What can teachers do to help? More poetry
The good and bad of being AD/HD in school
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AGE 16
You walk through the classroom door,
and they wait there for you,
gathered around a table,
the groups are assembled, like troops ready for another days battle.
You walk over, 'Can I join you?'
'No sorry you're not one of us!'
You stop and think
What's wrong with me?
I'm a person, I breathe, I live!
So why do they just stand and ignore my existence?
In my head they make me think I'm different from them
But in my heart I know they are the ones in the wrong.
They stare and look at me as if I'm an alien
I stare back and think why doesn't anyone care about me?
I think that I am thick and stupid
I know that I am because my teachers, parents and they all tell me so.
All that I want is to trust someone, and above all
I want to feel loved and trusted back.
If my tormentors were correct I would agree
But now I realise it's them who are wrong and not me.
- Feb '00 - Age 17
Close your eyes,
I want to tell you a tale
told by me, the sighted eye.
I am calling this poem
'Allowing the blind to see', but yet
who or what is blind? -
and what can't they see?
I can see the birds in the sky,
I can see children playing and laughing,
I can see parents playing in the park with their children
I can see the classroom where all children have real friends,
Who help not hinder, with nature and nurture.
I can see the games where all are included and no-one is excluded.
But what can't be seen by the blinded eye?
Are they real friends?
Or are they superficial, halucinations conjured up by the trained observer.
Trained observer, a teacher
visualising what is thought to occur. What does occur is distorted by the very eyes taught what to observe.
The truth, which is visual but chosen not to be seen is ...
The tears of playful children, are tears of pain, anger and hurt.
Pain, from the physical and brutal beatings by the so called friends, you analyse them playing with.
The playing enchances the anger within the youthful souls, which were once so happy. Happy as once they were content with not a care in the world, or a care for it.
Hurt is hard to see, look deep and it can be. Hurt can take twisted forms and so can blindness,
Blind observer, watching over Please open your eyes and allow the bullied children's pain permision to appear.
Watch what occurs with two sharp, opened eyes.
These children want to be seen, please watch them, then I think you will be allowing the blinded ones to see.
Its dark,
cold,
and miserable.
Walking thorough an opened door
Into more
darkness,
Ask for the right route
Things get worse, before suposidly better
I see a sharp, short cut
I choose.
The darkness is put back, as a trickle of red light is ttemporarily illuminating my body. But then ..
Its dark,
cold,
and miserable
walking through a slighlty ajar door
into ... this life.
It is full of crossed and conflicting images
I hear a voice
'You can stop, I want to help'
but,yet, I long to stop. Walking tierdlessly down the next long ally way.
I want .. I long .. I have .. I need .. I must
Stop walking and try to listen to the directions they give.
I can;t go on in the ways I am
I have to fight this and rise above it
I must prove I can succead
I need to find trust, hope and
I long to accept and not refuse the help they try to administrate.
I need, must, have and above all .. I will
Walk through the door I open alone.
I will let in the light which is attempting to balance the dark.
I want to stop the
dark
cold
and misery
within myself.