To speak when one feels meek

Beads of sweat form in the fleshy crevices of my hand as my eyes grope the room for an escape.

Weeks of preparation has gone into this, and yet for some reason now, my rehearsed words seem nowhere to be found.

My peers proddings eyes holding the worlds judgement, they poke and joke

To be forevor known as the boy who spoke and croaked.

But finally I finish the speech, who so effortlessly driained me of my blood, the likes of a leech.

Now all that is left is to walk the tightrope back to my seat.

As I sit all I can do is let out a sigh of relief.

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
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