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Stephanie

If you don't learn to write your own story, someone else will write it for you

2 poems·Since December 2013
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Undercooked

December 6, 2013

Four hours of tourcher have now passed.

The bell has now rung,

Everyone races to the lunch room.

Dashing and skipping to the front of the line,

Their eyes widen like a flower in the spring that blooms.

We get closer to get our meal, 

now its time.

One bite of this chicken sandwich that looks like heaven.

To only find out its under cooked.

And now my day has been ruined.

 

 

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