Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
soph Jun 2018
Am I enough?
Well
It sure doesn’t seem like it
I grew up as the golden child
The gifted one
The multi-talented prodigy
Acting
Reading
Singing
Excellence across the board
I pushed and pressured myself to be the best
It was easy to be on top
I was enough
Insecurities started getting the best of me
A “B” was menacing
A “C” killed me
I was no longer the brightest
No longer the best
Comparison brought me down hard
My higher-than-average SAT score upset me
Why?
Someone else was better
I wasn’t the best
My anxiety got the best of me
I imagined my family’s disappointment
In my lack of straight A’s
In my lack of gifted-ness
“Try harder”
“Be better”
No one was telling me that
Except myself
Now
I feel more average than ever
The mediocrity suffocates me
No real extracurriculars
Only three classes
The self-loathing sets in
I don’t feel proud
The praise for straight A’s
In three
****
Classes
It feels like mockery to me
Though deep down
I know I have something to be proud of
I could have dropped out
When my body failed me
But I didn’t
I could have given up on life entirely
But I didn’t
Maybe I’m not the classic Gifted Child anymore
Maybe I don’t sweep the awards at the school ceremony
But that’s alright
I am enough
Even if I DID drop out
Even if I DID give up
I would still be enough
Because I was put here for a purpose
My family and friends won’t leave my side
Even if I failed every test this year
I am enough
woahhhhh this is emo dhhdjs
I wrote this after thinking a LOT about how much pressure is placed on “gifted kids” at such a young age. I think it damaged me a lot, especially my sophomore year. A lot of the poem was written from the perspective of my sophomore year, when I was in an AWFUL place with extreme depression and anxiety. I occasionally go back to that place of despair, but I manage to hike myself out every time and see how awesome I am ;;))
Pao Jun 2018
Not with a smile spread across my lips
Or an energetic laugh
Making my two friends holler with joy
As I spill out a witty remark.

But rather
With downcast eyes
Glaring at the shadowed pavement
Hoodie dangling from my shoulder
Stack of binders desperately trying to slip from my grip.
The moon beginning to make its descend
Behind the towering bus stop
Teenagers huddling around each other
Whispering into the muggy dawn.

My brain fuddling with sleep deprivation
I was always exhausted
Nothing satisfied my body  
Not the ambitions
Pumping in my veins
Strolling down the bustling streets
Of the city that never sleeps
Committed to land a position
As a front page writer
For the New York Times.

This routine of waiting
For a dream so far out of my reach
Is monotonous.
A cycle I can't quit
Even if I was granted the choice
I wrote this for a scholarship opportunity during my senior year of high school. I didn't get the scholarship.
kim Jun 2018
I am 14
I go to school
I do my times tables
I write my essays
I do my homework
I get shot

I am 14
I’m stressed about school
I’m worried about my grades slipping
I’m nervous when talking to my crush
I’m anxious when speaking in front of the class
I’m scared that the sound I heard was a madman with a gun

I am 14
I am confused
I am frustrated
I am enraged
I am scared
I am hiding under my desk trying not to scream

I am 14
I hate school
But for the wrong reasons
I hate it because people have died in my halls
I hate it because every sound I hear is a gun being shot
I hate it because I’m scared I’m going to die
Sky Jun 2018
and in
((four days))
i want to find myself on that familiar path home,
"the heat never had the chance to get to me,
for he got to me first."
(oh he killed me, yes he did.)

he did the
thing that she said
he would do,
which could be that he didn't do a thing at all, or that he
did a thing
(which could be that, he did the thing,
or that he didn't.)

the heat killed me last year, it cannot
**** me again. am i invincible? am i skipping home in
a giddy, flowery fit? or power-striding to avoid tripping on
my own tears, straight into the nearest pothole?
(am i already dead?)

i can see the spoilers in the movie reels now, i close
my fingers and squeeze my eyes shut but the tears resting on the corners of my mouth, yes
i can feel them trembling now.
the shaking of my poor heart and the ghostly fingers of feelings, yes
i can feel them being stolen now.
but alas, i shan't lose hope. i shan't lose hope...
(i don't feel so good) GURL you don't--

--hey hey, hush now. listen for the ending, folks.

four days. four days. four days. four days.
(until the summer.)
four days. im hoping.
Kewayne Wadley Jun 2018
In a way this sort of feels like school.
One moment we're curiously writing and passing notes to each other.
The next we're caught and sent off to detention.
I never knew which box you checked.
Yes.
No.
Maybe kinda sort of.

There's a lesson to be learned from all of this.
Which one I am really not sure.
I wasn't paying attention.
Instead of studying.
Here I am writing another note.
It never really occurred to me.
That while the teacher is teaching.
Filling us with what passes the time.
Life happens behind his back.

The context of how competitive everything is.
In retrospect.
What did you get for number 2.
A.
B.
Or C

Which answer dictates how fast he turns around.
One day soon we'll both know
Grace Ann May 2018
When I find a word I do not know the
Meaning of
I run it over the ever-changing terrain of
my mouth
repeat it with its jagged motions and soft
slopes until it becomes meaningless and
familiar on its roller costar ride of my
tongue
The supervisor releases its safety bar at
my teeth and the word slowly makes his
way out of the vehicle with wobbling legs
over my lips
I hum in pleasure
A new word is a new mystery
A dessert waiting for its purpose of sweet
indulgence to be discovered beneath that
picture perfect guise
My mouth is a fork scooping it up into my
vocal chords making itself known to my
body in a burst of flavor I have never
known before.
And I am in awe of how the linguist like
chefs craft such masterpieces.
When I find a new word I grab a can of
spray paint and graffiti the closest brick
wall in my mind with its shape.
How incredible it is to bring such beauty
to a blank canvas
I learned cursive in the third grade
And I am thankful that these human
hands have the ability to scribe new
vocabulary in more form than one.
To see its beauty in a different font.

    --I failed out of college as an English Major
I started college at the age of 16 after graduation high school early. I had said since I was seven that I was going to be a high school English teacher one day. It's funny how things don't always work out the way you thought they would.
Lily May 2018
We started in seventh grade,
When our ancient, grumpy teacher
That no one liked decided to give
Our second hour science class
Assigned seats.
By some great happening of fate,
I was placed next to you,
The loud, obnoxious prankster,
And I, the quiet, shy nerd.
The class at first was torture,
Yet soon became my haven.
A+ lab partners we were,
And soon A+ friends.
Though outside the classroom,
We were nothing.
We had our own friends, our own lives;
Until sophomore year, when you
Caught me coming out of the library,
John Milton in my hand.
Words were said, promises were made,
And the next day I had your hand in mine,
And we were something.
Two weeks later, under the light of trillions of stars,
On the top of the car you “borrowed”
From your strict father,
You kissed me, slowly, tenderly, lovingly,
And I felt true happiness for the first time.
On graduation day,
You caught my graduate cap,
The sun rays making beautiful patterns
On your tan face, and wavy hazel hair,
But you spun around and gave it right back to me,
To leave me for a college in California,
Thousands of miles away, away from everything
You’ve ever known.
And loved.
I tried to get over you, I really did,
But my mind circled the same tracks,
Went over the same ruts,
And I always came back to seventh grade,
When that cranky teacher gave us our
Assigned seats.
I blamed him, thinking that those
Assigned seats were the beginning of
My broken heart.
It wasn’t until four years later,
That I saw you in a library,
Hiding in the shelves, peeking through
The bookends you moved yourself,
That I realized that those feelings never left.
You had come back for me,
And those bean bags in the kids’ section
Of the library became our new assigned seats.
One day, about a year later, you didn’t take your seat;
You went down on your knee instead.
The wedding was casual, yet beautiful, as you said
I was in my light blue dress and beaming smile.
Our seventh grade science teacher sat in the front row;
The seat we assigned to him.
A week later, he went to the seat that
God assigned him, and we were back in that church,
And this time I was in a black dress and crying.
Years passed, and suddenly I found myself
In front of a classroom of my own,
Assigning seats to my own seventh graders.
The quiet, shy nerd shot me a desperate look
As I set her books down by the loud, obnoxious prankster.
I saw my own fear reflected in
Her eyes, and I simply smiled calmly at her.
Maybe some day she will be as
Happy as I was that I was given my
Assigned seat.
Luke May 2018
"You're wasting your time."
Familiar line, I'm sure;
Leisure, time you take pleasure
In wasting, fighting off chores

With scores of swords forged in
Words, nouns and verbs, you argue
"I've nought to do, work's been,
I've earned it!" The frayed border between

Toil and sleep, 'spare time',
Your crime is laziness, sloth;
The clock – time's warden – watching
As your lies thicken like simmering broth;

The monitor melts your eyes into half-smiles,
"Wasted time, your pastime,"
A degree in procrastination, hesitation
To face – "the clock, the time!"

The moon hides behind the horizon,
Your fingers flurry, too late to hurry
Out the piece you left so late.
"Wasted time" stinks like left-over curry,

Let it permeate your nostrils; exhale blame
As you **** in the shame that you've failed.
Cradle the melted clock, warm butter,
Spread it onto toast, yellow trails

Crying "why?" Place it between guilty lips
And chew; the taste's bitter.
"It's raining today."
Pitter patter, patter pitter.
A poem about procrastination.
Kendall Seers May 2018
No one ever gave me an inch
so to take my mile
I had to carve it out
myself out of blood and dust
and saline
No one would have said I was nice about it
I never felt I could be
lest I found myself picked up
and tossed like so much trash
So I was called bossy
Controlling
Fussy,
and mean.

What a self destructive cycle
they wove for me.
Natalie May 2018
"...and with this, a new day begins.."
this speech i have been dreading
the day senior year ends
the day i leave my best friends
and start fresh again

next year we'll splatter
all across the country
only for some of us to meet again
when two of our high school friends wed

my boyfriend and i had to break up today
for i am traveling far far away
he has decided to stay here
in this town which is very dear

thinking these thoughts
water comes to my eyes
an ocean of tears
as i look at my peers

each one bringing up a bittersweet moment
some i will miss
some i will dismis from my mind
only to one day wish again
that i could be a freshman
and repeat it all over again

oh what i would give
senior year, i wish i could relive
highschool wasn't always the best experience for me. There was ups and downs, however senior year really tied everything up with  a bow. i will miss all my friends dearly but cannot wait to begin the next four years of my life in college.
Next page