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I have been up all night
between the screams of fighting
and screams of violent lovemaking over my head
I tossed and turned in my bed
remembering earlier I had something to say
but was pushed out the way
because
Netflix
was on the TV
or some other distraction caused her not to hear me
and I’m not sure if she ever wanted to
all I was supposed to do
was exist quietly and not interfere
with the current atmosphere
of apathy and indifference
it all doesn’t make sense to me
as I stand in the playground with boiling rage
another page from the textbook I will rip once inside my class
after I remove chips of broken glass from my shoe
the teacher stands before me unsure of what to do
and I have her undivided attention
such a rarity
in the life of me
really…
I tried so hard on that test
giving it my mental best
but all I am concerned is what I learned amidst the absence of love
and not much else to speak of
once I arrive home from school
it all seems so cruel
so much is expected of me and I am only six
supposed to know all the ropes and tricks
and the teacher looks down at my tortured frame
calling my name
but she can not reach the place where I reside
it is a place where I can hide
and mask the pain I feel
and the pain is real
the pain is real
a pain no six year old should bear
so I stomp my feet
and throw another chair against the wall
the teacher decides this is all she will take
“for heaven’s sake
this child will never learn
I’ll remove him from my class
let him be someone else’s concern”
and so I’m tossed aside again like yesterday’s news
only six years old
and can sing the blues
better than most folk you know or heard
every word
every line I sing
I feel the sting
the absence of love
and it’s cold
like the chill of the playground breeze
freezing me for a moment
and then I hear the school bell sound
the ground below me is hard and cold
I am in the first grade
but I feel so old
I feel so old
I feel so old
looking around the playground seeing more tired old faces like me
hungry
desperate
teachers
helplessly herding us into classrooms
passing us along each June
and each year I look down on my growing
tired old frame
I’m now in the eighth grade
and can barely write my name
if someone would’ve tried
instead of tossing me aside
I really was reachable
I really was teachable
through all the violent displays
my unruly ways
and the classroom time I would burn
really, teacher…
I wanted to learn
I wanted you to like me but didn’t know how
if you only knew
what I was going through
but it’s too late now
