We approached our classroom and walked in only to find our literature teacher Mrs. Martha Kingsley seated behind the teacher's desk.
                          
"You are all exactly two minutes late, hurry up and settle down for the lesson and I want all of you ready with your poems." She said.
                          
We made our way to our seats and in less than a minute, we were all entirely settled that she ceased the silence to stand up.
                          
"Good morning." She said with a very wide smile.
                          
"Good morning we replied in unison.
                          
"Very well then, now that you are here, I want us to get straight to the point, you are all aware that today is Poetry day and in our last encounter for this session last week, I left you all with an assignment." She said and started to walk back and forth in front of the class as she looked around the room.
                          
"An assignment I believe each and everyone of you must have accomplished to their very best efforts." She added and stopped.
                          
I stole a glimpse of Arthur whom I could feel was sweating profusely despite the very cold weather and his heart beating fast.
                          
"Being our very first poetry practical lesson, I am going to ask every column to choose a single representative to present their poem." She said.
                          
"Any volunteers?" She asked but the people in the whole room went entirely dead silent.
                          
"Do not give me the silence or I will choose individually and if I do so, we shall have ten presentations for today." She said.
                          
The students in the classroom began to murmur amongst themselves while I just kept quiet.
                          
"So if we cannot choose, let me make this game easier for each and every one of us, every column is going to forward one chit with a name and the five lucky winners will be our presenters for the day." She said.
                          
At once, I could hear the sound of ripping of papers and I lowered my head down as I looked at my poem.
                          
I was very silent and lost studying my masterpiece.
                          
The papers made their way to the front at what seemed to have been lightning speed and once the teacher had taken all five papers in possession, she called for everyone's attention.
                          
"If I read your name, you are going to gracefully walk to the front here with your poem at hand and we shall read our poem in order of calling." She said.
                          
She opened the first piece of paper and studying it she opened her mouth to read what was written.
                          
"Moses Griffiths, column number five." She called out and a very short blonde boy wearing spectacles made his way to the front.
                          
Once he was there, he presented his poem which was primarily talking about education.
                          
Once he was done, the rest of the class applauded him as he walked back to his seat which was only two seats from the front.
                          
Mrs Martha then opened another piece of paper and then she read out the next person.
                          
"Albert Davidson, from column number one." She called and a fairly tall boy with pitch black hair and a very thin body frame made his way to the front and read his master piece as well.
                          
Afterwards, she called two other James Roberts and Christopher Richards who exhibited  very interesting poems on growing up and drugs respectively.
                          
My row was the very last and it had not been represented and as Mrs. Martha opened up the piece of paper, we were all eager to hear who it was that was going to be our representative.
                          
"Oh, the very last column and presenter for the day is going to be non other than Mr. Nathan Hart." She called out.
                          
I started to hyperventilate, I did not expect that and I was certainly shocked by it as the people on my column applauded me.
                          
I stood up and walked towards the front feeling almost every eye in the room looking at me and doing my level best to hide my eyes behing my bangs.
                          
"Uh, Good morning." I said and everyone replied with gusto.
                          
"I am going to present a poem on love." I said and studied everyone's expression become curious.

                          
The world and everything in it I was one time told would be mine,
I was once pampered up and down that I could one time be my own hero every day and night,
That I would feel goodness and completion deep down inside,
And that even with prevalence of all the august, I could keep natural, I could always be right.

                          
When at times I feel so small and unable to fit in,
I go unnoticed in every mob as a martyr of love because I am seen as a sin,
Feeling very different from others and crucified from the person I was made to be,
Where is the peace and love of an abode and a family.


                          
Could I be wrong if I accepted what it is that I am or is it that 
feeling so left out from the joys that all the others except me are in the position to enjoy,
Am I not a person to love like others or did I choose to be born this way,
I wished and many times I hoped for the strength to be happy, praying for the one thing I trusted could make me free.


                          
What is love, when we cannot be accepted for who we are,
Where we are persecuted and hunted by our own blood,
When we are dismayed every hour unable to understand how others complicate life,
When every single flame of courage is extinguished by those to whom we attach a certain value.


                          
Oh, how much pride and zeal comes with the age of youth,
The gusto, confidence and courage that being egotistic and self expressive is seen as the most deadly venom,
Are we not in the position to understand some things because we are seen to be very young and uncouth
Or are we simply chasing the wind hoping for something we can never come to own.



                          
We can never come to understand the value of something unless we do not have it,
We can never feel the worth of any soul when we cannot get the chance of seeing it.
We can never understand pain if we have not gone through the slightest bit of it,
We can never understand the significance of love until the point when we can nolonger have it.



                          
I read and staring at everyone I could see Arthur staring at me almost dumbfounded.
                          
I then picked up the courage to walk back to my seat when all of a sudden, from the corner of my eye, I saw Conan shoot up amidst the silence that prevailed and before I realised it, he was clapping his hands while every one else in the room simply emulated him.