acrylic paint turned plastic
im teaching movement and improv theatre on the southside at a school called reavis middle school. infected with gangs drugs violence abuse neglect and pretty much everything else difficult to experience, my everyday is a struggle. my agenda was to teach them to communicate ideas freely with and without speaking using their talents as a harness and their bodies as the ultimate tool. it is a terrifying thing, teaching. being in front of dozens of little black kids all deeply wanting your approval, but too cool to act like they want it. sometimes getting a class of 8th graders to just stretch without fighting with eachother or making a joke out of every single fucking movement is so frustrating i just want to scream until my blood boils. but i dont. i wait a couple seconds for my blood to cool and ask them to be respectful. be respectful. for some reason, they dont respond to yelling-stomping-tapping-clapping-or even silence... just a simple request for respect.
i can see some of them burning to learn more, to see what else i can show them. ill teach them all i can, but when it comes down to it i just want to make them understand that they have a options beyond their wildest imaginations. and that they are very important. because im probably one of the few who can.
most days we have to come in early during recess from the playground because the local gang bangers are fighting and whipping out pistols. in a fucking middle school park. i want to tell them how fucking trivial and downright evil they are.... but i cant because i have to make sure every kid gets inside. and theres the whole being shot thing.
to them, its all a part of life. ive been handed two funeral invitations within the last two weeks.
to me, i come home each day thinking i can never do enough.
the taste of the floor reminds me of the skin that leaves me in the oceans of my soul without a shore.
so alone so we'll hold those barren bodies bereft of any soul to get back what the "middle of the nights" stole: the forgetting feeling of feeling whole.
but the loneliness of our togetherness creates an empty nest
for the emptiness freezing in this chest.
so can you make me feel good? make me feel complete?
help me return to a dream of love worth more than
dirt
and meat
i can see some of them burning to learn more, to see what else i can show them. ill teach them all i can, but when it comes down to it i just want to make them understand that they have a options beyond their wildest imaginations. and that they are very important. because im probably one of the few who can.
most days we have to come in early during recess from the playground because the local gang bangers are fighting and whipping out pistols. in a fucking middle school park. i want to tell them how fucking trivial and downright evil they are.... but i cant because i have to make sure every kid gets inside. and theres the whole being shot thing.
to them, its all a part of life. ive been handed two funeral invitations within the last two weeks.
to me, i come home each day thinking i can never do enough.
the taste of the floor reminds me of the skin that leaves me in the oceans of my soul without a shore.
so alone so we'll hold those barren bodies bereft of any soul to get back what the "middle of the nights" stole: the forgetting feeling of feeling whole.
but the loneliness of our togetherness creates an empty nest
for the emptiness freezing in this chest.
so can you make me feel good? make me feel complete?
help me return to a dream of love worth more than
dirt
and meat