Invisible Things

Time is running out and so is the ink in our pens.

We had a poetry open mic in my room yesterday during lunch. Six people showed up. In a school of 2300 students, six showed up.

You're telling me only six people are alive?

I don't know. Maybe poetry is a waste of time.

But here's what I know because I think I read it in a book once:
our hearts bleed for a living
and I bet they love their job.
They've been bleeding since we came out and don't try to fix them because that's what they do,
and besides, they don't make band-aids for your insides. Or do they.

Here's what I noticed about you:

• Your heart is flat.
• Your heart has weeds growing all around it.
• Your heart is on fire, and not the good kind of fire.
• Your heart is a toddler in the bathtub. (I know you just stepped out for a second. I get it. The phone was ringing and it wasn't going to answer itself. But if you don't wake the &%$# up and check on her, she's going to drown. And I'm sorry, but CPR doesn't work forever. If you wait too long you might as well go pick out a plot and bury that bloody lump of flesh, because it ain't coming back no matter how many love letters you write.)

If you can hear my voice, I ain't talking to you.

I'm talking to the muscle heads who sit by the knight and make me nervous to walk through the commons during lunch.
I'm talking to the three girls who eat lunch outside my classroom but never come in because blah blah giggle blah blah blah.
I'm talking to the school librarian.
I'm talking to the teachers who eat in the faculty room and complain about the students in their 3rd period classes.
I'm talking to the school cop who's just waiting for someone to mess up,
because believe it or not, even he has a heart.

I'm sick of reading about you in the newspaper.
I'm sick of seeing you on the 6 o'clock news.
I'm sick of seeing kids in Spanish Lab instead of Poetry Lab. Really? Spanish Lab?

Me estas tomando el pelo? (are you kidding me?)
Sabes que, stupido? (guess what, stupid)
Te estas muriendo. (you are dying)
Te estas muriendo. (you are dying)

Your heart left a post-it note on my computer and here's what it said:
Why do you only call me when you're drunk?

I wrote this poem in front of my A1 class and too many students missed it.
Three kids were talking about invisible things.
A girl was laughing even though she didn't think anything was funny.
Two kids were asleep.
Another kid was in the bathroom.
One kid was squinting to see the board because he's too proud to wear glasses and too scared to ask me if he can sit closer to the front.
One girl was home sleeping because everything is too much.
Another kid was thinking about his dad.
They didn't care.
They were confused.
Scared.
Bored.
Looking at June on their calendars and nothing on their phones.
Giggling because this isn't really teaching and hearts can't really talk, Mr. Nelson, you're so funny, you're the funniest teacher, omigosh, can I go to the bathroom, what did I miss last time?, why don't you teach juniors? how do you write a vignette?

Sophomores turn into seniors who forgot their sophomore year.
And they turn into juniors who speak fluent robot.
And college students who think books are too expensive and can never find a parking spot.

And moms and dads and weird uncles who think they're funnier than they really are.

Our hairstyles look different, but our hearts look the same. At least that's what I read in a textbook once. And I'm sad to say that there are too many hearts that I've never seen, so I guess I don't know for sure.