As i walked the lengthy distance,
from the back row seat to the first.
I began to sense right then...
my project would be the worst.
Yet all the time i put in,
i figured I'd pass with a low B
and still as i walked that distance .
I knew it'd be a lower than a C...
listening as each person shared,
Their truly real short story...
i fidgeted and wiggled..
and really started to worry.
The teacher said to write
what came to mind.
Like childhood or family...
to make it one of a kind.
And yet somehow my mind still wandered
to a place still unknown...
i wrote about a womans death...
And how death had claimed the throne.
In English class i shared that project
in the front of that small space...
i read each word that i had typed,
not a syllable out of place.
When i was done my head was low,
i refused to meet their stare.
I sauntered back quietly
To my lonely back row chair.
It was then i saw my teacher smile
and simply nod his head,
it seems that my project was viewed
As a painful loss of the dead.
Little do they know,
i did not relate...
that story that i wrote...
was simply notes by my dinner plate...