She saved my life
and I have no clue how to thank her properly
I don't think she really knows
or how much she means to me
nor how much she's done for me
and when I try to explain it
I sound foolish and can't get my words to sound right

*(s.m)

I let you go
to Philadelphia
I let you go
thirteen goin' on “life”
to your momma-- (God rest her-- and keep you
--from wherever she is)
to your father in Philly
outa the picture

Sheepish in the doorway of my classroom
back again
one last time--

Say good-bye, kid, to your short stay in Scranton
a town that can't rhyme
whose name falls over its own misery
No use for outsiders

“Where's your book?
Found your binder in the rain
Soggy protest to school's demands?
Of course it's yours
I checked, ya know”

"No way!"

Desk's been empty, three weeks now
Still, gotta ask
“Whacha doin?
Where ya been?”

“Khmir,
I'm sorry for your loss....”
Thirty seconds shares our grief
Thirty seconds for your future's-- all I got

“Listen to your teachers!
Do your work!
Please-- be okay?”

Khmir
in your wooly black coat-- like a bear
like a dare
shruggin and dancin in the doorway
of the “show”

Homework? Aint happenin'
But one paper, though
on why--
YOU-- should be president

and I almost vote for you

To teach is a thing you can't do alone -
No matter how deeply the fire may burn.
The desire and effort to teach must be matched,
by another’s desire and effort to learn.

You say it so mockingly
"Listening to you makes me want to die"
I sit there knowingly
Your thoughts are so different than mine

You don't mean it when you say
You want to **** yourself
But believe me when I say
I've meant it all before

You don't know how it hurts me
While you laugh so openly
About something so grim
Familiar to me like a friend

You may not believe it
You certainly don't see
But when you speak of death
It cuts into me

I mean it quite honestly
From your degrading words
I can say it undoubtedly
That listening to you
Makes me want to die
You make me want to **** myself
But you'll never know why
I will never tell you
To the day that I die

i once had a teacher say to the class "use this free time to space out"
and i couldn't help but laugh and wonder
the dangers of that activity once i ventured into the depths of my mind.
see, a good idea that was not for me.
i've spent enough countless moments and wasted time in my own head to memorise how skipping away into it went.
you do not skip, first off; a tightening rope bounds your legs and demands you to stumble into an endless pit.
rain plummets like bombs upon your unfeeling grey skin,
and a dark shadow's sharp nails dig into your chest
and leave a gaping hole, unwilling to be fulfilled.
your throat closes like the door behind you, so there's not escape,
no screams ready to echo off your prison cells walls,
no hands steady enough to reach out for an exit,
just the blind mistake of opening up a trapdoor,
like an alleyway where you live in fear of each corner you turn into,
and falling into the arms of laughing silhouettes of embodied tears,
whispering lies of how you'll be safe with them,
dimming the light and muting all sounds until
only your thoughts can keep you company,
burning static and fuzzy against your aching brain,
and handing you the long list of reasons
why a smile shouldn't be on your face.
so teacher, may i laugh again at the suggestion,
and shake my head in disagreement,
because believe me,
i do not want to live through that
again.

I make room in my heart for other mothers’ children:
For young women who can’t yet see beyond their own insecurities,
For adolescent men who trip across the line between charming and churlish,
For students who are angry when they meet me,
For learners who have only known failure,
For special snowflakes who see their own importance clearly
But lack the words to understand their privilege,
For children who are cracked and bent by trauma
That’s been doled out by the world,
And for those whose drama is self-created,
Because being sixteen is a trial we must all endure.

I will love the impatient, the unruly,
the somnambulant and fragrant,
The artistic and awkward, the brilliant and bored,
The sensible and serious, the spoiled and the sad,
The self-righteous and the riotous,
The lazy and the learned, the kiss *** and the clown.

I study their faces to see when an eyebrow arches in contempt or confusion.
I listen, carefully, to what they are NOT saying about success.
I find a spark of brilliance in a sea of deficient-skills
And wear my cheeks out blowing on the embers,
Stoking the glow of competence that can
Burn. This. World. Down.

I hold my breath on weekends
Willing and waiting for these young men and women to
“Be safe and make good choices,”
And come back in one piece on Monday,
Because my concern is packed into the pockets
Of a hundred twenty backpacks,
And more than the homework and the essays,
I need my heart returned for class.

In your silence, remember my voice.
In your tears, remember my laughter.
In your sorrow, remember my joy.
In your grief, remember my words.
In confusion, remember my lessons.
In your anger, remember my patience.
In your loneliness, remember my presence.

In your memories, remember me.
For in your memories, I will live on.
And my legacy, passed on.

And finally,
In my passing, remember to live.

Like a fire
During the rain,
A hail
On a deserted place,
Like an astronaut
That’s scared of heights,:
Structures of teachers
While giving future to the youth

Their blood has the color of gold
A treasure in disguise
A diamond
Shining each and everyday
They are saviors
A legend for sure
Taught us to mirror the future
Make it better than that

While learners turn to black and gray,
They use their chalk
To make it vibrant
Like a wrecked road
Alone in the middle of nowhere,
Fixed it
Then made it
A road to triumph