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Anna May 12
i did it.
being done means a lot.
so why does it never feel finished?
Yusuf May 10
Let us stay a little while,
midst the light and bloodied bile,
let us see what we can see
with our deceiving eyes.

The mother feeds their child,
and the scorching sun rises.
The lakes glisten like stars
and the birds sing again.

They're playing soccer.
And talking.
And having fun.
With eachother.

The plants move and twist,
and the tide ebbs and flows.
The grass is emerald.

They invite you in.
It just isn't for you.
If only it was.

The sky is an ocean of blue.
The birds fly like scattered sand.
  
You start doing your homework.

You like it.
You love it.
It's great.

It's fun.
It's so, so fun!
So fun...
that tears run down.

Yet your eyes are hollow.
Your head is full of soot.
Why?
every school I've attended
has had the same problem
they shape the school system for the majority
the minority has to suffer
for the lack of accommodations
the school subjects have always been easy for me
but the pace at school is so slow
I finish early
and am put at a lower level than what I can do
the way school is set up
is wrong in my opinion
it should be customized to each student
I struggle to thrive in school
due to how it's set up
I work fast and independently
school works slowly and with groups
I can't succeed
if I have to wait for everyone to catch up
american school systems ****
Zywa May 1
Sometimes a child walks

in the hallway during class --


wearing the *** chain.
Childhood memories "Het warmtefort" ("The warmth fortress", 2022, Marieke Lucas Rijneveld), chapter De gladneuzen (The simple nosed bats)

Collection "Germ Substance"
Everly Rush Apr 25
I do this thing
where I disappear.
Nothing new. Three times now,
maybe four.

It’s a hobby,
like scrapbooking,
but with my own silence.

The first time,
they said it was hormones.
The second, attention.
Now it’s just
a phase I’m nailing.

I’m very good at it.

Every morning,
a resurrection.
Lipgloss.
Mascara.
Shaky hands. Ta-da.

Can you hear the applause?
Neither can I.

The skin’s still here.
So is the mirror.
And the voice that tells me
not to eat,
not to speak,
not to exist so loudly.

They call me dramatic,
as if pain
needs a spotlight.
As if I don’t bleed
in lowercase letters.

I joke.
I wear band shirts.
I make playlists with
no happy endings.
So aesthetic.

And they love it—
like how I perform survival
like it’s a talent show.
“Such a bright girl.”
“Such potential.”
As if I’m not already
writing my vanishing act
in invisible ink.

There is a kind of power
in being looked at
and not seen.

Do you know how it feels
to scream into a pillow
so well it forgets
how to echo?

I do.

Dying
is an art, too.
But living—
living is the part
I haven’t mastered.

Yet.
We are the last generation,
A couple of years, we will be extinction.
We never wore helmet,
Riding bicycles with whole heart.

We played outside without fear,
Knowing none will bother.
We never drank from plastic bottles,
A gulp anywhere, as it wasn't fatal.

Drinking water from water springs,
Without worrying with playful flings.
Shared our toys with others,
As all were our sisters and brothers.

No Security fences,
Not knowing what was offences.
We never had medicine cabinets,
Healthy eating, our regular habits.

Stalking our crushes,
Sending them unknown wishes.
True love was like a heaven,
Generations will miss those haven.

Eating all the chocolates & sweets
Not bothered about obesity, as it was treats.
No brand shoes, walking with bare foot,
playing, jumping & running, always cute.

Ate real and healthy food,
Each chosen by parents for our good.
Never knew what supplements were,
Even doctors medicine was rare.

Made our playing things,
With scarps, mud, sand and all things.
Gliding through the slides,
in playground, no security nor guards.

No phones, computers, Nor PlayStation
Had real friends, our plays, full of action.
The only tablet we had, when were sick,
We had many things to play, with no logic.

Going to school with backpacks,
Carrying the load of notebooks,
Getting beaten with cane sticks,
Escaping from teachers, were real tricks.

No calling or prior texting,
Surprise for friends, us visiting.
Relatives lived closely,
With love & bonding, made ties, as a family.

Photos were in Black and white,
We were always looking bright.
But the memories, were colorful,
Each moment we spent was cheerful.

Not worried about colors nor looks,
By age and numbers we were hooked,
We shall be remembered, as the last generation,
Who were filled with real human emotion.

We gave keen attention to our elders,
Whom we considered our life ladders,
Listening to flashback stories,
With grandparents, our memories.

An unmatched generation,
Which makes us responsible,
In sharing all things wonderful in life,
As the next don't spend theirs in grief.

Lets return to the basics,
To teach old ways of life and to fix.
Stop wasting time, for tv's and screens,
Care and love others, is what life means.

Put them gadgets down, and rise,
Start to look in each others eyes.
Take off your shoes, don't get spoiled,
Step your foot out, feel the soil.

Often, Use Thank You,
as a gratitude, make it a habit, new.
Involve with people, say I love you,
You will not regret, even if you have a few.


We the peoples,
born during 1950's to 90's,
We aren't special,
but a limited edition models.
Inspired by a post by Beautiful Words
Paul Otundo Apr 20
Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety, let's talk about anxiety:

The laughter felt hollow. "Just kidding!" they'd say,
But the jokes they would tell held a sting in their play.
Offensive and cruel, a twisted, mean rule,
"We're not racist, we swear! We've a friend from your school!"
But I was that token, the one they would name,
While behind all the laughter, I felt only shame.
A knife in my back, a malicious sharp crack,
A constant reminder of all that I lack.

One day, I strolled in, a grin on my face,
Reception was cheerful, a welcoming space.
Friends gathered quickly, all happy and loud,
We played soccer together, praised high in the crowd.
“Just kidding!” they laughed, as they tossed me the ball,
But even then, a small shadow began to enthrall.

The next day arrived, and their smiles felt so thin,
Sweet words they would offer, but something felt grim.
“Are you okay?” they would ask, with a glint in their eyes,
But behind all the kindness, I sensed a disguise.
A clinical comfort, wrapped tight in my fears,
The laughter felt forced, after all the past years.

So, I started to distance myself from the crew,
But their antics just worsened, a horrible debut.
Pretending to whip, with their laughter so loud,
Making statements unworthy, they thrived in the crowd.
Avoiding their taunts felt like such a lost game,
But their mockery lingered, igniting the flame.

Now, when I walk on, I feel eyes on my spine,
A scrutiny’s grip, like I’m trapped in a line.
Each shadow behind me, a judge with a scale,
And I’m just the subject in this haunting tale.
The world feels so heavy, their power’s a curse,
I’m lost in the chaos—am I doomed to rehearse?
Written from the tension between belonging and being othered. This is about the kind of "joke" that echoes longer than it should, the friendly fire that leaves bruises. It’s personal, it’s social, it’s quiet harm loudly felt.
MacGM Apr 12
Since it was such a beautiful day,
my high school art teacher had us go out to sketch a section of the school.
I have reason to believe we were faced away from the scenery the entire time.
Someway,
somehow,
the sweet sublime of noontime in spring was consumed completely by unbridled,
uncleansed boredom.
We stared down the ugly,
open hallway that our teacher almost tried to persuade us is pretty.
The dirt between the two sidewalks had been so pressed down from rain and being trampled,
it would often be confused for the sidewalk when students didn’t watch their step.
The pebbles by where we sat were covered in dust,
about as dry as the spot made me feel.
There were a few trees that stood like awkward,
gawking freshman boys.
The hall was lined with faded paint,
and asymmetrically placed doors,
windows,
and polls.
Altogether it was an urban obstruction.
tedious and monotonous
not retaining the useless information
keeping my head down
so people won't talk to me
if they do
I fear it won't be nice
students avoid me
and that's fine by me
they aren't very courteous to begin with
I finish my work in a flash
then dive into my book
teachers like me
and students come to me for help
I quite like this interaction
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