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They told me how to live
But never taught me how to.
Maybe it was their first life
But maybe they forgot that it's my first too.
I wrote this one while thinking about my parents. How they just say that I must live but never actually taught me how to. How they think that I share many things to them but I've been holding back telling anyone the things and instead I express them on a page with my poems.
Once cannot teach
Because One is still a student,
This is because we are always learning.

One cannot study
Because One is still a teacher,
This is because we are always guiding.

Developing,
Like three rivers which join & fork -
Only to re-join in course.

We are always trying & changing,
Doing & reaching.

In the pursuit of understanding,
Truth is achieving
And knowledge is victory.

Compassion & patience -
The keys to all things.
yıldız May 7
A black raven soars up high,
Bringing hope across the sky.
It sees the world with shining eyes,
And whispers dreams that never die.

A darker crow, with doubts so deep,
Believes that darkness is all to keep.
But the other flies on, free and bright,
Reminding us of love’s true light.

One sees the night, the other the day,
Together they carry hope on their way.
Even dark and wise ravens teach us how,
To see the world with open hearts now.
Arcassin B Apr 26
Creating Energy,
Is what I be on, I don't think you can replicate this,
Slow minds in this world, you might as well become
a waitress,
Or a bartender , its crazy how energy loss is like
handing out liquor,
But who cares , go figure,
They say "you should take scientology",
No thanks , not in my discography,
Sway me unapologetically telling you to get
the hell away from me...

New poem titled "Teach Us Freestyle" (Full Poem In Link)


©abpoetry2025.
https://arcassin.blogspot.com/2025/04/teach-us-freestyle.html?spref=tw
Ritz Writes Feb 5
Teach me mother how to say NO..
To raise my voice and swim across the oceans.
To value safety over politeness.
To feel comfortable in my own skin without seeking any validation from the outside world.
Teach me mother to hit back, when I'm mistreated, when my feelings are not validated and disrespected.
Teach me mother to know what I want.
To be brave, stand tall and bold.
Teach me mother to believe in my dreams, to dream of a better world.
Because when you're gone, I'll carry the legacy, that doesn't have to be out of pain and suffering.
Mother, teach me to be my own hero so that I won't tread the path taken by you again.
As a woman, I empathize my mother.
As a daughter, I am angry.
God
God doesn’t cause good or bad to happen
God allows good and bad to happen
God allows his creations to cause good or bad to happen
As it serves his purpose to teach us right from wrong
For such is the will of God
Holy God and father in heaven guide me in the truth
Come what may
Ken Pepiton Jul 2024
Base to Major Tom…

all around me now is sound, it seems
only yesterday, in dreams,

this keeps happening,
we keep thinking eventually finality

drops the curtain, and we become
our own selves… found in our hardened parts,

as when one knows the riddles all come
with one right answer, or the riddle is not fair.

Ezekial 17, comes to my mind,

because I happen to live in chapparel,
of the sort they have south of Lebanon…
mentioned in the riddle.

Who ignores the money side of things…
you know,
the business of being creative distributors,
agents allowing the artist
to premature.

It's your show, kid,
this is all you wished for, make it last.
What a time to be old, and on the first wave that became today's augmented intelligence adapted sapience education system... see: {viral idea AKa AI}
Doug Engelbart, “The Augmented Knowledge Workshop”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sG3PWet8fDk
leeaaun Dec 2022
not just only tell me
to stop hating my body
teach me
how to do it
saying is easy than doing
if you can't help then shut your mouth
Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 2022
The pools of eyes; like tears of a sea,
the virtue of dreams. Morals in the
pursuit of laurels.

Even with the strength of Hercules,
still weakened as only being human; in part.
In solitude of dark thought—a deathless
night, looms like a menace of juvenile desire.
Lust and confusion, a drudgery of chasing eyes.
Such a defiance of love: Clinginess of flesh wanting
flesh—vexations of our once selves.

We've all been young.

Nurture maturity, to teach those behind early,
for their grapes to be full in seasonal vines.

Teach 'em as due course,
as 'verly so, you've once been taught.
As a given,
an open hand of the gift of handing
down wisdom.
Robert Ronnow Mar 2022
Should I become a middle school math or English teacher?
Leave my bed early in the morning and return with test papers to grade.
With what authority will I persuade those kids to sit still and perform
      calculations and interpretations.
I won’t be allowed to teach A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Nope, it’ll be
      Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies and Slaughterhouse Five. Novels
      that annoy.
Poems and math are magic. Words and numbers are things no one has
      ever seen or heard or touched.
But the administration keeps them separate. The curriculum’s
      determinate.
The kids are beautiful but combustible. When middle school lets out at
      the periapsis of Earth’s orbit, that’s the face of joy.

The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
      wonders. The periodic table, World Wars I and II, Huckleberry Finn
      and Jim.
Once a gaggle of teenage girls bet whether I wore boxers or jockeys. I felt
      ambushed and unlucky. Also a bit afraid.
There’s little love lost between the students and the teachers. Expect to
      forget and be forgotten. Information.
I remember Mr. Killian my chemistry teacher. So boring about something
      I now find so interesting and important. He wasn’t boring; I was
      boring.
I remember Mr. Christensen my history teacher. He was fat and funny but
      taught as little as possible. I was known to laugh so hard I cried.
I remember Mr. T my calculus teacher. He dressed everyday exactly like
      Gene Kranz in mission control. I was confused past help so he didn’t
      help.
I remember Tone Kwas my music teacher. He said I was the worst
      trumpet player he’d ever tried to teach and switched me to
      sousaphone. He was right but so what! Playing badly is the best
      riposte.
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