Anh Part 2: The Teacher

You can read part 1 here.

During break time I took up my pen and sat in silence
Writing nothing because nothing came to mind:
No plan for the lesson ahead; no plan for anything besides;
Nothing to end the torment spinning in my brain.
In that time I desired to know only one thing,
One thing alone I deemed important enough to learn:
Why should I have a plan for my students, for my lessons,
When my teacher seems to have no plan for me?
Then began my journey of great discovery
With fire born from anger and no guarantee;
When I arrived in the next classroom with no papers
And a book that I had all but burned in my rage
The students were unable to contain their glee –
Which must be something that wears away over time
And with age, for never have I summoned such excitement
Since my youth, and long ago it seemed as joyous children
Paraded around the room bubbling and carefree;
It made me realize how odd it is to find
That when my teacher has no plan it bothers me;
In that overwhelming moment I felt I had to
Teach the children how to escape from their cells,
So I told them of the teacher and His betrayal
And in turn made them little versions of myself;
In their young minds the teacher’s image became
One He never would have painted on His own.
Afterwards, they knew nothing but hatred for the teacher
(“That monster!” they screamed in their anger,
“Are we a class that He does nothing but ignore?”
And though I did not wish for them to suffer any further,
They were caught within the emptiness I had created.
“Look! See how He leaves us in the dark without a torch!
Why does a teacher allow pain within His classroom?
Why does He present nothing helpful to us?”)
Though I could not hope to provide them with any answers,
I had created a group of doubters with great ease,
Moulded from my own doubts to spread disease;
When those students are older, and should their fury remain,
Then that responsibility will be mine and mine alone,
For that morning when I sat inside my classroom
Watching the students engage lazily with their task
Became the morning that my teacher saw my fury
And decreed that I should never be content.

© Laura Marie Clark

Excerpt from the book “City of the World”

If you’d like to know more about this book and the others I have contributed to, please visit my author page and share my adventure:

Empty Lament

You can feel the loneliness and grief deep within this poem.

Step Into The Nightmare

I take myself off in an empty lament,

a solace I sing through the unanswered pain,

the words may be tired but they’re sung with intent,

there’s no-one to hear so my song is in vain.

I sing for lost youth and for love unfulfilled,

I sing for the sweetness I held but let go,

I sing for the castles my hands couldn’t build,

I sing for the peace that my mind couldn’t know.

My song is a thread through the story of me,

I splice a new length when there’s pain in my heart,

it helps me recall how it all came to be,

a bundle of yarn I trace back to the start.

When hearts once so gullible harden and break,

when lacklustre lullabies don’t hit their mark,

you sing your lament for your sanity’s sake,

a map to help find your way out of the dark.

View original post

The Walls in my Mind

The walls are paper-thin.

I can hear them talking about me on the other side, the sound of their voices a little muffled but their words – and intent – perfectly clear. I search for the source of the noise for a few moments before I realise that they are speaking to one another on the other side of the wall.

As I listen, I notice things.

I notice how they say my name, with an air of disdain curling around the final syllable. I notice the sneer in their words, the way that they talk about me as though I am below them, a worm that they can step on and squash if they only wish. I notice the words they use to describe me: slow, dull, stupid, dumb, and how they are all things that I have heard from them before.

When they pretend to me that they are joking.

I notice that the walls are grey and the paint is peeling off to reveal wallpaper underneath, decorated with clowns and childhood toys. I notice the way that the walls themselves seem to quiver with every bad word said about me, as though they are threatening to crumble under the onslaught of cruel comments. I notice how my emotional welfare is irrelevant as long as I can be the subject of a few nasty jokes.

Then I notice that the walls are only in my head, and they are stood talking about me on the other side of the room, making no efforts to keep their voices down. Chipping away at the grey mask coating my lonely childhood.

They are painfully close to bringing me tumbling down.

Of Man and Roach

A cockroach crawls across the floor
Twitching this way and that,
Avoiding the movements of my shadow;
I trap him beneath a cup
And watch him spin around in circles
Trying to discover a way out
Of his prison. I stand and note in triumph
That there is no escape for him.

Where he is trapped is physical;
For me, fate is not so kind.
In my head, the glass is there, unwilling to
Move when I place my hands
Against it and push, for I have become a
Prisoner of my own thoughts
And must now retreat to a place where I
Can try to wear the glass thin.

I tower over this cockroach, mighty in
My physical presence, but no more:
He has no reason to become a sunken,
Nervous wreck despite his cage;
But me, though I once beat the discontentment
Down to a pulp, can feel it rise
Once more into the forefront of my mind
Where it threatens to remain.

As I move the glass and crush him with my foot,
I see myself crushed alongside him;
How strange that such a pest can remind me
Of my personal vulnerabilities.
Inside, I have a broken body too, which has
Crawled across the ground, in failed
Attempts to turn myself into a strong woman again.
And as he dies, in part so do I.

© Laura Marie Clark

Excerpt from the book “City Of The World”

Please visit my author page and share in my adventure:


Windswept on the porch with eyes as cold as steel
Jacket torn to shreds by the bitterness of night
I have returned to you again
As apparently
I cannot escape from the sphere of your influence

A face somewhere there, settled between the bruises
Shoes soaked in the blood that fell from my wrists
I am incomplete without this
So it seems
Because I come crawling back every time

Cheeks dripping from the torrent of tears
As the self-hatred washes over me yet again
I am the recluse who sinks
Back slowly into
The dark corners of my mind

You, who has controlled me
You, this other me
My soul of misery

gravestone with a view

Great free verse poetry, there’s a lot of strong, sad, empty imagery in here.

Words Arranged in Disorder.

i’m afraid there’s nothing left in the tank but fumes and false hope.

aluminum is not a friend, it’s a recyclable material that contains happiness when the world turns a blind eye to its ubiquitous pain and i am only a scarecrow in a field full of bodybuilders and terrifying childhood memories.

it’s all too much. the emptiness is only invisible when the music bruises my ear-drums or when i think of how your lips and teeth felt on my bones. the band-aids will fall off but your words are branded like factory farms.

the worst part? i’m a sketch left on the easel in an abandoned schoolhouse. i’m a half-assed mannequin. i’ve translated the seasons into colorless cycles in cyclical misrepresentation. astute observation leads me to believe i’m the product of a meaningless procreation.

shutting off my eyes doesn’t feed all of the starving souls who actually want all…

View original post 28 more words

Demise and Rebirth

Did I give up in those moments
When the waves crashed over me,
The biting cold gnawed at my ear
And the wind sang songs so sickly sweet,
I thought the world had run out of letters?

Did I throw myself away
Like some discarded, empty wrapper
To forever be abandoned on the roadside
Never decaying, never leaving, until a petty criminal
Picked me up as part of community service?

Did I surrender to an onslaught of criticism
With no physical cause, nobody I could blame
But myself, and my mind, which encouraged
Me to shrink down into obscurity, so often sought
By the stories I never thought good enough to tell?

Somehow, I held on, though many times
I dreamed of the beauty of my non-existence,
The paradise of eternal sleep over life,
And squeezed through the closing doors of promise
That predicted stories worth writing again one day.


Deep and powerful poetry, I’m touched by the emptiness and desperation within these words.


Never far from my mind
Endless vistas of torment
The dreams are spiraling
Down into darkness

Death, why won’t you receive me?
Why won’t you caress me?
Like the lover you desire.

Rip open my smile
Rip open my heart
I want to bleed the blood,
The blood I cannot erase
Bleed out the nightmare

Nothingness, why won’t you release me?
Why do you cherish my tears?
Bitter like the toxic solarsphere

My fingers shake yet
Holding ash
Sifting into the wind

Sorrow, why won’t you leave me?
Why won’t you disappear?
Like all of my bright yesterdays.

View original post

Miss Understood by Mudiwa

I’m Miss Understood
You know me so well

Because you see happiness in my smile
You hear the music in my voice
You feel the warmth of my spirit
You admire the confidence in my stride

I’m Miss Understood
You know me so well
But here’s the thing

I don’t smile for me, its for you
When I speak, I speak for you
I give you all the warmth my spirit can muster
I carry myself as best I can, one step at a time

I’m Miss Understood
You know me so well
But heres the thing
You really don’t know me

But I don’t want you to feel responsible
It’s not your fault
You’re so good figuring me out
Or at least thats what I let you believe

I’m Miss Understood
You know me so well
But here’s the thing
You really don’t know me
And I don’t get it

Why can’t you see the pain in my eyes
Why can’t you hear the tremble in my voice
Why don’t you feel my broken spirit
Why haven’t you noticed the hesitance in my walk

I’m Miss Understood
You know me so well
But here’s the thing
You really don’t know me
And i still don’t get

How you can’t see I’m putting on a mask
How you dismiss me when i take it off
How you pretend you can’t see the real me
How you so casually overlook my suffering

I’m Miss Understood
You know me so well
But here’s the thing
You really don’t know me
And I don’t get it
How you make me feel so deeply misunderstood

About Mudiwa

My name is Mudiwa. I’m a Zimbabwean woman in my early 20s and the founder of MentalityZim, a project that aims to raise mental health awareness particularly in Zimbabwe but also in the world at large.

Visit Mudiwa’s blog where she blogs about mental health, depression, and how to help people who are suffering from mental health issues:

A huge thank you to Mudiwa for being the first person to submit to Let it Come from the Heart! If you would like to see your own writing featured on this blog, please visit the Submit page.

The Raven’s Way

In an empty-headed daydream,
I sat and listened to the rain
And wondered without really caring
Who had ordained this harsh deluge

Enclosed in walls, I thought I spied
A raven bathing in a puddle
Washing himself, delighting in
The downpour from this almighty judge

How often my eyes wander awry
From my binding daily tasks,
But not so from his shiny plumage,
Questioning why he loved the storm

For me, it locked me in a fortress,
Home of mine, yet never home,
But he adored it, soaked in water,
Sea creature in a raven-mask

His fishy body hidden beneath, given
New lease of life in raven form;
With what I wished, but never had,
Greater than me in raven form