You show up to class late.

I watch as time goes by slowly.

“The white walls,” you say ,“create a sanctuary.”

The air is stale.

The chairs are cold and the students stare.

You pull out a notebook and scribble notes across the board.

You face the wall and begin to speak

Your words are mumbled.

Your clothes wrinkled like took a stumble.

The white walls, I think, are a sanctuary.

I chuckle to myself and feel like a patient.

White walls, stale air, and a teacher that doesn’t seem to care.

The white walls, I think, are a death sentence.

An obituary filled with knowledge.