Crinoline filaments
Rolling over and over
Mid-flight the ochre velvet ribbons sailed to the left
Instead of to the right
Two feet retreating
But with one shoe on

Memory returns
For a few seconds of
the calamity at that private house in Paris
She’d tumbled down the staircase with legs overhead
until she stopped miraculously at the shining leather toes of the footman.
He kept his head up.
She wore a beautiful dress.
Her hair was quite precise and she hoped that that would be a sufficient enough apology towards an empty silence.

But this isn’t that.
I shoved her.
And she went willingly. They all do.
We’re roughly a group of fifty-three.

Gathering in the last few years
Whispering over drinks
of tumors
And vascular difficulties
Of pills and appointments and forgetfulness
They never mentioned that
In those climate controlled rooms with
Blackboards covered in Latin and Trigonometry
Of the body’s failure.
Now there’s no longer any mention of kids or whether or not that husband was worth the bother

Did we notice atop
The balance beam not a peep was mentioned
About the moment when you can no longer walk or stand?
That the brain asks please but the body will not comply?
How cool the marbled floor feels against your cheek while you lay for hours in your own feces?
One can rest comfortably knowing at long last that that wallpaper was the right choice.
Kept one really engaged while waiting and waiting for someone.
And that is just the beginning, right?

Perhaps some assumed that the end would come with a daily circle reviewing the contents of their chamber pot
Grimacing and worn
While they recline in white nightclothes
Something akin to what they saw on the BBC

Perhaps a startled disquiet at the rebuke of their intent and gamely stares from a premiere specialist in Switzerland
an expert in alternative therapies for what someone dared call
terminal
Anyway, this is quicker.

So we’ve come together
As sisters
And when the time is right I get the call
We go onto the roof
There’s an elevator now because
Otherwise that wouldn’t work
And one by one
In small batches
They are dispatched
It doesn’t take as long as you would think
We are confident and have agency
We were taught that we could do anything
And they are right.

The ones with a lot of metal can be a bit tricky
They have balance issues
But always chic and always polite
There was a time when we were forced to be together when we clearly did not want to be.
Some families are better than others.
But everything is different now

One day it will be my turn and
I wonder who will deliver me?
And what shall I wear?
Will I try to see where I’m going or will I rest comfortably in my finale.

I adore the way the wind catches the cloth.
How the crystalline beads are removed around the neck and handed over
so as not to add to any distraction
The pinky coral mouthed “Thank you” and
And the sweet eyes that once were bright and shining in their
Goodbyes
Rippling twirling looping interweaving cascading
Down.
I find myself going back and fourth the pros and cons of this school year.

Pros:
Prom
Class ring
Junior trip

Cons:
SAT
ACT
ASVAB

It just seems like a lot. I still haven’t yet to find where I stand in my own school.  I’m not Athletic. I’m not the smart kids. I’m definitely not popular.

I’ll just be the Outcast.
...again.

                           With love,
                              Kirsten
this poem needs a continuation
-it has to be metaphorically beautiful,
more than us.

it -this poem,
should be a ballad.
a saga.

but darling, we’re not really anything,
we’re not really anything at all.

i wish i could break these walls down,
but these words (honey, sweetheart, darling),
they get stuck in my mouth with you.

i wish i could tell who made me realize,
who my “special someone” (as you said it),
is but i don’t want to ruin us.

you’ll only be darling in my head.
we’re only lovers in my heart.

every dance i’d dance with you,
but i know i couldn’t dance with you,
unless you knew everything.

but if you knew everything,
you wouldn’t want to know me at all.

so there’s the reason -
this ballad, love song, work of art, horrible poem for a lover
will stay in my heart.
Another year.
Then another 4.
I start tommorow.
I'd rather kiss the floor.
They ask if I'm excited.
Oh I just wanna soar!
What do you think?
That I have actual friends?
Well now that depends.
All I have are fake friends.
Nobody to hangout with at ends.
I am so social look at these sends!
I just try to get by.
All I want to do is say bye.
All I can do is lie.
Because I can't get out of this.
This waste of time.
Hit me in the head with chime.
I still won't be positive.
This is not how I want to live.
But I don't have control.
Control of what I go through.
It's as terrible as coal.
Why do I need to do this?
It is honestly useless.
Education is unbearable.
My peers are not standable!
I am going through torture.
I could learn so much easier alone.
I know it help my future!
If you changed this stupid tone!
That I listen to everyday.
Annoying so much that I pray.
For an online course take me away.
This is dumb.
This is wrong.
To put kids through this for so long.
This is how real life is huh?  
I get told that all the time.
But it doesn't have to be this way!
We could see a better day!
Just fix education please.
It brings me down to their knees.
And doesn't let me rise.
You wonder why it's mostly cries?
Complaing?
Lies?
Explaining?
Because this stuff can't fit true needs.
Needs to make thing easier.
More efficient.
Breasier.
More enjoyable done.
QUICKER!
That's a positive for my happy sun.
I don't need more assignments.
Just more assistance.
I want to be witness.
To this simple change.
Before I become.
A complete derange.
A bit different, if you guys agree please do something to spread or make this a cause.
Cheaply manufactured in India
Its fake marbled cover fakier than ever
But not as fakey as this assignment
“Grendl symbolizes existential…”

Cross out cross out crossoutcrossoutcrossout

“Grendl symbolizes…” my senior year
Nobody understands why I don’t want
To go to college, why I quit the band -
Grendl and I are both exiles, okay…?

Cross out cross out crossoutcrossoutcrossout

I love my fountain pen; its deep, dark lines

Just like me

Refuse to be MLA marginalized

“Grendl symbolizes…”
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
nish 3d
when i was young
ammi packed me lunch
one strawberry jam sandwich
cut neatly into squares

as i grew older
and my tummy much bigger
(along with my appetite)
one turned into two
two to three
and finally
for some unknown reason
there were no strawberry jam sandwiches
but ammi still packed me lunch

it was tuna or chicken
maybe tomato and cheese
sometimes a pastry
i wasn't hard to please

and it never occurred to me
that my strawberry sandwiches
were gone

till one completely random day
i'm sitting with my friends
taking the first bite of my sandwich
a burst of strawberry fills my mouth
sweet, rich with sugar
it tastes red, good bright red
my strawberry jam sandwich came back
and i was bombarded by my childhood
playing on the swings sandwich in hand
red coated crumbs dotting my shirt
running out of class as soon as the bell rings
to munch munch munch
on my strawberry sandwiches

strawberry jam was never my favourite filling
but it filled me with memories
so occasionlly
when i'm feeling nostalgic
i'll pick up a slice, butter it up
spread my gooey, red friend
and share a sandwich with ammi.
I think that culture plays a huge part in any sort of creative work, in this case I decided not to use 'mom/mum' but 'ammi' which means mother in my language.
Something I remembered and wanted to share because I was eating strawberry jam with crackers just now.
Hope you enjoyed :)

'ammi' pronounced 'uhmmi'
AW Gray 4d
The blasting intensity of the echoing bell,
formation finally falls into place
as the sheep align - a simplicity
fondly remembered now

The pen,
momentous and modern yet cold
and uncaring, a jail cell
for generations to come.

Guards persona's personable and kind,
like Christ they claim to know best,
Began with the fables of Biff, Chip and Kipper,
then break to fill your chest

This stop's swiftly stolen,
forced straight back to the program;
a servitude designed to force labour
till death.
I'm not happy with how the end flows so i'm still working on this, any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
The principal in a cool cartoon tee
His fashion sneakers squeaking across the floor
Sets out candy, pizzas, and canned sodas
Arranges a door prize, and assembles the faculty

Requires them to sign in so he can check on them
Orders them to hold hands and sing the school song
Reminds them they are all one big family
As a preface to his primary agenda:

To tell them to be more professional
The principal in a cool cartoon tee
from LADY WITH A DEAD TURTLE, 2014, available from amazon.com as bits of dead tree and on the Kindle
I gave myself an F
I've never had an F in anything
a straight-A student they said
But I was just a stressed student
Stressed a lot
Stressed at home because
Enough work is never enough
To get that "A"
Stressed at school because
They never taught enough
To get that "A"
Stressed at lunch because
I have nothing to say
To people who get A's easily
Other than how I'm struggling
To cope with this overwhelming fear
That I won't get an "A".
And the overwhelming desire I have
To get that "A".
And the painful knowledge that
I could be having fun and I'm wasting my youth and perhaps my entire life worrying about a letter on a piece of paper
As if I'm only worth a bit of ink on paper
As if life is graded
Because although I have A's
If I were to grade my life
I would give myself an "F"
an old poem I wrote during school exams... inspired by the poem in the perks of being a wallflower
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