What Williams Taught Me

I smirk.

Annie groans.

Rhiannon spellbound.

Williams instructs:

“Poetry: a way to express yourself.”

I roll my eyes.

Annie half asleep.

Rhiannon alive, at attention.

Williams babbles on:

“A way for you to escape.”

I don’t listen.

Annie barely passing.

Rhiannon star student.

Williams voice echoes throughout senior year:

“A way to vocalize what you cannot admit aloud.”

Time passes.

I fall in love.

Annie envies.

Rhiannon warns.

Williams states:

“A way to voice your thoughts, concerns, dreams.”

I’m left alone; heart-broken.

Annie cries.

Rhiannon consoles, comforts.

Williams words shake me awake:

“An outlet for your pain.”

I write.

Annie jokes.

Rhiannon creates.

Williams speaks:

“An outlet.”

My problems weren’t solved as I wrote my poetry about them.

But writing them down helped me survive.

“Poetry teaches us lessons through rhythm and beat.”

Williams drilled it into us.

Rhiannon aced the course.

Annie late most days.

I learned, listened.

Graduation. College. Life.

Me: successful.

Annie: hates professors.

Rhiannon: Ivy League bound.

Williams: stricken from chemo.

“Writing poetry will set you free.”

It did.

A dying teacher’s words about poetry saved my life.

I wrote.

I composed.

I lived.

Williams grows weaker each day.

But his words vibrate louder for me as time passes:

“Poetry teaches.”

That is what Williams taught me.