Stars and scribbles
littered the once-blank pages
as pointless sketches
to express an unknown point.

I was grading that messy notebook.
Its insanity of words and shapes
baffled me as I attempted to read
for any hidden wonders it might hold.

His notes were unorganized
and difficult to make sense of;
Bryan’s writing was always
in hard-to-read chicken scratch.

When I reached the last page,
everything began to make sense:
it was a drawing of a person crying,
surrounded by others pointing and laughing.

I would have failed that notebook
if the writer had not committed suicide.