Not all, but some in the classroom laugh,
young fleshy noises bubbling up
around your words, cutting instructions in half.
You smile at their smiles and take your cue to shut-up.
The pencil ends wiggle in their growing grips
like the tails of so many happy little dogs.
“Let the words fall out,” you tell them. “Feel the drips
and let honesty spring from your young mind’s fog.”
Not all, but some scribble honestly on the page,
their hands dancing a quick beat of hurt and play
to create, to dig, to lift and reach and rage
toward the graphite honesty they struggle to say.
“But why’s it gotta be honest?” she asks through her gum.You shrug. She shrugs. They write. Not all, but some.