Yom Kippur this year was celebrated on Oct. 12th 2016.
Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7, 2016.


~~~

faint knocking at the door to the Tower of Song

the ministering angels, hearing a rhythmic, lyrical rapping,
sigh, thinking the atonement day,
the holiday/holy days, are supposedly over,
the human balancing act, the rush to judgement period,
all tallies totaled, the busy sale season for souls,
at last completed, each fate inscribed & sealed,
in the book of life^

but, always one,
the itinerant straggler, the last reluctant sinner, a judgment resister,
flaunting an expired coupon, trumpeting demands for a recount,
waving it, claiming it, the bearer, entitled to a mercy discount and
an extra 30 days

"who shall we say is calling?"

the Angels are stunned to hear,
a familiar raspy, growling, almost indescribable,
yet, stammeringly, beautiful voice enchanting,
equally asking and answering,  how both,
with a strident humility, "a man in search of answers"

this voice, instantaneous recognizable,
the asking superfluous,
all beating wings now, all in vast excitement,
this psalmist, long awaited, one of His best,
a chosen one, a courtly singer in the Temple of his people,
blessed with the curse of seeing and believing,
the comprehension of beauty of the human superior interior,
never being quiet or quite satisfied,
in capturing, its multifarious variations,
in every language spoken

this is the man who took ten years
to compose just
one song,
one poem,
one word,
Hallelujah,
whose faith was strong,
but still needed proofs,
whose every breath of oxygen inhalation,
brought more questions,
every exhalation, only releasing partial answers,
and yet, still, yes, yes! finding hidden verses inside

a simple, everlasting
hallelujah

the hubbub subsides, the man sings~speaks:
how came I here,
was I one, who by fire?
that fire afeared,  that my finality was spirit consumer?

one voice, answers,
in one voice, the swaying back-up singers answer,
not by fire, not by water, not by stoning or
even drowning
in tea that came from all the way from China

when sing we Angels, the Judgement Day poem,
we alone, on high and above,
we, keepers of the books and records of everyone,
are permitted this to query:

Who by Sufficiency?

you, the sidekick of the creator,
special commissioned by him, anointed to live a life of research,
record in word and song the mysteries of musical gene strings,
that intertwine the skin cells of man and woman,
man and his fellow us-human,
your soul commandeered, ordered, delve deeper,
into the consolable chasm tween divine and mortals,
all those who are poorly constructed
in his image

he, who has earned his place, his best rest,
his works adjudged sufficient,
he, who best answered
this judging,
this calling out,
calling in
incantation,

Who by Sufficiency?

now forward on, write only of answers,
wade in the troubled waters no more,
no more passports, or borders to cross,
no more measuring the days,
the last road trip finale
finished & feted,
fate meted

no more changing thy name, changeling priest,^^
sing songs of solution, salvation,
for the questioning hours of confusion,
the urgency of revolution,
no longer need a hallelujah resolution


                                                    ­| | |
Who By Fire                             Who By Fire, Who By Water:^
(lyrics by Leonard Cohen)     (A Yom Kippur Hebrew Prayer)

who by fire                             How many shall die and      

who by water,                                how many shall born,
Who in the sunshine,                 Who shall live      
who in the night time,                   who shall die,                      
Who by high                                Who at the measure of days,
who by common trial,                    and who before,
Who in your merry                            
                                                          Who by fire
month of May,                                 and who by water
Who by very                                 Who by sword,
slow decay,                                       and who by wild beasts,
And who shall I                      Who by hunger,
say is calling?                              and who by thirst,

And who in her,                           Who by earthquake
lonely slip,                                         and who by plague
who by barbiturate,                      Who by strangling,
Who in these                                    and who by stoning
realms of love,                               Who shall have rest,

who by,                                             and who shall go wandering,
something blunt,                            Who will be tranquil,
And who by avalanche,                  and who shall be harassed,
who by powder,                            Who shall be at ease,
Who for his greed,                           and who shall be afflicted,
who for his hunger,                      Who shall become rich,
And who shall I,                             and who shall become poor,
say is calling?                                Who will be raised high,
                                                         ­     and who will be brought low
And who by brave assent,                  
who by accident,
Who in solitude,
who in this mirror,
Who by,
his lady's command,
who by his own hand,
Who in mortal chains,
who in power,
And who shall I,
say is calling?




^From the liturgy of Rosh Hasanah, the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur, the  Day of Atonement, there is this truly stunning prayer (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unetanneh_Tokef) in the Jewish liturgy. The Book of Life contents the fate of every sinner. From the first day of the new year, until ten days later, on Yom Kippur, depending on whether the sinner repents or not, his fate is sealed.

I'm struggling with what it means to be a woman.
Does it mean that I am always in competition to be the top of my species?
Does it mean that I need to be perfect without a single curve out of line in order to find love?
Does it mean that I am only defined when owned by a man?
Does it mean that I can only find purpose in childbirth?
Does it mean that I will forever live in the shadow of men?
Does it mean that I am an object invented solely for a man's pleasure?
Does it mean that I'm forced to confine to gender roles and live in someone else's story?
Does it mean that I'm supposed to accept it when I'm harassed from across the street?
Does it mean that I'm supposed to lie there silent when he puts his hands up my skirt?
Does it mean that I am only worth 77 cents to a man’s dollar?
Does it mean that I am defined by my looks rather than my intelligence?
Does it mean that I will never be capable of holding a major position of power due to my mood swings?
Does it mean that I am defined by how many men I have had *** with?
Or does it mean something else entirely.
It's difficult learning to love being a woman.
Obvious and damaging disadvantages are visible to observers.
We are regarded as second best, property of our man.
We are erased from history, our pain is minimized and forgotten.
We are oppressed and have to fight for our rights.
We are afraid to walk the streets at night, afraid for our lives.
We are harassed without care and without penalty.
We are ***** and murdered for refusing proposals.
We are expected to live on the sidelines as a housewife whose only priority should be her children.
We are expected to keep quiet in situations of domestic abuse.
We are expected to be perfect, and pretty, fresh for a man’s picking.
We can’t even advocate for our own equality without being demonized.
There are times where I wish I wasn’t a woman.
Being a woman comes with innumerable expectations, pressures, and responsibilities.
My existence is not defined by a man, or by the patriarchal expectations that have been placed on me.
I am breaking free of my confinements and I’m not afraid to admit that,
I'm struggling with what it means to be a woman. And that's okay.
//sarahmann

How long can your legs quake, your body shake, before your heart breaks?
How many times do you have to be knocked down before you can't pick yourself off the ground?
How much taunting and teasing does one have to do before it finally kills you?

Imagine being born into a family that loves you very much.
They work hard to provide for you and give you what you want.
Your mom works two jobs to provide for your basic needs.
Your dad works too, works 24/7, to make sure you get food to eat.
There's no money for toys or fancy clothes, but that's okay with you.
You still manage to smile, happy as always, doing what you love to do.

Now imagine being judged, taunted, ridiculed, insulted; for enjoying the little you have.
By someone who's rich with everything they want, but who's also incredibly sad.
And this sadness inside has messed with their head, it's not fair that you get to smile.
She is rich, she has so much money, but she secretly hates her life.

Imagine this person has made it their job to bring down your mood.
Imagine this person, knowing you're poor, always spits in your food.
Imagine this person, wearing their fancy clothes, throws you in the trash.
Imagine this person, that you don't even know, has made being alive sad.

You used to smile everyday, thanked your parents for what you had.
You never cared about the clothes you wore, you never thought you looked bad.
But this one kid who was upset with their life, took out their anger on you.
The words she said and the things she did had changed your point of view,
On life. You hated it, now you just wanted to die.
The pain she's caused is so immense you now longer loved your life.

That person who decided to ruin your life, to make life seem more "right".
Now that you have lost your joy she can finally sleep at night.
She's stolen your smile, killed you inside and she knows she's caused you pain.
But see, she thinks she was wronging some rights, so she is finally sane.
But you, you've lost all will to live. It'd be better if you were dead.
And so that's constantly in your thoughts, would people be happier instead?
You don't wanna believe it'll help anyone, what would your parents do?
They'd no longer have to work all night, cause no you means more food.
No you means more money, they can finally be at peace.
I would have never imagined that my parents would be better off without me.

It's 4 in the morning and I am awake, writing my parents a note.
I've told them I love them and because of that, its time for me to go.
I'll be gone forever, there's no bringing me back, as I will have bled to death.
You can find my body, drowned in the tub, clear water that would have turned red.

So she walks to the tub and fills it up, takes her clothes off and slips inside.
She tells herself, this suffering will end. Finally I can die.
And so she grabs the blade, closes her eyes and places it on her skin.
Drags it across, lets out a quiet sigh and lets herself sink in.

But I'd wonder what comment could be so bad, you would feel you're better dead than alive.
What was said to her, that made her lose her will to survive.

Was it the person who judged her for what she wore?
Was it the harassment she faced for being poor?
Was it the comment about her unwashed dress or was it the ripped shoes?
Was it her being told she would always be poor or was if the spitting in the food?

It shouldn't even matter what insult was said.
Her being happy and poor doesn't mean she deserved to be dead.

"Don't judge a book by its cover", it also means by class.
Being of a lower class shouldn't result in being harassed.

It's not something anyone chooses, so be careful what you say.
Cause once its said, it can't be forgotten and someone's life might be taken away.

We are born free people, yet there are always restrictions.
We choose if we want to break them, whether with facts or through fiction.
Whether on walls using diction,
Or any crawl through confliction.
And no amount of chains and barriers
Will restrain us, no contradiction.
We understand we’re not on ice,
That there’s always going to be friction.
As expressers, fighters, artists, world changers
It comes from an Italian word, meaning scratch.
Look at it again and a whole new world
Has hatched.
The term graffiti, referred to the inscriptions, figure drawings, and such, found on the walls of ancient graves or ruins, as in the Catacombs of Rome or at Pompeii. Use of the word has evolved to include any graphics applied to surfaces in a manner that constitutes vandalism.
75% of people think its vandalism.
Toronto spends one million a year on graffiti removal.
When artists get back in the game, they haven’t given their approval.
Why don’t you use that money to feed the thousands of poor in society?
Instead of worrying about the art that the citizens need to see.

I never got A’s in elementary school art.
Getting marked on art still sounds like you need to be smart.
But graffiti doesn’t have to mean anything,
Not every letter is a symbol.
There are complications too but it can also be simple.
Almost every kind that I saw on the streets
Took a soft place in my heart, eventually turned concrete.
Let me reel back to grade 10 when I actually took art courses
In the media arts classroom I was taught people as my sources
Banksy, JR, Sofles, Katsu, Kidult, Shepard Fairey.
After my first graffiti assignment I understood clearly
What would happen if you brought a spray paint can near me.
The reason for graffiti is a simple one,
Not always about rebelling, or having fun.
Every artist craves to paint in his or her own way.
And all of us have messages that need to be portrayed.
Like, I was here, I’m alive, let me leave my mark.
This city is mine too, and I want to give it my spark
I belong, I have a voice, and I crave to make a change
These walls are too voiceless when it comes to the speaking range
My love for social justice brings in political ties
Through graffiti one can tell what country thrives with lies
It gives any surface a story, makes it come alive.
Change the system if you strive, until justice is revived.
To try to help the oppressed,
The shapes and lines were mine,
But they’re the ones on the line,
And to sit and do nothing would be an even bigger crime.
I even changed my initials to KKB
The B is for Banksy, its everywhere you see me.
My email has a Banksy, my Twitter did too.
Graffiti is my life, though you already knew.
Humanity is lost within the walls that we made
Graffiti brought it back to me,
And like the ocean did I wade.
Inside the political aspect that structures our brains
And the society that gives us money to drain
All the false information and the things we don’t need
Gives me hope to find these messages written on the streets
Sometimes freedom of speech isn’t so free at all.
But if Facebook deletes posts, documentaries have biased calls,
There’s another way of speaking, even if we fall,
I love how it’s not typical; no tag is the same.
Its breathing life on the walls, not stuck in a frame.
It stands out.
Stands outside of a museum where you always have to pay.
To see something that may or may not catch your attention right away.
That makes your head sway,
Give you some kind of reaction, moves you to action.
Not something you have to think hard about,
There’s little analysis needed, a splash merrily seeded.
Its urgent, its in the moment, for realization.
Once the message has been received, it’s an artist’s confirmation.
I integrated graffiti as a part of my every day life, including school
Drew it in math projects, French presentations, writer’s craft essays, it was my arts night welcome sign tool.
I will carry this with me through university
And it’ll take me further in the arts industry.
When you walk by graffiti in the street, do you ever take the time to notice it? Like, really notice it? Do you ever think about the person behind the spray paint can? Writers are not only being underappreciated for their talents, but they’re being harassed, looked down on, all for no reason. Do you know any of their stories? Do you know what thoughts and feelings sprayed out of the can when the paint hit the wall? Do you ever think about the history behind the art? To breakdown the styles of graffiti, here’s a simple introduction. There are tags, the simplest forms of graffiti. A signature. There are stencils. There are stickers, also known as slaps. Wildstyles are also used, and they’re more intricate, more colourful, and harder to read. It’s a particular style of writing developed in New York City. A piece is one that takes time an effort, and requires more than three colours. A blockbuster is used to cover the most space in the least amount of time. And a heaven is a piece that’s put in a hard to reach area, like the tops of tall buildings or on freeway signs. There’s the style bubble, old school, brush, abstract, bombings, whole car, ignorant, landscape, realistic, billboard, cartoon and sharp as well.
A sense of tranquility seeps into my veins every time my marker hits the paper, full of energy, full of hope. Starting graffiti was a way to combine my passion for speaking out against oppression and my love for the arts. Even though my work is not displayed on the streets, it has the same style, and it may not have the same effect but it counts as an escape for me. It doesn’t make me a graffiti artist, and some would even argue that doing canvas work kills the purpose of graffiti but I always want my work to make an impact on people no matter which way I do it. It’s something I love to do, and anyone can take that any way they desire. There are stereotypes that I’ve had to battle, but in the end, I know my true intentions. I don’t need to make a name for myself. I don’t need to create a reputation for myself either. True, this is not real graffiti, but that’s as far as I choose to take my fascination. I do it because of the escape it provides for me, the sense of freedom, and the sense of power in my markers.
These are the little movements of writers, all of us trying to get at revolution. Art is not supposed to be limited in frames. That’s why to me, the streets are some of the biggest forms of freedom – do as much as you like, however you like, all free. The poor and rich all have to see it. No one can avoid the message. It is not only artistic expression; it’s a protest. A scream of anger and emotion aimed towards public spaces. Graffiti artists did not start the war, they just respond to defend our vision of what graffiti and society should be: free. A battle against commercialism and a way of saying ‘no’ to materialism and society’s over consumption.  To the government, you are not the only ones who own these cities. What about the rest of us that do not exist until we leave a mark of our own? This is a game of action and reaction, if you will.
Taking care of our society is our obligation. That means changing anything harmful to us with every mean possible. Graffiti seems to offend a majority of society but if we took the time to appreciate and understand, a lot of good can be done if we turned the negatives into positives. So if we aimed for change and acted on it, especially with art, we’d be much less stressed. More often, we’d just remember, to stay blessed.

Looking at the clock, I struggle

Despair floating like an eye floaty thing
Get the hell out of here

Like cheese, I age, the more so the more I smell like a ****** old guy like ******* quit buying clothes from Dillard's

Like an onion, I make people cry because my face resembles a donkey getting ***** by an eagle that's ice skating and juggling

All at the same time.

Stuck in my socioeconomic class
My mom is getting harassed
My brain cells are getting grassed

I hate communists.

Returned flush with excitement,
From a ten mile bike ride,
On a day near perfect,
Out along the river,

Temp in mid seventy's
not a cloud in the sky.

Beside the river I ride,
the water summer calm flat,
Scents of wet mossy rocks,
and dogwood trees non relenting.
The perfume of the Valley,
the River damp, sweet and pure.

Ride as I did the trails,
some on paved surface.
most on wood chips and dirt.

Shifting gears to suit the,
changing terrain and the
resources within my aged knees.  

The wind from my speed,
blows refreshingly in my face,
Dark glasses slipping down my nose,
yet keeping sun glare from blinding.

I pass some people,
I smile and wave,
they reply in kind,
Maybe we even
exchange brief
verbal greetings,
Some lost in a blur
of movement.

Easy for us all to smile,
we are happy in our work.

Half way there,
I stop for a drink,
Ease my burning legs.
The spot I pick is under  
cover of a huge old walnut tree.
It's massive umbrella shade,
an embracing sanctuary.

Across the way, a little lake,
On the far bank there stands a
metal skeleton outline of three
buildings that once stood there.
This recreated site of the first
European settlement in Oregon,
Clear back in the year of 1837.

Methodist Missionaries they
were, came overland West,
from North East by wagon.
Bringing so they thought,
Needed "Civilization" to the
poor "heathens" here about.
Almost as always a very,
mistaken, arrogant notion.

There effort lasted only
four years, the locals
responding not so well to
their well intending invitation.

In historical retrospect,
one can not but applaud
their self scarifies, hardship
and strife, some of them even
died still trying.

However they did open
the door, to a new beginning,
Be it for good or ill.
Soon other settlers
made the long journey.
Becoming "Oregon Or Bust"
for many.  

As I reflect sitting beneath
this tree those early people
no doubt planted,
from seed or sapling,
brought so far to this
new land of beginning.
It stands here still,
176 years later,
a wonderful living,
still growing testament
to human efforts of trying.

The breeze livens,
stirs sweet pungent
scents of brackish water,
forest, and Valley,
hints of crocus,
ripe black berries and
summer flowers blooming,
All these scents mingle,
and grow ever stronger.

Off in the near distance,
a strengthening breeze whispers,
Approaching through forest trees
coming ever closer and nearer.
Reaching me in a refreshing
gust that lasts for only a minute.
The sweat upon my face
cooling at it's touch. As I smile,
in grateful acknowledgement.

I have seen this day,
two kinds of squirrels
one red, one grey colored.
Coveys' of doves taking flight,
from my approaching bike,
And birds of many description,
A Red Tailed Hawk on wing,
Harassed by two small pursuit birds
protecting their nests from him.
A huge Bald Eagle diving for fish.
And one of my very favorites,
a spindly legged Blue Heron.
Standing in mud, fishing.
Even a smart fox,
scurrying back to hide
in the foliage, too shy
and too fast to be viewed
for too long by a human.

Thankful as I am,
for this one more
glorious day of living,
In the ***** of nature
so inspiring, so splendid.
I embrace Life and in return,
it grants me, continuation.

I plan on returning soon,
maybe tomorrow if my legs
let me.

When I was younger I bit my tongue so hard that all you can see in my mouth is blood and the colour red. They thought it wasn’t severe and just a normal bite but they didn’t know that bite would change my life. My mother brought me to a doctor who she called “stupid”. The doctor told me that in order to stop the bleeding, he will need a thread and a needle, to do the job of putting stitches to my tongue. My mother thought, “Is this doctor crazy? Sewing my daughter’s tongue? Is he serious?”, my mother was worried about the things that are bound to happen to my tongue, that it will connect to my speaking, that I will have a speech deficiency, but that time all I worried about was the pain. Of course, I was young, and kids were afraid of pain. Kids were afraid of bruises, wounds, blood. But they were never afraid of the world, instead, they loved it. But now, I think I see it in a different way. Thinking of all the things that are happening to my life I think the doctor is sending me a different message. A needle, a thread, putting stitches to my tongue, I think this doctor is telling me to shut up. At such a young age, he was warning a little girl who didn’t even know reality yet to keep her mouth shut, does he know that these things would happen when I grow up? That the moment my eyes will be open by reality my entire perspective will change? That I won’t let my voice not to be heard? That my tongue will serve as my gun and my words will be the bullets that can ****? I wondered if he knew, but I also wonder how is he now, where is he. Because I would want to say some words that I didn’t get to say before when I was just a small child who had her tongue held back to prevent her for the words she was about to say.

I would want him to know that I will not keep my mouth shut.

I will not keep my mouth shut because we tell young girls how they should act, what they should wear. Don’t go to the streets in the middle of the night, don’t wear that, that’s too short. Because ever since we were young we already needed validation from everyone.
I will not keep my mouth shut because we teach girls how to prevent being harassed instead of teaching people to stop harassing girls. Because the questions you will get after that are “What were you wearing?”, “Were you drunk that time?”, and that oh so famous line “Maybe you were asking for it.” Did you think I dressed up that night and got drunk because I was waiting for someone to ruin my life?
I will not keep my mouth shut because we still make jokes about ****, we still think it’s funny, we think something that could destroy someone else’s life is hilarious. And you tell us, “Lighten up, couldn’t you take a joke?”.
I will not keep my mouth shut because my clothes determine my consent, the shortness of my skirt will tell you that I want your hands to touch my thighs, my sleeveless top will send you a confirmation that I want your skin to touch the different parts of my body. That I don’t have my own name because you are throwing different ones to me, I never knew my name on my birth certificate was “hot thing.” But then you did it again while I was wearing long sleeves and jeans, what’s your excuse now?
I will not keep my mouth shut because you think that being a woman is an insult, you will shout phrases like “You’re such a girl.”, “You fight like a girl.”, because we are seen as damsels in distress that are always in need to be saved, because we are the weaker ***, right? But why, that when the moment we already fight and be the heroes of our own that makes us less of a woman and more of a man.
I will not keep my mouth shut because when a boy gets harassed you will tell him to “man up, dude.”, because boys are meant to be strong and women are meant to be pretty, because boys should avoid being sensitive and girls should not be powerful, because blue is for boys and pink is for girls, but didn’t it ever crossed your mind that maybe colours and descriptions could be for both?
I will not keep my mouth shut because we always need to be modest, hush, act like a lady, the way of your sitting is not very ladylike, your clothes are not really for girls, your taste in music isn’t fit for a lady like you. Because you see us a delicate flower that you can pick and own all the time. But let me tell you this, we aren’t just flowers, we are fire. And when you play with us,  prepare to be burnt.
I will not keep my mouth shut because all my life that’s what you’ve been telling me, and after that say sorry. Say sorry for fighting for your rights, say sorry for speaking up, say sorry for not being silent. And tell me, does my voice terrify you? I hope it does.
I will not keep my mouth shut and I am not sorry about it,
I will not keep my mouth shut because I can not,
I will not keep my mouth shut and I never ever will.

After our encounter with the crazy doctor, we found another one, the second doctor, and he said, there’s no need for sewing, you will only need to put some ice to stop the bleeding. I think he even gave me a frozen delight. I didn’t get to thank him before and now I want to see him and see what he’s doing. I think he forgot to give me a message before, a message that he was dying to tell but couldn’t because I was only a child, but now I think I know it. I think I heard him say these words to me in my dream last night:

**“Not because you bit your tongue, that doesn’t stop you from speaking. Don’t be silent, speak up.”

I need feminism
because men are more upset about people saying "all men"
than they are about the fact that 1 in 4 women will be ***** in their lifetime.

Not harassed, not catcalled,
*****
And that is not okay.

I need feminism because out of the four women
I speak to everyday
two of them have been *****
and all four of them can't walk to their car
without sticking their keys through their fingers to
feel the slightest inclination of safety.

I need feminism
because the other day in my math class
a student said "She was asking for it"
and the teacher agreed.  

I need feminism
because when my father wasn't drinking
he was telling me to be a man.

I need feminism
because the way my father taught me to treat women
was to get them drunk.
It's not his fault,
he knew no better.

I need feminism
because my father knew no better.

I have no sense of pride
when I wake up each morning
to get ready for school.
I do not wish to be here;
not because
I just don’t want to go to school
like most kids,
It’s because I myself
and so many others
have felt what it feels
to be victims here inside these schools.

When you're a victim
you face a fear of similar acts
repeating again,
it's like waking up
and expecting someone to punch you
and knowing you can avoid it.
school is like the punch,
and we show up each day,
waiting for the punch
to strike us down,

we could avoid it
by not showing up,
but we have to show up,
so there's no way out
of the fear.
When you're a victim
of verbal abuse
you never know when it's going to strike,

when someone speaks to you
you're left on edge all the time,
when it happens due to
staff and students
nothing seems safe anymore.
You lose your trust,
you lose your friends
you lose your freedom of safety.

Sadly, most of the time
when someone becomes a victim
of verbal abuse,
the teachers causes it to occur
for two reason;
the first,
because they allow it to happen
and second
the worst
they do it themselves
to the students.

In the classroom
you're there to learn.
No wonder students
have picked-up it's allowed
to put down someone
for being different in any way.
If we learn from our teachers,
and they have taught their students
it's okay to put others down,
how do you blame the students then?

How can you blame students
for learning how to harass a kid
if a teacher single handedly
gave them permission?
When they were being mentored in
the act of putting down,  
instead of raising someone
who was a little weaker up?

How can you undo the damage
put onto the victims
who no longer want to walk into school
but still do each and everyday
because
they have to?
How can you deny a kid
their right to sit in guidance
instead of go to that class
when they are being mistreated
and harassed?

How can you Punish these kids
with detentions
when they have been through worse punishment
than you have the power to give out
with a yellow slip?
When they all say
“it's my word against an adults”
when I’ve heard
the same cries and tears
poor out of girls and boys
who hate it here
because they feel their voices
are unheard,

there issue has never been handled right.
“I reported the teacher
and it's like nothing happened
and only made my time
in that class worse”
“They told me I can't
report the teacher
and I have to report
the students,
How do I report
almost all my class?
someone or probably everyone
will give me a problem
when they get back?”
How do you honestly solve that?

You can’t fix the damage that has been done.
The faculty here
has put students
against students
while they sit back for their amusement,
its sickening
that we allow schools
to partake into such crimes,
To allow Faculty
to insult individual students,
based on their biased opinions
on their Ethnicity,
Religion,
Gender,
and Disabilities.
This is considered a Hate Crime.

Schools Supporting Hate Crimes
and doing absolutely nothing
but skating around the issue
as if that will stop
the appalling act
from happening.
Fooling Around,
to Teasing,
to Playful Jokes,
to Hurtful Ones,
To Insulting Ones considering to be bullying,
Than lead to the start of Harassment,
and Verbal abuse of an individual,
That Can From there,
only move forward
unless the victim is removed
from the environment,
to becoming a Hate Crime.