Dear Ms. B

I came to your class on the first day of the eighth month with hopes of enlightenment and acceptance, 

instead I got... shit,

I got the books with the writings of dead men through pins with dead ink that gave me thoughts of choking myself until I could actually equal out a dead woman,

I came with the intention that you knew what you where doing,

that you would improve my thoughts on Shakespeare that you would make me think twice about Tom Sawyer,

that you would help me understand Invisible Man, 

but to you I was just another invisible woman,

though I gave you all my smiles, 

and showed so much of my blooming interest that it teared a hole in my shirt big enough for me to get arrested for indecent exposure of a decent fascination of the art,

but I could only sit with the thoughts of grief,

to know you didn’t give a damn,

Its not called kissing up when I actually care,

It’s not called being a teachers pet when the domestication on my body is taking by knowledge that I hunger to know and not the beholder,

Its not called sucking up when the breath of life is not present to receive,

I just don’t get you Ms. B,

I really don’t,

It’s not the fault in our stars but the fault in our hearts Ms. B,

you went to college in hopes of a safe trip,

in your class you gazed at the font size other than the actual island of the enchanted that appears as you flip the pages falling deeper and deeper into the writers trap,

you saw pages as paper with words written on them by authors other than canvas that are blessed with the inspiration of the minds that we may never understand or relate to,

Minds so beautiful they couldn’t live past their prime in the fear of making this world a better place,

I pity you Ms. B,

I really do,

I pity you will never feel your eyes burn and your head spin with so much emotional stress from reading works of art from greatness,

I pity that you will never read something so descriptive and detailed that it inspires you to inspire other,

I hoped for you to inspire me ms. B,

to inspire me to be an artist,

to be an inventor,

to be an engineer,

to be a hero,

but I see that you only chose to let it be,

Ms. B

Since you so longed to be else where