observations from the back of a concrete classroom | Teen Ink

observations from the back of a concrete classroom

February 10, 2016
By chaaar SILVER, Gretna, Louisiana
chaaar SILVER, Gretna, Louisiana
8 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught. "


this story is written with acidic ink so that the message will burn eternally in your brain; there will be ever-lasting halo-effects on your decisions. we’ll drench your mind until it leaves a truly captious stain. your short term might forget it or the prologue might go through one ear and out the other. reciting silly verses from the bible before you sleep won’t save you from society, so don’t hold god liable, you’re not your mother. you fed your fears by refusing to rebel against the security of the sidewalk. without a map for the future, your lack of certainty will fill your eyes with dust from kids playing with green chalk on the street. you were never gauche, but, once, you tried to ignore these fears, but you found the panic attack that forced goosebumps to rise upon your skin wasn’t very sweet. your story may be as deep as alice’s rabbit hole, but you wouldn’t dare call it poetic. you were no longer willing to be trapped by your fears, but your perception was blurred by a lack of sleep, so after a few steps toward the street, you ended up needing a medic. the cast around your left leg is an imperative keepsake of you, being pathetic. this story was concocted of sugar and of spice and of love and all the other dangerous things you may encounter in the mind of a once lofty teen, turned bombastic. you didn’t start out as a misanthrope, but you nearly ended as one because you were infected with depression and went down a negative suicidal slope; you were a tightrope walker who could never grasp the concept of how to cope. now you’re juxtaposing your beautiful skin with false hope. it’s good that you’re now filled with felicity, but i was born after the antebellum of your mental war, yet i have deference for whoever had to cleaned up your self-lambaste because i know that it had to be quite a chore. these pages were painfully torn from the bark of a poor, dead tree, to tell your story. and you may say that these words are beautiful, but you’ll have notice that the prettier they get, the messier your mind will be.



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