One of 3 assignments I actually did in 10th grade...

I thought this time I'd just post an old "poem" I wrote for my 10th grade English class. The assignment was to take an everyday activity and write a poem describing the action in "slow motion", where slow motion just meant dragging out a boring, stupid, everyday activity into an equally boring page-long poem. Naturally, I wrote it just before it was due, like I did with everything that I actually turned in.

It's a poem in the loosest terms, and it didn't exactly respond to the prompt we were given, but my teacher loved it anyway. She said it was wicked. I also submitted it and had it published in our annual high school poetry and art magazine, at my teacher's suggestion... which resulted in me having to do a "reading" of the poem when the magazine was released. Ha. Me. Reading poetry. In public. That will probably never happen again.

So, here for your enjoyment is my poorly written poem...

Serendipitous Septicemia

Cheese
Glistening in a divine, whitish way,
Held lovingly in her soft, delicate hands,
her mind pondering and thinking,
twisting ideas around and trying to decide.
She stands still, like a grazing cow.

A flash,
and a purpose is planted.
Turning, she reaches and pulls open a drawer.
Reaching, grasping, clawing for the necessary tool.
Finally, FINALLY!
She closes her hand and brings out
the instrument of doom.
The cheese grimaces.

Menacingly, she displays the grater
to the cheese for an instant,
and then brings the cheese to it.
She draws the white block along the side of the jagged metal,
Ripping and tearing the cheese apart.
The cheese, emitting a cultured, fromageish smell,
defends itself as best as it can.
But it is no use,
the Woman only cackles and continues to grate,
Her wrist twisting and flexing to adjust to the pressure.

Horizontally, vertically, diagonally,
She pulls and pushes the cheese,
Sometimes squiggling it. Gradually,
the long strands of cheese become shorter and sadder.
The cheese, unconscious by now,
is nearly gone...

The Woman, noticing a pain in her fingers, stops grating.
The cheese wedge is no more.
On the counter lies a pile of cheese-strands, sprinkled with blood.
Smiling, the Woman sentimentally molds the cheese into a ball,
And rolls it delicately between her fingers.
She lifts her hand to her now-open mouth,
and pushes the cheese in with her bloodied digits.