They can’t see her foot tapping,
Can’t see her scratching,
Can’t wonder “Why isn’t she asking-”
Are the devils on the lips she’s muttering
Yet she doesn’t speak in fear of stuttering
All she feels is her brain shutting-
Down this endless cycle she falls.
Blossoms into a passion of curiosity
Only to be smothered by her misery.
Waterfalls of doubt
Dousing the flame that had barely begun to breathe.
Certainly not her parents’ fault
But perhaps some other adult
Reached out and grabbed the chord
And let the water run its course
Without a second thought of remorse.
Just because they don’t feel the flame
Doesn’t mean she feels the same.
They can’t see her eyes wandering,
Can’t hear her mind quandering
They will never know of the fear she fears of conquering.
They only see the timid girl with the guarded look in her eye
And the way she ducks her head when they walk by.
But the last row desk is the most fertile of them all.
With ample sunlight, clean air, and the safest place in the room,
The tentative seedling has room to grow, establish roots,
And let the fruit of her mind bloom.