Shoulder pads and ragged hair. He wasn't much of a teacher, well for the matter of height. His mind was such a cavernous type. He lead us on a discovery of being. I thought I had produced such polished poems till he challenged my words. A list, a spat, a vomit at that, throw down your inner thoughts and let your hand blow chunks on the page. Poems made no sense, it was all just filler, rage. Pluck ideas from your brain on paper. Slimy cranium bits start the blooming of a perfect piece. Poems with boarders and a boundless topic. I found inspiration and guidance. I started writing.