Chapter 1
Poetry Classroom
The sky is grey.
The trees are empty.
The leaves are dying.
This is the cycle of life.
The sky may be grey.
The trees may be empty.
The leaves may be dying.
But it’s only to survive the days of coldness.
Your heart is grey.
Your thoughts are empty.
Your soul is dying.
This is the cycle of life.
You heart may be grey.
Your thoughts may be empty.
Your soul may be dying.
But it’s only to survive the days of heartbreak.
I stood in front of the class, while tears invaded my vision and my heart shattered. Hold it together, Lucas. The teacher stood up, applauding. A few students remained in their seats, but most of them had found their feet and applauded, too. It felt good; I felt relieved. I never thought my work was worth such acclaim, nor had I ever considered myself a poet, much less a talented one. It felt like I was just pretending, and yet they liked my words.
“Great job, Lucas!” Mr. Davidson exclaimed, walking to the front of the class while I returned to my seat. “Speak from the heart, play with the words, let your soul guide you, and you’ll write magnificent poetry. There are no secrets.”
Mr. Davidson was around my age. An attractive man, his black frame glasses gave him a nerdy look. His eyes were pale blue and reminded me of a perfect summer sky. A dark grey beanie hid most of his hair, giving him a bohemian appearance. His large shoulders caused the sleeve of his shirt to tighten around his biceps, giving the impression of a fit physique. He was smart, of that I had no doubt. I was impressed by his presence, and his devotion to poetry had made for a great first class.
“Class is dismissed. Your homework: write about you. Be subtle . . . or not. Remember to express your feelings, communicate from your soul. Be creative. Poetry can be the most personal and indirect form of fictional expression. You have to enjoy it.”
I grabbed my pen and notebook before walking out of the room. It was already getting late, and I could feel my exhaustion spread throughout my body. My eyes were tired, and every muscle ached. This was a new sensation for me; I used to run every day without feeling a bit of fatigue.
“Lucas!” I heard someone call after me.
Turning, I saw the teacher standing in the doorway. “Mr. Davidson.”
“What you wrote was profound and riveting. You did quite well.”
“Thank you Mr. —”
He cut me off with a wave of his hand. “You can call me Preston. Between you and me, I think we’re about the same age. It would help with the awkwardness if you would just call me by my first name.”
“I agree.”
We both laughed, and our eyes connected. We talked for few more minutes, but I could tell that he was trying to figure me out.
“Going through a rough break up?” he asked.
While that was part of it, I didn't want to elaborate. Preston was my teacher, after all.
