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An awkward silence fills the air
And their pencils scribble on with out a care
For poor old me at the back of the class
Head in my hands, felling like an a**
They do not care i can't work in these conditions
So im just sitting here with my premonitions
Of a teacher walking over here
Staring at me with that cocky sneer
And for the hundredth time saying its only me
Not doing my work and writing this poetry
He snatches it out of my hand and reads it out
In his mind there is no doubt
That this rubbish poetry will be met by laughs
But all he accomplishes is astonished gasps
I laugh gently and ask for my poem to be returned
But he smiles malicious and says that it should be burned
He condemns it as a crime to write about suicide
So i ask if its a crime to wish i had died
He just nods his head and shreds my work
And i mutter under my breath that hes a ******** jerk