The Metaphor
A figure of English literature
Smart, educated, our mentor
Miss Hancock
We all liked her, loved her as much as a student could love a teacher
She loved English in general, but loved writing and literature
She made it my first love, my first excitement
We loved her but this comes with one question
Do we love her, or do we love what she does?
Alas, it was her expertise in writing that captivated me
It was her gift to us, a blank sheet of paper into a huge plethora or words flying
turning into a vivid image
We were captivated by her style, her methods, and her voice
Today, she enters with a grand lesson
Her introduction is uplifting, as she acts with it
Today’s lesson, the metaphor
She told us to savior, enjoy, utilize it
Write down descriptions of family members, using metaphors she says
Everyone was excited, but we were thinking too hard
She told us to not think hard, just let the words flow
Just let the words flow, flutter in the breeze, dance in the wind
We all composed, yet a feeling of emptiness over took us all
My turn was now
I had metaphors of dad and mom, among other things
But, it was the one about mom that struck her the most
It was long, yet she still wrote it down on the board, it struck her so much, that she just stood there, amazed
She wanted to talk, more but alas, she had to go early
Everyone started to leave, but she held me back
She waited there, as if time was plentiful
I questioned her
She said that my metaphors were different
Noting the one about my mom
She asked if there was a problem
I thought and replied “No”
And explained that I just wrote, no thought into anything, my mind wandering then
A mood swing, as she explained that my writing was different, an enjoyable different
She changed again, into a motherly voice and said, “If there’s anything you need, let me know”
And with that, she was gone
I strode home, pondering what Miss Hancock said
The metaphor I wrote
But October was too distracting, and the metaphor dropped in a flash
I arrived home, and somehow made a metaphor without knowing
My house is a box, and proceeded to do whatever.
After sometime, Julia provided the chance to escape and talk about boys
Upon my return, food was now in the box
Miss Hancock came into my mind whilst during tonight’s dinner
My mom however doesn’t seem to like her
Dad just sits there, just watching
That night, a random urge came to me
An urge to write, write metaphors
Write them everyday.
Mom is strict, and crushes my world
No arguing what so ever, always her way
Friends of mine love her
Her beauty, her personality, everything they liked
Tyranny in my box
Mother is also a rock
She does multiple things, and never caves in
She’s also a star, always full of energy, never looks like she’ll run out of energy
In the days of past, I was good, well-mannered
I liked weekdays, if not just for Miss Hancock’s class of greatness
She served us literature that she cooked, the wonderful chef she is
Hamlet now, we went beyond for her
A skit, to which she cried to, us as well
And thus, at the year’s end, a trophy to her from our class
Featuring Hamlet
Years pass, junior high comes and goes
We move to a new school, and a new slate, the grade 10 year.
First class was a bore
Only two things made it worthwhile, Howard Oliver and Gladys Simpson
And everything changed at the next class
Whatever I did in English, I loved, but I hid my excitement
But I wasn’t ready for this surprise coming
The chef returns, the one who served me English years ago
Miss Hancock
She got to high places, and wanted to indulge into the minds of grade 10’s
She has her wings spread, ready to fly high
But the class grounds her quickly
She hasn’t changed, clothes and all
Howard, the local funny boy, makes a comment
And everyone laughs, and I snicker along
She has this sense of urgency that I never saw
She reads, and that voice that hypnotized me has got me under another spell, trance
No sense of dignity, everyone mocked her, with their selfish minds
I was indecisive, hidden away, in my world of confusion
Ten days later, she finally finds her client, me
She was subtle, drained from the class jesters
She asked me”Are you still writing metaphors?”
I lied right then, saying that the food was no good, when it was excellent
Her tired eyes begged, pleaded
The class was the rude client, not wanting what she made
Miss Hancock couldn’t take it any longer
She died when a school bus had hit her
Tragedy struck me, like the food being really poisonous
I had mixed feelings, being in the blender since her death
Mixed emotions, feelings, anger at Howard, and running, sobbing and bawling the way home
Mom asked what happened, with a concern in her voice
I responded “Miss Hancock is dead because of me”
She now seemed heartless, as if she was a rock
I only blame myself
I could’ve done more
Mom doesn’t understand, only I do
I went to my room and pulled out my notebook
Sat down and wrote a metaphor
A metaphor for Miss Hancock
A metaphor about Miss Hancock
A metaphor to honour her
My present back to her
I wish the party was still going on, with the greatest chef to ever live
Based upon "The Metaphor" a story by Budge Wilson from Inside Short Stories II
Just a one time thing. If you don't get it, it's mostly because you need to read the story first.
Also, no comments cause I'm locking it