Last Row Desk

Hang on for a minute...we're trying to find some more stories you might like.

Email This Story

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.

New discovery

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.