Eleanor 5d

As children we are encouraged,
'Do your best'.
we are told that,
'You cannot do more than your best'.

So then when we are told,
'Well your best isn't good enough'.
What now?
We cannot do more than our best.

The words,
'Your best isn't good enough',
What is there of that to make?
Are we, ourselves, not good enough?

The most we can do,
Our current capacity,
It does not satisfy.
Our 100% is inadequate.

This poem links to 'Enough'. I ask that teachers and parents never say the phrase, 'your best isn't good enough'. It will not affect those whom did not try their best, therefore making the statement futile and untrue. It will crush those whom did try their best, discouraging them and causing decreased self esteem.
Theador 6d


This room is so empty
The paintings aren't pretty
That guitar is out of tune
And I stare at my moon

The date is so close
The jump into adulthood, leave the rest under the rug
I'm not too keen but I want my dose
They told me to take my chances as I shrugged

All the anxiety, all the lack of confidence
All the money, all the coincidences
To get me here today
And so, here is where I will stay

And here is where I will rock
The disco lights and the sweet women
That view and that amazing froth
I NEED to start living.

Charlotte Dec 4

In English,
we’re learning about
Winston and Julia
in 1984, but
it’s 2017
all I want to study is

I want to study less
about the
control and freedom
Big Brother has
and more about
the calculation of your

I want to study the way
your knuckles could be an
infant’s home, small
hands reaching out
longing for you
or the way the veins in
your arm makes abstract art,
beautiful enough to be showcased
in any gallery.

I understand now why they say
“as pretty as a painting.” Because
you’re as timeless and
breathtaking as
Mona Lisa.

And your blue iris's,
swirl with dark and light
tones with a slight
a golden glint,
I could stare into them for longer
than any
Starry Night.

I’m just better suited to an art class.
I want to learn the primaries
so I can swirl them all together and
get your dark brown hair.
I want to add the most expensive
white, so I can paint the
faint freckles on your nose and

I want to mix blue and red adding water
until the colour is a perfect match
for the faintest birthmark
on your shoulder.

Instead of the History of Russia,
I want to learn the History
of you.
I want to learn what makes you smile
and what makes you cry.

I want to study you,  
I use each brush stroke to
perfect your skin,
each pen writes down
notes until
I have a whole book
full of each heartbreak,
so I can learn a lesson
in you.

While serving the hot tea cups he was strongly imagining one of his favourite things ,
that someday he will get a big shop and his real name upon it,
That name which he learned to write on the painted wall with chalk with straight long strokes ,
Generally we call it blackboard ,
It's been years he went to see that single room and somebody told him it was school,
That was the one which was affordable one he used to go but with no writing tool,
He sleeps less dreams Big ,
Wishing someday everything will be great and with every pretty thing.

Your teachers said that a “B” isn’t a perfect score.

So your chase has been for perfection ever since

your “C” presentation that didn’t prove to the class that you could present yourself perfectly.

As if you're a Christmas toy.

Presents are supposed to be what they want.

and every time you meet a boy


Another poem I wrote in my college class.

Humble, steady elastic to this plastic world.

Elaborate words in a paragraph play a key role in an essay.

But they never say to write the words that apply to you.

Blank words that fill in space

“don’t waste my time with meaningless words.
Say something relatable to a credible source, without force.
But force it if you think otherwise"(Teacher).

I see a creative class
where there's no class to teach the past.
No passing kids for the fact that they remembered all the facts

A matter of fact the context of fact is wack.

A poem about a vision I have for future education.
Michael Ryan Nov 14

I've learned
how to be a child of divorce

not through the quarrels
of mother and father
because mine still haunt each other.

But through my own
struggles of living
two separate lives.

One of a student
bound to study
being a socialite of aristocrats  
through my informality of university.

The other a family man
or a family boy
one that wants to soliloquy
and urge the importance
of unity with my brothers and sisters.

Spread between
two homes that don't quite
fill my needs or
meet my enthusiasms.

They are lost to me
equally lost to each other--
these two homes
used to be equal
but now they demand to be separate.

Laura Nov 8

What if we were graded
on the way
we walked
or talked
or breathed
what if we not were graded
on the way we
or have been
what if grading was done by ourselves
and not the higher ups
and those above's
if grades were more than letters
a goal to reach
to dream
like a pure white dove
what if grades weren't concrete
but abstract
and unreal
what if children were considered more
than a letter
and not grown under
an adults heel

lol I wrote this during math class because I didn't feel like doing math

Come on now!
We aren't racists!
We love hip-hop
And show our respect for Mexican Culture
By drinking  Margaritas
On Dia De Los Muertos.
I have nothing against the Elderly.
I visit my grandma
At least once a year,
In the Name of Progress,
Certain people have to leave
So others
Can achieve success.
Trends come and go.
Of course, trends that are the most aggressively promoted
Are the most likely to be embraced
Just as so many women will tell you
That they want to be courted by a gentleman,
In reality,
They just want a stud!
I think some of these activists
Are giving gentrification
A dirty name,
But don't you dispose of just about everything
Once its worn out?

This poem was influenced by a talk on the book, Death of a City, by Peter Moskowitz at the Blair-Caldwell African-American Research Library in the Five Points Neighborhood of Denver
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