Swallow them back, those words you speak. Erase all evidence on that pallid whiteboard. Be as if you were never here. Cultivating our minds? To heck with that! The stuff you speak is of another realm. You can’t wrap it around our minds; blanket us with its deeper knowledge. It won’t keep us safe from the shocking cold of the real world. Enough with you, Mr. Teacher. Go back to your simple life and your wasted dreams. You crouch below the bottom rung. The ladder of life doesn’t make room for smut of your type: the teachers who lay waste to arable mind-lands. And we won`t wallow in our sorrow with you. I decline the invitation to your party of pities. We see your edgy hands scrawling numbers on the board, while through your grungy beard you tell us to sit in peace and soak in the crooked symbols. We only see the movement of lips underneath the shifting hair, and all noise seems to soak into it like your morning breakfast. Our grades reflect your shoddy effort. Yet you remain cool when staring at your class of flunks. We can all see you for who you are. A washed up single man who thrives below the bottom rung. And we tell you each day to look past us, because a man like you doesn`t deserve the title of being an educator. You could learn a lesson or two yourself. Begin with me, and I`d snap a brace to your spine to correct your loafing posture. Many would fasten a megaphone in between your teeth so you could preach to the farthest corners of the room. Others would slap your shaky hands until they built rigidity so you could create letters absolutely legible. Some would tear the hair out of your face, and sign you up for a monthly wax job. But this is only a world of "could" and "should", and we have no power over you. Crunching keys and impatient pencils click over your inaudible voice. The hive shifts uncomfortably while you go on, firmly believing in your fabricated material. By the end of it, we`ve all exhausted ourselves with thoughts of erasing you from the earth. If only it would be that easy. To erase your life with one quick swipe of the whiteboard. You along with your troubling algorithms and nonsensisms gone in one quick sweep. You would never leave a trace of grey.


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