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How I very much resent.
Having to present
My poem to the class
It feels like walking on glass.

As you make your way to the front,
All eyes face your way.
Then when you start to speak,
All you can manage is a squeak.

Frozen in terror,
All you can do is stare at the floor,
You try to move your jaw.
And you look like your postwar.

Traumatised by your past,
When you had to present your speech to the class
As you stand there afraid,
You wish you had stayed…

At home; safe
And able to live for another day.
Then when you go back to school
You say, “Sorry, I was sick yesterday”.

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