"classroom" poems
"No more questions?
Let's move on to the next topic"
Mula nang mawala ka,
Sa bawat pagkakataong
Banggitin iyan ng aking mga ****
Napapatanga ako at itinatanong sa sarili,
"Ganon lang ba kadali yun?"
Sana kasing dali
Ng paglipat ng pahina ng aking libro
Ang paglipat ng puso ko mula sayo, pabalik sakin
Sana kasing dali
Ng pagbura ng marka ng lapis sa kuwaderno
Ang pagbura ng alaala mo sa aking isipan
Sana kasing dali
Ng paglabas pasok ng mga **** sa silid
Ang paglabas pasok mo sa aking mundo
Sana pero hindi
Dahil tila nasa bawat pahina ka ng aking libro
Dahil tila marka ng bolpen ang pilit kong ibinubura
Dahil tila nakalabas ka na ngunit pilit kitang inaanyayahang bumalik
Kahit ilang pagsasanay, pagsusulit, at oral recitations pa
Sana bumalik ka
Pero hindi.
"No more questions?
Let's move on to the next topic"
Paano nga naman kasi ako makakausad
Kung isipan ko'y punong-puno pa rin ng katanungan
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 3:42 AM UTC
“only” the lonely know (my special sign)
{=}
an incurable silence
the meaningless, wasted touch of a hand,
attached, directed by them from them
to them
a failed reassurance
a classroom, a stadium, cornfield or grove,
so many nutted fallen solitaries fallen to rot
midst a globe of trillions never noticed,
never missed
the silly conceptual that the lonely,
special unique, blessed with a curse,
a specialist status, “only” they afflicted;
with a ken that isolates and yet feels elevated -
oh! I am special
show me one, just one, human who doesn’t truly believe,
they are the onliest loneliest and you will vision
each and every
lonely person who
secret sighs and whose first thoughts are only:
god spare me one more day of being,
fearful of achieving
my very own knowing,
in the invisible place,
the incurable silence award,
reward of another purple heart,
“only” the lonely service ribbon,
my Cain marker
~my special sign~
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
Heard a beeping sound
Followed by A very old Frank Sinatra’s song
My classmates’ heads turned
Who’s phone? who’s phone?
Less chaotic when the teacher glared
Everybody put their heads down
And checked their sophisticated mobile phones
Once again...
When the teacher wasn’t looking..
Mobile phones roamed in a dull classroom
Updating facebook status,
Uploading candid photos of a snoring friend
Copy pasting assignment
Text messaging and gossiping about their stern looking teacher
In the name of advanced technology
Mobile smartphones create the impossibles...
Beyond the blackboard and the four walls of the classroom
O o Frank Sinatra’s song again...
And everybody started looking...
The teacher grabbed her mobile phone
Tried to switch it off....
When students could own smartphones..
Who needs NOKIA from the old time zone....?
~ Sharina~
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
Memories of my school days,
I remember being in class,
It seems like only yesterday,
Now the years have come to pass.
Looking back in years gone by,
There were happy times and sad,
Playing in the school yard,
The lessons weren't all that bad.
I didn't like maths at all in class,
My favourite was always art,
I always enjoyed the break times,
A fight would sometimes start.
We had assembly in the mornings,
We would sing and we would pray,
Walk in single file to the classroom,
I loved coming home each day.
The happiest times of our lives,
They went so quick somehow,
My school days are all over,
They are all behind me now.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 6:57 AM UTC
Biology has no conscience
It doesn't care about love
It cares about reproduction
Biology does not care if someone gets hurt in the process
Biology does not care if he was your boyfriend
Fiance
Husband
Biology has no sympathy
Lust is not the same as love
But often it is mistaken as such
4 letters
3 out of the 4 make all the difference
You are part of an on going experiment
Observed by a classroom of billions
Constantly watching
Constantly scrutinizing
Harshly graded by a force that you couldn't comprehend
Don't try to change this
People have tried to change this for longer than you could imagine
Embrace it
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
I watch their footsteps
I listen to their laughs
Sometimes I wonder why
They keep joking about love.
I walk into the classroom
The boys are being rude
The girls are gossiping
Sometimes I wonder if
I fit in here.
I sit on the desk, preparing myself
The teacher comes in
He looks very tired, like I'm
Sometimes I wonder if
He wants to die--like I'd.
I start the exam, numbers are running inside my head
I look around to see if everyone's noticing
I look down at the paper and
Pull out a pencil from
the pencil case and
Stab my throat.
While the blood are rushing on my shirt
and down to my legs
I wonder why
They keep joking about love.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 4:05 AM UTC
The jungle makes its calls, welling up from hollows beyond.
Monkeys and wild things make their way through the spaces in between,
rapping from unseen places on long barriers
and marking their territory.
Sounds of birdsong fill the air calling out to all too few.
Others prowl the paths looking for prey in caves and behind walls.
Packs of banshees laugh as the chorus grows until the final call.
The last bell rings all are free run for home.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 8:43 PM UTC
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
She is the house that built me
when my heart had nowhere to grow
and hers are the hands that held me
when i was scared to be alone
she catches me every time i fall
like it was her assignment at birth
and she makes me feel like in this world
i finally have some worth
she has taught me lessons
i could have never learned
in a classroom
sitting behind a desk
she is the reason my heart is still beating
in this tiny chest
and even if i only see her
when she's home for holidays
or if i pay the airlines
to take me across the states
my favorite part of this world
is only a text or call away
it is so hard to put her into words
because she is so much more
than i could ever describe
and i want her to know,
and you to know
that she is the sunlight in my skies
she holds me together
i am the storm
and she is the better weather
and whether or not
i have promised it before,
i am hers forever.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
I walk through campus wearing
black leggings and those faded, leather
boots. I’m even wearing an
infinity scarf I bought full price at
Anthropologie and a pair of tiger-striped
cat eye sunglasses. **** I look good.
On top of it, I’m smoking a Parliament
menthol, my red-lined lips whipping
smoke into the dead air, creating
a grey cloud that some would call cancerous and
others, ****
But no one notices me, and, candidly, I
am okay with that because I notice me, and
I am a big red dance button that demands to
be pushed. So, I push myself and
groove down the brown brick road all the way
to classroom 114 in the science building.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:42 PM UTC
It takes a special person to know who you are, to know what to say, to touch your heart.
It takes a special person who really cares, to make a connection with someone in hours, that take other people years.
You're this special person, you do all this and more.
I spread out my wings, but you helped me soar.
I chose to learn, but you made me stay.
The extra period I spend learning is what makes my days.
It takes a special person to help me see, my potential and who I can be.
You gave me hope when I thought all was lost.
You may think you've done nothing, but you've done a lot.
I can say I am a better person because of you.
All from spending one period with you.
From the day you walked in the classroom,
I could see something special about you.
It wasn't because of your beauty or your really nice hair.
I could sense a radiance of inspiration flowing throwing the air.
And an inspiration you are, you leave me in awe.
You are a very rare breed, one of a kind.
You saw a light in me and you helped it shine.
You are a very special person Ms. Haggith, you are.
For you helped me see that I was a star.
That I could go places, that I was great.
You gave me an unbelievable amount of faith.
An inspiration, you are one of a kind.
I hope you are given the chance to help other student shine.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:18 AM UTC
We were boys, once.
Our mother liked to dress us in tailored suits and leather shoes.
Every Sunday morning. Ready bright and early for mass at 11.
We'd sit in the classroom at the back of the old church hall.
After mass. After the chatter of voices hushed down to whispers; virtuous gossip.
Our teacher fed us images of hellfire and brimstone.
*** and sin.
Satan in a red cape and Halloween horns.
He didn't always look like that.
Oh, no. Mother said that he'd come out all dressed in a suit like mine.
He'd be handsome! His voice would be a choir of one billion ****** souls and once you'd hear it, you'd never want it to stop.
In my eight-year-old mind, I wondered what he did and what he felt when his own father cursed his name.
Did he stare at his dad with his thousand-eyes? Did he protest?
Did he laugh as he fell? In a cascade of feathers and blood.
Maybe he was better off without him.
He'd spend the rest of eternity trying to prove his father wrong. That he was worthy of his love:
That he would be the only son to grieve for the mistake of humanity.
The holy adversary.
The one who would shout his love for The Lord until his throat cracked dry and his chest ached. He, who could see the suffering of his father's own creations.
He, who tempted Eve and proved God wrong and we were flawed from the very beginning. Did he watch Eve eat the apple and savor every bite?
He loved his father.
Did he deserve it?
I stopped going to church on my eighteenth birthday.
What kind of parent would **** one son and praise the other?
Who would let one son be nailed to a board and the other to rot in flames?
Even as a child, I knew.
Through every slap, scold and bruise.
I would never bow.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:32 AM UTC
I knew a kid in highschool
Rather to say I knew him would be an overstatement,
He was a friend of a friend at most,
The boy that sat directly in front of me in my economics class
Second seat from the right, second to last from the back
The corner of the classroom between the whiteboard wall and the windows
I remember that scene like a diagram,
I couldn’t tell you anything I learned from the class but,
I knew a kid in highschool
He was best friends with my childhood best friend
He wasn’t quiet, wasn’t loud- he was a normal highschool boy
I remember the last words I said to him
Well not quite, I remember the vague idea
Something along the lines of it only gets worse
He was talking about the theoretic project where we role played
Each kid acting out as if they were in the real world
He said he was overwhelmed by the amount of work
I told him it only gets worse
I knew a kid in highschool
He killed himself during the weekend
The Monday they announced in I was sick
I was sick
His obituary isn’t up on the internet anymore
Neither is his facebook, he is nothing but a yearbook page
The page to a book I couldn’t afford
He is a memory on bookshelves filled with dust
I knew a kid in highschool but I had to ask a friend to confirm his existence
That I didn’t just make up a daydreamed suicide
I’m so tired of wondering what’s left of us when we die
I spend most of my life running from evidence of my existence
No photos, no yearbooks, nothing with me or my name
I knew a kid in highschool
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 4:28 AM UTC
i don't really know what it feels like to be in love but i think the clouds look nice about an hour before sunset when it seems like everything is submerged underneath a blanket of cotton
or maybe in the morning, when the sky is so blue but the clouds are so sad and so soft like the froth that sits on top of my soda in the summertime when its hot
or right before a sunset when the clouds are dripping gold and the sky seems to soak up all of their honey, honey like the bottles tucked away in the pantry, honey like the eyes of the spiral-haired boy living across the street
and i sit and watch how beautiful the sky is from the sweet-smelling sheets of my bed or the lonely window in my classroom or the passenger seat of my father's car and think of how beautiful it must be to be in love
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 8:13 AM UTC
The classroom is cold.
Dead and old.
The classroom is silent.
Dead and quiet.
The classroom is empty.
Dead and alone.
Yet this classroom is so similar to my home.
Old... Quiet... And empty...
Yes the definition of dead.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
She stands before the class
Her voice rings loud and clear
Each word beautifully enunciated
For all who wish to hear
The perennial English teacher
She reads with such dramatics and flair
Such a pity that its only noticed
by students in the first few chairs
She's reading out my poem
She paints pictures with her words
But honestly? Sometimes I find
Her explanations quite absurd
No, That's not what I meant!
Dear teacher, stop twisting my verse!
Dear students, please notice the flaws
In the story she so carefully rehearsed
It's amazing how sometimes she understands
The thought and feelings of what I wrote
And sometimes she gets it so very wrong
That I want to strangle her throat
She continues unperturbed
By the lack of interest in the room
Students only see her smile and energy
Not her disappointment and gloom
She worked so hard to teach them,
A little appreciation would go far!
But they just sit and pretend to listen
As they wait for the end for the hour
Finally, she comes across
That fateful line
The one that sparks a discussion
I watch the class come to life
In a tsunami of opinions,
She smiles proudly, riding the wave
She launches into her explanation
And it's the completely wrong one she gave
Its one of many misinterpretations
Of my carefully crafted work
There! That student! She understands what I meant!
Now now, don't tell her she's wrong. Don't be a ****
A debate ensues and words fly
The classroom divides into two.
Half are on my side, dear teacher
And the other half believe you.
Out of the blue, the bell rings
For once the students want more time!
A pat on the back for the English teacher.
This victory is both hers and mine
So what if she gets it wrong sometimes?
So what what if she's too dramatic?
Sometimes she's just unreasonable
She's your average literature fanatic
She always gets her point across
Without having to scream and shout
She teaches the students the value of words
Isn't that what it's all about?
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
There are wolves in the classroom.
They sit and stare
watching, waiting
sniffing the air for a hint of blood.
Remember Red
There are wolves in the classroom.
You have to tread carefully, cautiously
Lest their teeth
Sink into your soft flesh.
There are wolves in the classroom
Whimpering, growling and howling,
Gently now, be wary now
*Remember Red,
Remember.*
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
those **** trolls fish for gloom
baiting your roses and bloom
behind their mask and costume
a guise filled with malice loom
there spans from the beasts womb
a monster preying your doom
they take your light to dark displume
like fishes facing the jaws of gloom
eliot watches schools get entomb
like a stepping stone to their fume
it takes no rocket scientist's broom
to sweep the trolls from the classroom
nears the hour of our death, trolls resume
Logan Robertson
8/21/2018
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
I do not understand...
In school,
When we were young,
We learned to respect others,
and treat everybody as an equal
But those who taught us
To not be disrespectful
are the ones who choose favorite students
In the classroom,
by the teachers,
maybe some of us are not equal
...they are the hypocrites...
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:08 PM UTC
She is not noticed at the back of the classroom
The teacher does not raise his head giving her the comfort of his attention towards her unanswered questions
She is ashamed of her silentness
He is noticed by every girl at the front of the classroom
The teacher will give him a good talking to once he asks for his attention to said questions
He is tired of his noise
She left class in a rush
He took his sweet time
She went home with her drunk parents fighting
She fled to her room with music
She did not say a word today or yesterday
He went home drunk fighting with his parents
He went to his room and started playing the guitar
He had said too many words that he now regrets
She, the next day, went back to the classroom
He, the next day, went back to the classroom
Her eyes for the very first time meeting with his
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
A pin drop silence
An unusual serene calmness
A solemn way to start a day
in an empty classroom
Even the softest moan...
the loudest roar
Sighed...
counting my own breathing
as I was fidgeting to and fro
in an empty classroom...
123 my heart was beating slow
456 my heart was moving faster
789 my heart was thunderous!
blood boiled up to the head...
from cheerful to moody
from pretty to ugly
smiles... yawns.. smirks... temper!
the veins fighting in the face...
dark red with anger burst!
A sudden... gentle knock on the door..
broke the golden silence
a sweet angel walked in
with head held down
"GOOD MORNING TEACHER"
Applause... Applause... Applause...
Thank you to the sweetest soul..
An empty classroom came to live...
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
As a college freshman
I find myself time traveling.
I close my eyes and
I appear
in the classroom where a group
of over-confident, lazy, too smart
for their own **** good
students stood on the precipice
between leaving and staying
regretting and dreaming.
Leaving would give us freedom
Leaving would fill the creases of
our palms with sweat
We kept our palms outstretched and empty
not daring to grasp anymore of home
because the weight would only
anchor us to the vines
we spent 13 years unraveling from
our ankles.
Maybe we should not have been
so eager to leave, maybe this is a mistake.
The girl with the mermaid hair
The boy with books stacked in
a corner of his desk
They both, we all, sat dreaming
about the same thing while
Ophelia drowned herself in the river
Shores of the ocean and city skylines
Classrooms that did not feel like cages
and eyes that did not reflect a memory
every time you glanced into them
In a high school English class,
a group of over-confident, lazy, too smart
for their own **** good students,
stood terrified and mystified
stood united in there persistence to become
something more than test scores and
the ability to memorize facts.
Fact:
Some mornings I walk to class
and I can feel the girl with the mermaid hair in Los Angeles
walking beside me and when I sit down
I can see books stacked on a corner of a desk somewhere in Berkeley.
I wonder if they wake in their bed and hear airplane engines roaring
somewhere above a valley.
The engines roar with warning.
sometimes it sounds like hope.
Baby, something is coming, we promise
We all began at the start,
dreaming as one and fearing as one
Today, she is five spaces forward
He is ten spaces forward
The others are halfway down the **** board
and I find myself back at the start
every few weeks.
Four spaces forward then three spaces back--
I don't know where I am going.
But I know where I have been.
I open my eyes.
A college freshman.
I hear the engines roar above me.
Something is coming.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
my intelligence is not defined by a number, nor a letter.
nor should I be graded on a curve
by people
who don’t know me.
What does knowing the pythagorean theorem
have to do with me being a good person?
what will memorizing words on a page
help me with my rage
raging about how education has become
this conveyor belt
chewing up and spitting out
society’s warped up idea
of intelligence.
Throw me in a classroom with twenty-something students
just to tell me I’m better than him
but not as smart as her
teachers saturating our brains
with force fed textbook equations
telling us this is what we have to know to make it
“make it on time”, they say
“Passing it in late is not okay”
but when I am eventually thrown out
of this conveyor belt of education
the realization will be that life does not have
a set schedule.
my life will not change on time, as you ask
I cannot cram my creativity onto a five-paragraph
piece of paper.
I cannot crunch my knowledge
down onto six pages
about who I am
Don’t give me guidelines
my future does not have guidelines
you think you’re teaching us information
but in reality, you’re teaching us around the system
of how to get a passing grade
but not the exceeding knowledge
knowledge about what?
Our history?
what about our future?
We can’t learn about our future by staring at a blackboard
in a dim-lit room
with twenty-something other people
wondering what the hell we’re doing here
but being too scared to stand up
and ask.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 1:47 PM UTC
I let you go
to Philadelphia
I let you go
thirteen goin' on “life”
to your momma-- (God rest her-- and keep you
--from wherever she is)
to your father in Philly
outa the picture
Sheepish in the doorway of my classroom
back again
one last time--
Say good-bye, kid, to your short stay in Scranton
a town that can't rhyme
whose name falls over its own misery
No use for outsiders
“Where's your book?
Found your binder in the rain
Soggy protest to school's demands?
Of course it's yours
I checked, ya know”
"No way!"
Desk's been empty, three weeks now
Still, gotta ask
“Whacha doin?
Where ya been?”
“Khmir,
I'm sorry for your loss....”
Thirty seconds shares our grief
Thirty seconds for your future's-- all I got
“Listen to your teachers!
Do your work!
Please-- be okay?”
Khmir
in your wooly black coat-- like a bear
like a dare
shruggin and dancin in the doorway
of the “show”
Homework? Aint happenin'
But one paper, though
on why--
YOU-- should be president
and I almost vote for you
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC