The Muse

a poetic response to "The Metaphor" by Budge Wilson

Miss Hancock, you were the book few bothered to open
You were the old song that nobody knew
You were the vegetables on the dinner plate that nobody ate
You were the question that few knew the correct answer to

You were plump, bright, and overenthusiastic
Your love for teaching only grew
Even after all the hate from your students
You still tried to fly over the gloom

To me, you were a friend, a person who I looked up to
You accomplished the impossible, making students want to learn
Your noticeable makeup always kept me entertained
You were the survivor in the junior high community

Mother didn't like you, but to be fair, she didn't understand you
Your bright clothes, over friendliness, and enthusiasm did not please her 
She judged your flamboyant orange hair, your makeup, and your persona too soon
My mother is calm, collected, controlling and cold, it's not like she knew any better

High school came, and I admit, I changed
I only pretended not to care to fit in
Honestly, I recognized you, and I apologize for not catching up with you
If only I spoke with you, not caring what others thought, would you have been here today?

I'm sorry that I stopped writing
I'm sorry that I hid my joy
I'm sorry that I left you to fend for yourself
I'm sorry for not saying this to you sooner

English is empty, it is like a box, like my home sweet home
There is now no joy to be found wherever I go
I called you a frosted cake, with many layers and depth
But now, I call you my muse