Poor Accusation Poem by MAREME PETER KGWETE

I was standing infront of my school mates in that class,
with my eyes opened blind,
freezed like a perenial polar ice,
I even lost a feeling of wind,
but only heard my hearbeat rapidly
to symbolise that am still alive,
pumping fast like hoof steps of a horse to the winning point,
leaners were screaming in that class,
but to me that class was a space,
I was a point where all eyes where pointed in that class,
everyone flabbergasted like a ghost have just walked in,
when my colours were splited fakely,
stealth was all the poor accusation.
money is really the evil devil.
that accusation returned my real profile.