Scapegoat

Tue, 12/10/2013 - 19:28 -- oszy_v

Location

It’s the bell, the handles.

The cold floors, the scoundrels.

It’s the white boards with nothing but instructions to ignore.

It’s the children, the adolescents, the troublemakers, the wannabe gang members.

It’s the bullies that sneeze on your face, the bullies that beat up your face.

It’s the black eye, the fear, the people that cheer, and the teachers who stay still.

It’s the whispers that don’t reach anybody, just fistfuls and even bigger consternation to go

along with it.

It’s the chairs, the marked up nasty tables, the gum and dried mucus under the graffiti tags

and papers.

It’s the class clown, the class clock.

It’s all the nerdy, shy, intimidated one’s that wouldn’t  hurt a fly.

It’s the “miss” and “mister”.

It’s their addiction to cigarettes, beer, weed, and liqour.

The affairs with students and other teachers.

It’s the sheets and sheets of problem solving. Ridiculous! To know that this is what they call

teaching!

It’s the principal, walking around putting an act of ridicule.

The masses, mass association, mass circulation, mass detention and suspension, mass

student hatred, mass cognition that’s not used for jack, just as an act.

It’s the round bellies that start popping up in months.

It’s the parents, that don’t give a fuck.

It’s the parents that care a little TOO much.

It’s the peers who push pressure.

It’s the kids who don’t know better.

It’s the same food with the same unhealthy flavor.

It’s the existence of segregation within the four corners of this game’s table.

It’s those that favor, those who play unfair, those who don’t play at all, and those that never

got a chance to start.

It’s those multiple pointless talks.

It’s the subjects: defiance, social stratification, english gibberish, and “meh”.

It’s the stupid voice.

It’s about who has the most.

It’s the parties, the “act hard” attitude towards it.

 It’s the textbooks, the grades, the semesters, the pressure, and the rest of the lectures.

The freedom to be, the freedom that can’t be.

The teachers who oversee the talents within.

It’s those that hide the secrets about this.

The spilling of the words that go down the sink. You say you’re a teacher, you say you’re a

student, but what I see---is something more intuitive.

It’s just my job.

It’s just a “have to do it, it’s a must”.

It’s survival to the fittest, it’s a hunger game, it’s an educational vacancy.

Whoever really cared anyway?

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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