After all of our masterpieces were turned in she read them aloud. Every single student in my class wrote something humourous. That is, every student but me. My poem seemed to have taken a more serious note. As a result, I sank very low in my seat when I noticed that my paper had made it to the top. As she read the previously amused chatter died down to an eerie silence. When she finished her (my) final words rang through the stillness. The room remained quiet for a few more moments until my fellow classmates, thankfully, broke the "spell". "That was really good", remarked one boy. "Who wrote it", inquired a girl. Yes, they agreed, who wrote it? Thankfully Dramatic Teacher did not reveal the secret.
So, without further ado (not adieu), here is my poem. The question mark is there because I was having trouble thinking of a title. It was basically my way of asking Dramatic Teacher if that was good enough.
"Where We Stay?"
Second block A-Day I gaze upon the cylindrical abyss in which lies nothing(everything)
Dearest Dramatic Teacher seems to be intent on torturing the class
So, alas, I must spew great buckets of word vomit -here-
A canister for the unwanted, it is filled with flaws
Overflowing with our uncertainties, idiosyncrasies, fears, impossibly stupid ambitions...
They belong there, in the garbage, where they fester silently and decay.
But without them we are not whole
Sometimes you lose things in the
Useful things abandoned like so many forgotten toys
C'est la vie that I really speak of, you know.
I am not being literal (this time)
We lose ourselves (here) trying to be the round peg
We rip off our edges,so that we may fit that hole, and deposit our very essence -there-
That cylindrical abyss would do us well to be searched
Kicked over and emptied
So that we may search frantically through it's contents
And pull ourselves back together
For not everything belongs there
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