Assessment

I managed to survive through class without freaking out. I rarely got a "see me after class." In a way, I just wanted to get it over with. So, I just touched up on my report about JC and barely managed to wait for my english teacher, Mr. Moisson to speak to me.

"So, Rebecca, you like to write poetry." he asked.

"Yes, sir, I do. I find it, um, releasing in a way." I managed. What was wrong with my poetry, exactly?

"Then would you like to explain this poetry that you wrote today? I'm a bit concerned." he said slowly? What was wrong with it?

I took up my notebook, and looked at what I had written. I vaguely remembered.

When tears fall, my love, they will not have you in them, only an image of your pain. I truly, purely, desperately wish your heart could feel the same. When tears fall, my love, remember me, for I once was one that you could see. The window that's inside your soul should not be hard to see. I think it's only fair since you already understand me. The world had turned, white black and grey, and I only noticed now.Don't let me cause your tears, my love. Remember me.

Oh. Great. My teacher thought that I had been mourning a lost love. An expressing it during English class.

"What is there to be concerned about, sir?" I finally asked.

"Well, it's. . .it makes me feel that you seem depressed, Rebecca. Is there something wrong lately, something that's happened that you're upset about?"

"No, Mr. Moisson, I just like the style. It's. . .pretty. Elegant. I was just testing it." I managed.

It was only a little portion of what had actually been written, but as I skimmed through it, I wondered what had actually happened. I felt the emotions expressed. some of it was angry and Cameron and mildly annoyed with Felicia, and amazingly excited about James. Most of it was happy. In a way.

All that in half an hour?

Mr. Moisson looked confused. "Are you sure, Rebecca? It's all good poetry, I understand, but it has a certain. . .volume to it. You, see, it. . .shouts. I just hope that it's what you like to write. I haven't really noticed such enthusiasm in you before."

"Is that bad? I'm starting to like English a lot more then I used to now. It feels different, stepping into this classroom. Like I can fly if I write it down."

"That's wonderful, Rebecca. I hope you can enjoy it this way for a long time."

"Thank you." I said. I walked out of the room before he said anything else. Mr. Moisson could take what he liked out of that. I liked my poetry.

I didn't give my notebook back, either.

The End

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