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William Frederick Waersen
As I arrive in the classroom,
I see a small figure on the board.
I look closer and sketch my reply.
Another day and another note.
Two figures, affectionate and sweet.
Two people who never met,
Talking on a black chalkboard.
Every time I turn
The corner,
No matter where I am,
These figures stay behind me.
Always whispering,
Wondering why I am not
A wax figurine
Which someone put through a mould
And telling me
I am not good enough
The way I am.
And yet they wave
Their arms and scream that
They want me to be
Who I am, be myself,
That they don't want me