Flowers Will Rise

Arched and twisted—a feeling I still can’t describe,

I lay there salt-soaked and helpless

Seeking for a place to hide.


My name lingers on my teachers’ tongue:

She will never succeed

The world quakes beneath my feet and I begin to believe


I watch through the frosted glass, 

an unstoppable world

Yet, I refuse to leave, and my heart becomes torn




“I want to thank my third-grade teacher for saying I couldn’t

For taking away my pride 

And teaching me to grow by myself”


I walk off the stage with diploma in hand 

Top of my class

Headed towards medicine


I learned to push myself,

To grow through concrete walls

And to shine even when it pours.


To my teacher: thank you, because of your doubt—I am succeeding.

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