The hope from a heart filled with faith
The peace of a life lived in grace
The satisfaction of knowing you

Lord, give me the heart of a seeker
Give me the zeal of the preacher
The depth and breadth like the ocean
And the delight in my daily devotion
The firmness of a foundation on the rock

Lord, give me the heart of a seeker
Give me the hands of a healer
The power of persistent prayer
The knowledge that you are there
The courage to accept the answer

Lord, give me the heart of a seeker
Give me the faith of the truest believer
The purity of principled passion
The clarity of the chosen calling
The strength and fortitude to ascend

Lord, give me the heart of a seeker
Look with favor upon your creature
For, I still need a savior, a redeemer
The love of your law makes me freer
And as I go, draw me in ever deeper

My tongue's not my own neither the deepest longings
And neither these for pursuit nor grasping but to know
Of promises unknowable in the flesh but will be
For which given only glimpses of their shadows
And to know that before Time and for all times
Not futility as seeming for the Teacher is present
And so too the end's the beginning and vice versa
But to hear the Voice for in the dark the ears see

if anyone cares enough
to ask:
“why poetry?”
i'll breathe deep

and i'll tell them about Keats.
i’ll tell them that his was the first poem
i truly ever read.
really understood.

because despite years of schooling,
i hadn’t connected with anyone else’s work,
and it was solely because he wrote what i couldn’t.
the things i couldn't yet form into cohesive thoughts.

i’ll tell them about my english teacher,
who wrote the book that ignited my love for reading,
who read the first draft of every poem i wrote,
and every poem i’ve written since.

who encouraged me
endlessly,
(even if those drafts were entirely unreadable).
and i’ll tell them that i owe her my craft.

i’ll tell them about all of my failed narratives
that still sit incomplete on my computer,
and i’ll tell them about all of the finished
and polished poetry in comparison.

so if one day someone cares enough to ask me:
“why poetry?”
i’ll tell them that i stumbled upon it,
but have chosen it since.

most importantly,
i’ll tell them that it’s what allowed me to dig
up all that i have buried.
feel all the things that i have kept hidden

underneath.

what is the teacher
perception what is the
student creation