A man so complex even God can't untangle his thoughts,

He is a master of his craft

A king amongst men

When a pen is in his hand it becomes a sword,

slaying commas and colons with his literary blade

His writing is so powerful and his grades so harsh he brings children to tears

Each mark on our paper stings more than the last

When he speaks it is volumes

When he loves it is hard

and when he cries it is a river

His eyes are blue voids of agony, making his comments infinite in wisdom

The outline of his bashful grin peaks through his thin striped gator 

His bristly beard keeps his face warm and his mask from staying on

With every remark he dishes out his patriotic muzzle slips further and further down the slope of his nose

As his words pour down upon us like rain on dry summer grass,

we are rejuvenated and we feel our writing abilities begin to flourish

I walk into room 260 as a naive 16-year old girl and I walk out as Emily Dickenson