An insight that leveled the playing fields of experience
I know I am not the only one
Who wandered through corridors of hardened brick,
Dreaded every bell that commanded movement,
And settled myself in the most inconspicuous seats of cold classrooms.
Except for English class.
Another world, another chance.
Suddenly, the misfit wearing the Scarlet Letter could talk,
And the church congregation were stunned into silence,
Too surprised the outcasts could speak;
Too sickened to muster up a sample of a response;
Even if they had one
-In English class, we knew they did not.
And the example spread from my lips,
To the very edges of ink-stained fingertips;
Astounding everyone with talent I never knew I had
-But Mrs. E. knew-
As if she had been the first one to see the true sense in works by Cummings;
Or traced every obscure reference of “The Wasteland” to origin;
She saw magic in both the mute and the melancholy.
She helped dry seeds sprout similes across an entire page.
She accepted sadness as an equal to schoolgirl smiles;
Understood that beauty can also be found in darkness and despair
-an insight that leveled the playing fields of experience.
And so, I wrote.
Things I had never said;
Secrets that scabbed over when they were not told;
All coded in the beauty of words:
The way they can twist, turn, taste,
In essence, manipulate.
So, scars can be left on blue-lined paper,
Handed in, filed, read aloud when I am not around.
And I could walk the halls with my head a little higher,
My shame stuffed back into my safety box at the back of my mind,
And my eyes meeting those who may have something to say;
But not now,
Not for a while,
Not while they process the pain printed into my last essay.
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