i believe that the lie
most often told to
ourselves is i don’t
know almost always we
do know we just do
not know how to say
whatever it is we know
or yet how to find
what it is that we know
or feel comfortable
expressing or willing
to deal with the
discomfort of thought
stirring up dust in
rooms we have learned
to avoid

noun verb qualifier > noun verb

so here’s where the verb-to-qualifier
thing makes such a difference
to the speaker to the audience:

noun verb/‘it broke’

see here ‘broke’ is a verb
there is no doubt that a thing
once whole broke and that kinda sounds like the end of that story like my pencil broke ok toss that shit let’s get a new one the lamp broke trash that pos and let’s go to target

noun verb qualifier/‘it is/was broken’

awwwwwwwww shiyutsee this is something
we can work with

there’s something about the language here that indicates what is or was broken can and will be or is already again whole. this isn’t the end of the story.

status is damn near always temporary. noun verb qualifier indicating status/i am tired/i am hungry/i am wearing a blue shirt/i am depressed/i need to poop

if the status of one is broken/brokenness, that status can and will be changed. which is why the author would argue that the noun qualified as broken never actually broke.

be brave.

when you walk into that classroom tomorrow

be brave. there is a reason you are in that room.

every single student you will meet

from your first day until your very last

needs you. and the ones who seem like they

don’t are the ones who need you the most.

be brave. there is a reason you are in that room.

trust your gut, make eye contact, smile a lot

and be who you already are – the teacher

those students need because

there is a reason you are in that room.

a box still full

‘i meant to give her these last week,’ he said quietly and to himself, sliding the lid from a white box containing a pair of small pearl earrings.

he exhaled through his nostrils, his shoulders slumping in time with the exhalation.

he held the now open box, top forgotten on the coffee table over which he stood, shins close to one corner, eyes washing over the pearls, as if expecting them to move, speak, advise.

they caught well the light of the room,

but the earrings did not speak.

he leaned over, left hand fumbling for the box top, eyes still on the pair of pearls.

stubborn, they were,

and silent they remained

though perfect, he hoped, for her.

‘this week,’ he said still quietly, placing the lid over the pearls.

he inhaled  through his nostrils, his shoulders rising  in time with the inhalation.

‘this week,’ he said more firmly.