Overhead shines on them,
eyes watching him closely.
Avoidant is his sight,
until he sees his own words
blinding an audience in bright.
Fright frantically frolics online,
but in real life, they amplify two times,
yet there is something about performing,
speaking the words which yearn to
be spoken aloud.
So words stumble out of lips,
trip upon others in their escape,
but they manage anyways,
and he looks out to them, 
arms splayed, a smile growing --
and they don't understand a word
he said.
They all gaze as though he spoke
another language,
the words seemingly
incomprehensible to those who don't
consume themselves in the fiction and poetry,
in its artificial, artful representation,
shown about the whole classroom.
His smile wans, for their
expression appears confounded,
perplexed about the content
of his quickened, foreign speech -- 
then, from his right, a voice speaks louder,
fresher, in more clarity, than his own,
and his heart leaps for joy
when they nod their head, oh boy!
They get it, they really do, he thinks
as his shambling walk brings him to his desk.
He gets out his notebook, and starts to write,
not knowing that they'd forever forget this time.