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The memories have not yet passed
away, into an area I’ll forget. Awaiting
a time I feel fine, awaiting, always
waiting. Conscious that is no right
way to live. I’ll die anyway.
The Writer Jun 10
Depression was gained
Brains were strained
As we enter the game,
We knew it couldn’t be the same

We were supposed to be anew
But we all knew
School is only a prison
Even though we listen

We have finally risen
Speaking about the feelings
Like the red roses
Blooming in the fields
Causing healings

School has been causing friction
So I use fiction,
To stop a restriction
So I wouldn’t let the tears glisten

As school ends,
I hope for a happier time
But I can get in line
As I’m not the only one
Who has been inflicted
And restricted
This is about my experience this year with school along with my general thoughts on school.Also is for a school project.
GraciexJones Jun 4
She inhales a huge chunk of the chemically bitter white gram,
Shouts 'I said GOD DAAAAMNMM! GODANM' in the woman’s toilet,
The women snare at her and she beams a grin as she wipes her nostrils clean,
She strolls back to the same uncomfortable silence she had originally left,
A man with a face like a slapped *** and small crabby eyes stares at her,  
He lights a cigarette and continues to ask her questions about Mr Wallace,
She angelically takes a sip out of her £5 dollar milkshake,
An announcement storms the room “JACK RABBIT TWIST CONTEST”
She glares at him with an excited smug expression,
The man profusely refuses,
She pulls at the chance and says “I want to dance, and I want to win a trophy”

She centres the room with her bold presence,
Introduces herself and the man to the audience,
Chucky Berry 'You never can tell' dawns the room,
She strikes a mixture of aristocrats dance poses,
He follows along whilst wiggling his legs and arms,
She twirls and moves closer to him,
She spins and rocks the swimmer move,
Thrusting her chest towards him,
He drops into the mash-potato dance
She shakes her *** and struts her feet,
He jiggles into faster swings and sways his hips,
Captivated by her flow and energy,
She becomes entranced by his charisma,
The two intwine like a wreath of flowers,
She devours him with her blood shot eyes

The song comes to an end,
The crowd roar with excitement,
She beams at him with pride,
He shyly smiles and bows down with Mia Wallace
Vartika May 17
I miss old summers
barren streets with flats so hot
scorched our faces and tanned
our legs and races.

It was simple simply sipping
mugs of sharbat and aamras
and cool drinks
made under the small roof I call home.

Not much on television screens, we sat
cross-legged on floor
playing games that require no brains
and stitched clothes for the dolls
from rags thrown away by mother.

She scolded us
making us stay quiet
handing down her books, old comics
to read and learn and to stop whispering
stories of action and myths
gods and fairies,
for the heat is too much
the sun is too bright
and the sweat on our foreheads
tickle our skin
for we were incorrigible
and never quiet.

As I sat down and read
I imagine yellows in the land of gold
colours dissolving into swirls
my reverie takes me to future unknown
thinking about how much I'll score
just to go outside, step outside
and make my fortune grow.

But the sun has now set
my friends are all outside
they have stories to tell too
mine remain unchallenged, unquestioned,
oh my mother fake-wept
on my injuries, and her fear
so unresolved of my mind kept in darkness
that my grandma starts to lull
the same old stories that her grandma sang her to sleep
far, far away from the land of gold
epiphanies too much for a seven year old.
It's a throwback to my childhood (back in 00s)
Born with a purpose,
Born with a curse,
Molded through a past,
Or marked with scars,
She falls a thousand times,
Like stacked dominos,
Hard to put back the way it was,
And so she will be risen,
Like a butterfly  gone through metamorphosis,
Spreading her wings as she rebirths,
ready to reach the peak of  the mountain,
ready for a fight, for a lesson,
ready to understand the reasons,
no guilt trips,
no blame  game,
she learned how touch turn misery into gold,
she learned how to win a rigged game,
and the nemesis would be tremble on its knees,
As she wins the fight,
she's fated to vanquish...
Ahmad Attr May 6
Such a pretty life this family has
Kids playing in the pool
I watch over them from the garden
I can see my darling too
Looking in the mirror
Will I be seen, if go a bit nearer?

Such a pretty life this family has
Drinking their lemonade
Wearing their summer shades
I watch over them from the garden
I can also see my darling
Drinking from the fancy glass
Will I be seen, if I land my feet on the grass?

Such a pretty life this family has
Sleeping in their pyjamas set
Intertwining in the bed
I can also see my darling
Underneath the tapestry
Will I be seen, If I throw a stone at the jalousie

Will I be seen, Will I be noticed
If I appear in their out of focus family photo
Will it be suspicious, If I knock at their door at night
Turn off their chandelier lights
Make them superstitious
Make them believe I’m a hex
Question their own heads
Banging on their windows
Burning their ebony doors
Blood on the gypsum floors

You once me called me fire
And maybe I am
I’ll burn your jewels, your fancy attires
I’ll forever stay here
I’ll forever haunt you
I’ll forever be your burden
Standing in the dark hallways
Hiding behind the curtains
And I’ll forever see you
With my feet levitating above the grass of your garden
The disruptor,
whether digital or analog,
strikes the bell,

bioengineered automaton
—a manufactured life form
given little agency or dimension,

mnemonic to the finitude of life,
and subtle muddling of humankind's
supposed moral transcendence.

Randy Johnson Apr 30
I'm an ex-prizefighter and my name is Glass Joe.
If you're wondering if I could win fights, the answer is no.
I got my *** kicked by a shrimp and his name is Little Mac.
I got knocked out in the first round when that boy attacked.
I'm called Glass Joe because my jaw is made of glass.
It was humiliating because anybody could kick my ***.
People laugh at my losses and it's something I resent.
I happen to be Glass Joe Biden and I'm the President.
I run America but I sure can't take a punch.
If you hit me in my stomach, I'll lose my lunch.
I lied to everybody when I said that I came from France.
I got *** whippings in the ring, I never stood a chance.
Even old women could knock me out and I'm not a fighter anymore.
If Americans learn that I lost ninety-nine fights, I won't win in 2024.
This poem was inspired by the Punch-Out video game
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