My Teacher is my Muse Essay -- narrative, descriptive

So I took the class because there was nothing else offered that semester that seemed take down remotely interesting. My choices were slim. I mean it was move Latin for Geeks, Bowling for Advanced Dorks, or this The Creative Self. Even though I had always looked upon poetry as a non-serious art, a flaky girly thing to do, I had do my fair share of physical composition, mostly put into teenagerage angst ridden song lyrics, simply still, how different could this be--I could probably just use my old songs and hand them in as new poetry. It was senior year in High School, and frankly, I was sick of being part of this innovative new humanities ground school where everyone was virtually too bright for me. I just valued at least on easy class, and this sounded like the key to a class where I wouldnt have to think too much. Instead, it turn me into one of those creative writing whores I had always made gambol of. It was solely her doing, Ms. R, the orange headed teacher that becam e my mentor, my muse, my subject.From the second she walked in, she began to inspire me. She shuffled with her papers in a way that made us all wonder whether it was pure(a) disorganization or classical genius. Her hair aflame spirals of pure citrus tree fruit, her long flowery skirt welcoming every bored teen aged eye she woke me up. The woman woke me up from the longest sleep I had ever had. R, R, Ms. R. I remember her icy blue eyes and how she almost flew up at times when she got really excited about nigh poem or character sketch. She walked in and immediately asked us what we idea about poetry, about fiction, about the world, about ourselves, about love and ride and how we wanted to express that to the world. And so for a for the first time assignment, she asked us to save up about something we lo... ...ld not write. And this has been the case since high school. When I have an exhilarating teacher, one who praises me, who lets me be open, I excel. When I not taking writi ng classes, my writing is poor, stagnant, void of any originality. And lets take this ago year while I was working on Wall course (can you say the coldest place on earth when it comes to the arts or up to now real human compassion, let alone inspiration?)--I wrote about 3 pages all year, all consisting of complete crap. But this away week alone, first week of grad classes, Ive written more, and maybe not break yet, but at least more, than I have this entire past year. Now does this make me a dependent writer. A writer that cannot get going without a muse? That will be my next exploration..... Can I survive as a writer without a Ms. R by my side, breathing literary genius into my otherwise ordinary words?