Needle and Thread

Running back, forth, all around
Why do I feel so tied down?

Nathaniel Mitchell ??/??/2004

In my sophmore year of college, I managed to enjoy my english class for the first time. Instead of the hated grammar material, we composed poetry and read classic literature.
During our poetry time, one of our assignments was to create a poem that was a metaphor for me or how I feel about myself. I had specifically asked about the length, but was told it could be of any size, since what she desired was quality over quantity.

You may have already guessed, but the above poem was my submission. I chose a needle to represent me, because in person, I tend to be very short and to the point. I used the thread as a metaphor for my path in life at the time.
I was working full-time, had a full course load, and was doing a lot of volunteer work at my church as well. Add in the fact that I lived 30-45 minutes (depending on traffic) away from anywhere I needed to be to accomplish anything and you can see why I felt both "tied down" and "Running back, forth, all around" at the same time. I had no free time and I always had to be somewhere else next. I was very happy with what I had made. It represented me so well, even the poem itself was like a needle -- short and to the point.
(I had hoped to make the poem a bit more visual, perhaps by making the first line weave around and be threaded through a needle made of the second line. Sadly, there just wasn't enough to work with.)

Unfortunately, my english teacher didn't ask for the details that I have just given you. She didn't try to find out just how the metaphor applied to me. I turned in my assignment, and later she returned it to me... with a 13/20 score.

I really didn't feel like I deserved a 65 percent grade on my poem. Apparently she believed that I hadn't put any effort into it, and she wouldn't change the grade. That grade pretty much pissed me off. So that is the story of this poem.
That same day we were given another poetry assignment, completely open. We could pick the style, subject, everything. I chose the only thing that was on my mind, revenge.
So here I was, seething in anger. My mind worked like a boiling pot; ideas frothing over, sizzling as they touched the burner. The scorched air was heavy with rightous indignation. My pen carved a path across...
Ok, maybe it wasn't that bad. Anyway, my next poem was titled, "Twenty out of Twenty", for the score I should have had.
Ok, I found it. In red in, "I think you quit on what could have been an excellent metaphor. I'm not convinced this was your best effort." Pity, eh?

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