glazwrites's blog

Author's Note: This is an edited version of my previous blog entry, A Jumbled Classroom.

I inhaled the musty odor of egg-white chalk,
smeared in scribbled streaks across the forest-green board.
I silently scrutinized the rectangular desk carved from a dead tree,
chaotically cluttered and stained a mahogany hue.

As the water cascades down Niagara Falls,
the desk flowed over in a muddle of junk.
A whirlwind of papers formed gigantic mountains,
which I believed no professor could ever climb through.

The detached attitude of the aged professor,
clearly revealed itself in his upkeep of the space.
I sensed that the spark in his spirit had long been forgotten,
tossed aside like a broken jack-in-the-box.

CRACK! A teapot toppled from his desk,
in an angry protest about its untidy surroundings.
The professor seemed alarmed at its sudden departure,
only then realizing the unworldly nature of the atmosphere he so drudgingly entered each day.

Red silk drapes around her,
It supports while she contorts.
Together they are one,
Separate they heed no magic.

The air is tense while she flies through it,
She makes no noise yet we scream inside:
"Will she live? Will she survive?"

She accepts the fear,
Aware but distant,
Within herself and without.
She lives only for it,
She lives because of it,
It lives because of her.

They carry her away,
But is she ever gone?
Now, two empty drapes flutter,
In the singing wind.

I breathed in the wispy smell of egg-white Crayola chalk,
smeared in scribbled streaks across the forest-green board.
I silently scrutinized the dead tree carved into a rectangular desk,
chaotically cluttered and stained in a mahogany hue, in an attempt at design.

As the water cascades down the falls in Niagara,
the desk flooded over in a muddle of junk.
A whirlwind of papers formed gigantic mountains,
which I believed no professor could ever sort through.

The detached attitude of the professor,
clearly revealed itself in his upkeep of the space.
I sensed that the spark in his spirit had long been forgotten,
tossed aside like a broken jack-in-the-box.

CRACK! The teapot sitting on his desk,
fell to the ground in an angry protest about its untidy surroundings.
The professor seemed alarmed at its sudden departure,
only then realizing the unworldly nature of the atmosphere he so drudgingly entered each day.

It's hard to do,
To make a change.
To make a difference,
To be flexible.

I am safe
in my old ways.
I am secure.

Don't want to move,
Don't want to
change.

Walk in to the room,
to oohs and aahs,
It's all different now.
On the inside
and out.

It's fresh and new,
It's short,
and sweet.

A week of chaos,
A flurry of commotion,
Like the snow outside my window.
Falling down, gently down,
Until it reaches the ground.
It hits rock bottom,
It's got nowhere to go.

Entering the starch white room,
Feeling trapped,
No way back,
The bars are coming down over me.

Sitting in the chair,
I rock back and forth,
My mind aching,
My breath short and quick.

Is she really that different?
She talks and walks,
She eats, she sleeps,
But, does she fit in?

Some think she's perfect,
But I see the inner struggle,
The times she has run into her mother's room,
On the verge of tears.

Just because she excells at it,
Does not mean that it comes easy.

Perfection equals Phineas,
Not really.
He struggled,
She struggles,
We all have problems.