I see the students looking at me as I teach
I see their bored, dull faces
I see anxiety, and the deep, passionate boredom of angsty teens
I hear them behind me as I write on the board for them to learn

About Walt, about list-poems, and life, you see
They are whispering and think I do not hear

I am the best of the best,
and you can put it to the test
but you will find
that only I am sublime.

Yet, why do I feel this way,
angry and repressed
tired and distressed.
Irritation is my constant state.
and it is increasing at an alarming rate.

Maybe if I could just null the emotion,
To sink beneath the waves of ocean,
To get lost in all the commotion,
To fall in love with self-devotion,
but, no,
forget I even made the notion,
of doing something like letting go.

For it's too easy a way out,
and I will not leave a doubt
that I am here to stay,
much to my own dismay.

Why?
Because, I am the best of the best.
And I have put that to the test.
for better or worse,
my intelligence is a curse.

Tedious and tiring.  Arrayed before me like a king’s court, books open, but eyes on me.  ******* on the **** of my wisdom, absorbing little.  A lazy October sun peeks through the windows, highlighting the auburn hair of the girl in the front row...the one who sits, legs slyly parted, hoping I will notice her lace ******* and...
But no, I am sated and cannot rise to interest for her.  Silly thing, thinking her ****** and obvious try at seduction will rouse me. Yes, she is a pretty specimen, but I have a garden of such flowers. Wilted roses that give me no more pleasure.
Soon the bell will ring and these pathetic creatures will pour out the door and I will wait for the next herd, bored by their very existence.  I feel like a cowherd readying to lead the bored and boring cattle to sentient awareness, dim though it may be.  

I do not bother to look up.  There is no need - they are all the same.  I begin to lecture when there is an interruption.  Can these creatures not get to class on time?
Hoping to berate the latecomer, to vent my squirming spleen and make the day less cloying...  She is there...this new student.  This rose who must be in my garden of perfection.  Breath leaves my lungs and I am struck dumb.  I, who am strong and stalwart...a prime alpha male am rendered a stuttering child.
Her name - Rose McClellan.  My Rose.  She hands me her class card and chooses a desk far in the back.  My heart is beating loudly, my hands have a sheen of sweat.  Nothing about this day is ordinary now.

honestly it feels like to me kids nowadays are being killed by words, perceptions, appearances, by a war being fought in the streets based on these things. we've pitted ourselves against each other because of these intangible yet malleable things and it's hard for me not to wonder when these feelings began. was it in our ancestors during the ice age, fighting for survival. survival. wow. survival
          - r.i.p to all the brothers who have lost their life because of modern day mankind's perception of- survival

we could all be a teacher
we’re all wise about something
taught lessons we didn’t ask for
as we make our way through life
and we can teach people going through
similar things
what we learned from those lessons
we’re all just naive students and teachers
in this school called life
that have learned so much
and have so much to tell about
yet have so much to learn

I.

Few of us seek for any of those keys
Of which graduation orators speak
Nor would most bother with the battery
In that old lamp of which they’ve never heard

They do not push against a golden door
They expect all doors to be opened for them
They read no books, they do not read, they feel
They only feel, they do not write, they stare

So emptily away, then back again
An empty stare into, within the self
The empty chatter of the ceaseless self
Each self in pain from arrogant self-pity

Each centers himself in a universe
His universe of the eternal now
His universe of the eternal me
And thinks not of beyond himself at all

But, still –

II.

There are those few who seek for eternal Truth
Not for some shabby metaphorical keys;
They light the lamp, they lift the lamp, and look
Not at themselves but at the light, the Light

They shyly, slowly open the wardrobe door
They peek inside, they look, they see, they see
A world beyond their own; they step into
And through, and so they are given themselves

They seek for something else, and find themselves
A world of words and music and magic and light
And the Light is not them but upon them
The Light is the center, and gives them light

They give away themselves and so gain crowns
Unasked and so more happily received
They read and write and sing the happiness
Unasked and thus given, among the stars

III.

Forever

Teaching over the years,
Has brought joy and tears.
Some students learn and score,
Some study harder and get more,
Such children can go far,
They are like a shining star.
Some need special  attention to get by,
With extra help they try,
The rest do not care,
Their parents least bothered how they fare.
Most times teaching is a difficult task,
Not a luxury in the sun to bask.
Foremost you are an educator,
In between you become a father or  mother,
Perhaps a counsellor,
Your shoulders always there to cry on,
A mobile in case they need to phone,
Patience and long talks  with hugs to relieve fears,
A handkerchief to wipe tears.
Teachings is lots of marking papers and paper work,
Most you cannot shirk.
It too is abundant  with happiness,
To see your students faces
When they achieve top positions,
All set for new careers to different destinations,
When they visit with gifts,
Your joy gets double lifts,
To hear them say,
"Had it not been for you I would have been nothing,
Today I am something."