My teacher:
“Go and write a poem tonight
a leaf that speaks of intellectualism not fright.”

What she says isn’t easy
the act of writing ingrained through school,
nothing but a tool, unnatural, full of doubt
not a fluid phrase in my body
not a courageous word in my soul
the idea of a single word making me who I am
is a terrifying reality
around every corner, and behind every door
everyone always…always wants more
knocking-knocking on the door are
expectations, judging, indifference and more.

But beyond that is fear of disappointment, criticism, and detestation.
But the more I think the more I write
and the more I write the more I see
and the more I see the more I see of you and me.
Though we are not the same you and I,
I find that we are very much alike
a seemingly coherent piece of work like art we flow
were one ends the other begins
and what one seeks the other provides
because without a teacher a student can’t thrive.

Though we may be but you and me
by Fates own hand you have opened doors
and by my own gratitude I hope to open doors for you.

This is a leaf.