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Anais Vionet Dec 2021
Stars spark from a deeping, clear, blue winter sky as
the moon prepares to enter the scene, stage left.

A breeze sweeps away the last blushes of sunlight and
evening caroling-bells, ring like wind-chimes.

The evening chill makes students walking back from
classes seem to walk a little closer for warmth.

Students, huddled to nail down evening plans seem to smoke,
like the exhaust of cars exiting campus in bumper to bumper traffic.

Wet sidewalks, like dark and winding mirrors, twist reality, inverting
and reflecting lights - bending them into pointing the way home.
a fall evening walking back from class
Anais Vionet Oct 2021
The Professor settles in and says, “Let’s go around the circle and introduce ourselves”

We listen to resume after resume of unbridled accomplishment. Then he points to me.

“Hi, I’m Anais, I’m a freshman, from Georgia, and I have mad skills. I can ***** about anything or feign complete indifference. I can give the impression of depth or play the ditz. I can pick the slowest line every time and I’m so good at sleeping I can do it with my eyes closed.” I finish and give the professor a head tilted “anything else?” look.

“Uhh,” he gives me an amused look, “thank you Anais. Next.”
Yale is an an environment where pretentiousness can run amuck
Anais Vionet Sep 2021
The recent lockdown certainly made family the center of everything - from fun to daily irritations. But after a month of being at college - which I know, objectively, isn’t long - those memories seem like echoes from another life.

I love the sudden privacy college has provided - like I’ve personally rediscovered something seemingly new.

I get calls from high school friends who were close as skin a few short weeks ago and there seems to be a disconnect which certainly isn’t because they’ve been “replaced” with new friends.

I’ve always been slow to mesh with new people so I’m trying hard to look engaged in social situations. “Get OUT there and meet people!”, everyone tells us. So I’m working on it - practicing my best fake, friendly smile in mirrors for when deep down inside I want to run.

At least I’ve hit it off with one of my suite-mates, Leong (thank god). She‘s from Macao, China (the “Las Vegas” of Asia) which is about 41 miles from where my family used to live in Shenzhen. When I started talking to her in Cantonese she shrieked with joy - now we can evaluate everyone and everything with delightful discretion.

My classmates are SO smart that classes move really, REALLY FAST.
“Everyone got that?” the professor says, no frantic hands waived “Moving ON!”

If I daydream for 30 seconds - I come back and - “WAIT, huh? - what are we talking about?” It’s not like high school at ALL - it’s actually scary.

So I’m moving on.
My familiar world has been replaced by a fast new and scary norm
Strying Sep 2020
All my friends had given up
They'd taken the easy path
The one where straight A's are attainable
And sanity is sustainable

I moved my mouse in a different direction
From their perplexion, I knew
My complexion would never be the same

I knew that taking these courses
Would be no vacation
The certification was hard to achieve

Yet I got to the point where I wanted no more than to get down on my knees!
Plead guilty
For the crime
Of being in over my head.

I couldn't retain information
My mind was an augmentation
Of my imagination
A collection of mistakes,
Aches,
And earthquakes.

No more could I stand on still ground,
my knees shaking from your sound.
My heart pounding from
the inevitable loss of my innocence
which came derived from your
rejection.

My friends
the ones I held dear, my very own
Turned their face, shielded their eyes.
I was a damnation to everything they stood for!

For everything I tried to become
They became the opposite.
They fought their own, in the worst way possible
And I was left to battle my
impossible alone

Alone with the hours of homework,
And alone to face the very
housework we had built.
To see it crumble down before
my very eyes,
as I fumble to even close the windows to my soul,
as sleep is for the weak,
and I have too many bleak thoughts.
Far too many to ever be able to really dive deep
in this menacing society.

My school which shuts its doors at the very sight of me
And God who rains smog down
and it's not the year 2020, it's the whole future, past, and present.
It's our actions that will never be corrected
For we have had too many opportunities
And pennies for thoughts squandered into oblivion.
For maybe we should stop making
excuses,
and start accepting our fates.
For one day we are all destined to be gone,
yet isn't it odd,
that ignoring this,
that is how we survive?
I really needed to rant in poetry today. Trying to work on my word choice, hope you enjoy this :)
Shreya Aug 2020
I miss the days I used to go to school,
I miss the blue uniform,
The oversized hoodies
And the black uniform shoes.

I miss the days I used to go to school,
I miss sneaking in snacks in the bus,
And the food fights with my friends.

I miss the days I used to go to school,
I miss the sports classes,
When we ran rounds together as punishments,
And made excuses to sit back.

I miss the days I used to go to school,
I miss classes where we passed chits,
The times when we did last minute homeworks,
And covering up for your absence.

I miss the days I used to go to school,
I miss you, my friend,
I miss your presence,
And all our times together.
I really miss school a lot :/

PS: this is a poem my friends and I worked on (online) for a class project. Hope you like it :)
Poetic T Jun 2018
I sat on decaying desks of reflection.
       My homework, write a moment
                                of life that meant the most.


But this is a theory of retrospective
       collections, tattered and loosely fitting.
Writing in faded inks of yesterday.


Everything I'd wrote was a failure,
                    never amassing a page of meaning.
I knew I wasn't a graduate of life.

Mostly a D minus in the accomplishments of what
I could have wrote. But instead I just
                   dodged classes and ended up a failure.
Trinity Apr 2018
We
Holding hands in the hall
Whispered stares about us.
“How can she have the audacity
To get together with anyone?”
The rumors poison her heart,
Slowing her stride
Until she hides her face away.
“It’s all for attention,” they whisper.
But her love grows more than the rumors.
One year goes by,
Classes go by, and they are happy.
“Look at the *****.
She doesn’t deserve that.”
Two years, graduated with honor.
Loving more than life,
More than the horrid thrown at them.
We can survive.
We are strong.
Our love is growing
Our future is drawing
With hope and trust.
Kaumudi Feb 2018
I was told to write a poem during my French class. The product:

Je ne sais pas cette langue
Je ne sais pas comment écrire des mots et des phrases longues
Je ne sais pas comment faire des poésies françaises
Désolé, je voudrais partir pour aller chez.

Translation:
I don't know this language
I don't know how to write words and long sentences
I don't know how to make French poems
Sorry, I would like to leave so I can go home.
This was my first French poem. Please tell me if I've done any mistakes if you know French.
©2018, La Poésie (The Poem) by Kaumudi.
A rhetorical question finds me asking
(to no one in particular) why I recall
the names of grade school teachers
approximately fifty years ago (whose
names listed below), when the need

to retrieve necessary information due
ring examinations (less time ago)
often found me seized with sudden
inability to remember any vital ants
sirs (even including my name), thus

grudgingly handing over blank test paper
analogously surrendering a vital
document gracing terms of defeat
into the scaly claws (zen nay), sans

first to sixth grade Precambrian relic
(Missus Batson, Missus Rittenhouse,
Missus Wells, Mister Stout,
Missus Shaner, or Miss Rinderle).

Invariably majority of first thru
sixth grade accorded accredited
ancient authenticated creatures.
They freely exercised diabolical

churlish ******* animalistic zeal
us yakking, wickedly unprintable
upon (unprincipled urchin) at
receiving end of fiendishly grue
some hellish instructions. Assign
ments buttressed with ultimatums

harkening back to Jurassic period
earlier in dawning primate con
sciousness. Lesson material kindled
with justifiable license in league
with garnered insignia. Heft

to bring pupils to heal predicated
via warp and weft woven wonder
fully. Wrought writs welcomed
whips with warranty whenever
recalcitrant ruffian refused

respecting reptilian rubric repre
sentative rattling (The Idler Wheel
Is Wiser Than the Driver of
the ***** and Whipping Cords

Will Serve You More Than Ropes
Will Ever Do), which loosely
rendered regularly warbled
wishy washy verse curmudgeons
freedom granted to interpret

as one decrepit, hawkish insignia
certified one beaming Eve and/
or stud deed brute soffit. Education
often relied on the weekly reader,

and letters to and/or from Aunt
Emma. Nefarious mean linkedin
kickstarter jawboning torturous
treatment tolerated, asper imps

of the pervert, mutant Ninja
Turtles duty bound antsy
youthful yokel yodelers
weathering ululating sing-song
and quintessential precepts.
So,
I'm not a bad college student.
We'll start with that.
But,
When I do skip class,
I try to do it on review days.
WHY DO I ALWAYS END UP SHOWING UP ON REVIEW DAYS?

-E (c) 2017
Why is this my life?
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