The Story Behind the Writing

i
The teacher roared with fiery eyes,
Horns emerging from dishevelled brown hair,
Long spiked tail lashing behind,
Would I dare?
My mouth drawled, spewing lies
The teacher roared with fiery eyes,
My will to fight was fading fast,
The race was ending,
I was last.
Submitting to the long spiked tail,
The horns emerging from dishevelled brown hair,
The fiery eyes drew me to fail.
The promise grew from bitter tongue;
To write a poem,
To write fast.
The race had ended.
I was last.

ii
Write about an object,
Special to me.
Perhaps some jewellery?
Too pretentious spat she,
I agree.
Perhaps a spoon.
Whatever for?
For many reasons, for example;
How else would I so elegantly,
Feast upon Nutella?
The idea burnt down faster than usual
For a dragon.
Perhaps a teddy bear,
Worn from hugs
Patchy with wear.
She scoffs at the mere thought and
Moves on, bored,
To find the next victim.
With a sigh, I take a pen.
Putting ink to paper.
Drawing a story with words.
Drawing this story.