There’s one class, one teacher I never give enough thanks to
Who provided a room and the supplies, a place where I drew and grew
A home for Art Club, a room with stained tables disrespected and beaten by all
A home for artists, where drawings and paintings and work cover every wall

A place where I sit every day and talk with my friends, connect and bond with another person
A place where my art could never worsen
I’ve underestimated it’s importance, never bothered to look around
And appreciate a single room with vibrant colors and sound

I’ve kept a total of 17 sketchbooks stretching from Sophomore year until today
A detailed journey of my improvement as an artist, detailing every curse and pray
When I flip through them, a sense of sweet sentimentality begins to bloom
For Mr. Long’s art room.

A place of endless sketching and drawing and painting and improvement
A place of consistent adjustment and movement
A teacher who cares about his art, who is funny but stern
And if you’re a careless idiot, prepare to feel the burn

A teacher who teaches despite students who don’t listen
Whose spark for art always glistens
To you as well as the room I never seem to appreciate
So more time to saying thanks I will allocate

“The four most important years of your life,”
Etch it all into your brain with a knife
But I suspect that when I leave
There is only one place I will grieve

And that will be, of course, the art room
Where my friends and I spent days with no gloom
Learning all the things you should learn together
And staying together, no matter the weather

Thank you Mr. Long