The Teachers Blackboard

The old seemingly lifeless blackboard, No one thinks that he really feels, Made of tarnished slate and black in color, Finds no one to value his true appeal. A daily slave to the teachers fingers, He knows more than he’ll ever show. Is really such a very lonely fellow, Though many eyes he has come to know. Never does he ever complain or speak, And yet cries tears that we cannot see. For so much knowledge does he keep, As he alone really does hold the key. Only to be forgotten as yesterdays lessons, That could have set young minds so free. But never by most was he rightly used, Because each day many do fail to see. Yet, still the open minds of a few acknowledge, The richness he shares which is theirs to keep. If only they consume their daily meal from him, Storing his knowledge in their minds so deep. So that one day in the future while looking back, Remembering well spent time where degrees were earned. They’ll treasure his chest of sweet succulent knowledge, Thanking the teachers blackboard for all they learned.