"desks" poems
I think it's crazy that they want me to type an essay over deforestation for a score or practice or to better my writing. That's 60 more minutes I'm wasting of my life. They say that sooner or later everything we do we will do with technology. So here I am now writing this essay that's supposed to be about deforestation and the effects and consequences. We are not discussing the issue. We are sitting in wooden chairs with our computers sitting on our wooden desks surrounded by wooden bookcases. So much irony right? I seem to be the only one to notice anyways.
We come here seven hours a day, do hours of homework, "study" the information, aka memorize regurgitate then forget all of it. This is not teaching us. We are not learning anything useful to help us live. It's all numbers and words that do not matter to me.
If anyone thinks that all us kids come to school to learn they're wrong and if they think that the teachers come to teach they're even more wrong. We come to pass class after class so we can leave and actually make something of ourselves. The teachers come because they have to for the money. They do not care about us or our feelings. They put all this pressure on us to be the best we can be which really means make a good grade.
I've been silent for so long now. Not expressing my feelings towards much of anything. Also toward the reason I have to wake up at five every morning to be around people I do not even like.
I feel as though the education system is unfair and cruel and does not take into consideration what the kids who go through this cycle everyday think.
So that's what I think about deforestation.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
Flown Away . . .
Mom tweets; Dad Twitters
The children sling angry birds
Poultry words are shared
A gap, Agape . . .
With desks connected
And sharing a power strip
We exchange e-mails
Cellacious . . .
Discourse is lacking?
Digital Intimacy!
May our Smart-Phones touch?
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 8:09 PM UTC
I.
And my hair became too much
It overtook the walls
made its way into the office on the sixth floor
and then hung
like a dripping willow’s branches
over the desks
By the time they thought to find me
I’d already been wrapped up in a cocoon of brown hair
indistinguishable from the walls
that was now
also covered in the thick strands of undulated hair
II.
everything and everyone became consumed.
III.
In hairy chrysalis, the scissors uselessly
hung on some poor frantic pair of hands
forced into pupa
IV.
It was on the third day that the streets surrounding the corporate buildings were once again
populated with people, that a young woman in heels swore she heard a
faint choral singing coming from the 5th or 6th floor of a dreary grey building.
V.
everything cocooned
everyone consumed
all in pupa
VI.
During metamorphosis, a caterpillar digests itself leaving only behind imaginal discs
that shape it’s adult body.
everything becomes consumed.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 12:05 PM UTC
With the red lights in my eyes
And the gray haze in the sky
With the fire red reflecting back
The neon skin distracts me from where I am
And where I should be
In the winter clear, I sit
And I'm sick of it
As the snow falls on cars
On pedestrians and bars
Wrapped in pea-coats and ***
Under the foggy winter sun I slowly stroll
With a woman in my soul
Like a gypsy king and queen
In a lucid fever dream
Up in the offices and desks
With stress in their chests
These people think of home
While their lovers are alone and stuck with screens
Like windows into scenes
They thought money could buy
As they drift and die
Pouring out from the walls
Of worship chapel halls
With hands in their pockets
Stealing trinkets and lockets to give to the men
Who promise the end
But all will be right
If you pay the right price
From the streets of gods
That will one day rot
Under our wandering feet
When we longer speak but are just memories
Passed on like a disease
On death, I've made my peace
Until then, let me be free
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
classical music
I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife
inside
because there was no alternative except to hide as long
as possible--
not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance:
trying to connect.
the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven,
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and
they were dead.
finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and
monotonous
jobs
by strange men behind desks
men without eyes men without faces
who would take away my hours
break them
**** on them.
now I work for the editors the readers the
critics
but still hang around and drink with
Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the
Bee
some buddies
some men
sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone
are the dead
rattling the walls
that close us in.
11.2k
**From my traumas was born a feeling.
A desire that came way too early.
Curiosity introduced pleasure.
And once it was found, control was beyond measure.
If I told you I was so young that I hadn't yet even shaved,
Yet I was touching myself under my desks back in third grade.
Wanting the attention of a boy,
Wanting to be wanted to feel loved and enjoyed.
Progression through time had me messaging all these guys,
They wanted me and I wanted that and as time went by,
Messages turned to descriptions and those turned into pictures,
The guys turned into men and there were so many of them.
I don't know if I love to please or if I just love them wanting me,
But I have to do it and I can't control it,
Who has been through this who really knows it?
Abuse made it worse because I wanted to be loved.
First time having *** was the first hit of my drug.
I couldn't stop there I had to have more.
I didn't want their time I really just wanted to score,
Like I had no respect or I had no beliefs,
Just giving myself to the people who deeply attracted me.
I would get aroused looking at someone and my mind would begin to imagine.
And of course the next day with a stranger you know what happened.
And i never felt ashamed i felt great i felt so happy.
I had to do it again until i did and it felt ******
It got worse,
I couldn't say no.
Like my mind wanted to stay but my body made me go.
I even have to do it when I'm all alone,
*** is my addiction
you'd think i wanna quit but I don't.
It's a problem, it really is,
It's dangerous and I know.
But I can't help myself and I can't get enough**
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
i laid down across the desks
like always
and started writing
like always.
i felt her hands on the back of
my upper thigh
she wasn't trying to arouse me
but i could feel her little fingers
bumping up my thigh in
a rhythm, thumping while she texted on her phone
and i felt a light touch on my ****
a packet of papers
and another pair of hands doing work
on their work
on my ****
and i felt the light massages of her fingers on my thigh
and i wondered if other girls felt this way
when they were touched
and i wondered what made me different
and if i was different.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 6:27 PM UTC
Desks and chairs and messy hair
Student rankings, must compare.
Always having something due--
Wake up at eight, slept at two.
Coffee, Red Bull, I need more
To push through my every chore.
My health and sanity is growing ill,
But all I need is an Adderall pill.
"It will be worth it in the end," I'm told,
But this college thing is getting old.
Always working and losing sleep
Because I have straight As to keep.
"Amazing essay," "Good job!" they say,
But they don't know of the price I pay.
They never listen to what I need or want
Unless it's in Times New Roman, 12 pt font.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
A
D
C
B
B
B
Be correct please...
I cant stand these tests
Desighned to determine the worth of our mind.
Dont mind me im just suisidal because i got a C, plus these desks lined infront of me, im my three hour exam that took me two and a half hours of writting i took the rest of my time to count the isles, 35 then i took some time to count how many were lined in front of me 31, and with me thats 1120 desks filled with students so stressed you could cut their hope with a single breath. Now this horror scene has no bars but the crippiling debt deffinitly imprisons us. Its funny that a gymnasium can be turned to a slaughter house, maybe even a gas chamber killing hope by the masses leaving thoasands behind because they allready got their check.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Waste my time.
Distract me from the pain of other earthly things.
Raise my Hope from the dead.
Give it mouth to mouth,
Sloppily,
Spit-flying,
And So *****
Inflate its lungs.
Out & in, in & out.
Bruise its lips.
We all are just Living to die.
Right?
Take me to church--
Show me God, boy.
Bring me to my knees,
Make me sing his praises.
Shed your tears on my bare back while we break classroom desks apart.
Piece by piece,
You use me.
You shape me,
And Create me into yours.
Make me wear skirts with stockings.
Make me play nice.
Make me smile.
You know you want to.
Make me wear fishnets.
Make me tease you.
Make me want to please you.
I know I want to.
Let's play dress up for the night.
Let's Spider-Man climb the walls of our insecurities and broken hearts.
Let's bite each others shoulders,
Don't you wanna get primal with me?
Tell me I'm pretty.
Say it,
Say it,
Say it.
Be good and I'll reward you.
Be bad and I'll ignore you.
Make me feel all nasty.
Make me feel so graceful.
Make me feel so perfect.
Pedestal perfect.
Pedestal perfect.
Pedestal perfect.
Let's just pray I don't fall.
Dec 3, 2019
Dec 3, 2019 at 10:23 PM UTC
" In the sea of desks
There is talk of bags and games
And long pipes that leak dreams with a strike of a match
And there's a loudness to the whispers I hear
Whispears shouldn't be that loud, should they?
There's a girl over there who everyone knows
And men without ears who will stand by the door for a price
And long hallways; there are angry mobs of dwarves
and rats
and one single angel. "
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC
the problem with dorm rooms
is that there are hundreds of
people
se p ar at ed
by paper-thin
walls
never interacting
only existing simultaneously
(which, is a cosmic interaction if you think about it.)
sometimes I lay in my bed
face against a cold paper wall
and I
think: what are these other people doing?
in this awkward layout of beds and desks
in the earlylate hours of the nightday
are some
sleeping frantically working
drunk in their beds laying frustratingly awake
awkwardly masturbating awkwardly ignoring the awkward ************
having cramped sex sleeping in the lounge to avoid said *** being had
crying and homesick consoling a homesick friend
too high to sleep too exhausted to be awake
or are some just as awake as I, wondering sleepily, what I am doing on the other side of the wall?
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:00 PM UTC
To Two Nonnas
@2007 Linda Barrett
We can't afford to go to Italy
So you both bring it to us
We hear in the music of your names,
each syllable coming from your mouths,
vocal chords and tongues
that dance fast Italian tarantellas
from your shared cubicle
You both should have been sisters
Born on the same month
And sailed into America
on the same ship.
You bring us Italy
through your cooking:
olive oil drenched cole slaw
made zesty with ground pepper and salt,
amaretto cookies placed on our desks
deep fried calamari rings
at the Willow Grove Bennigan's
and Italian restaurants
in a Maple Glen shopping center.
You both embrace us
with still strong Nonna arms
and crochet bright pink baby clothes
for expecting employees.
On the weekends,
you become bocce ball champs
in Montgomery County
where Italian is still spoken,
To uphold up the old country's heritage
This poem comes out
from our love to you
because just by being our friends
we want to save all our pennies
to see what Italy is really like.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
Silver screen athletes
quitting soccer teams
to join homophobic friends
(redneck quasi outdoors-men)
who just want to **** animals
angst must be vented
lest it boil inside
and form a much darker concoction.
I beat the horse
'till I couldn't get it wrong
even then
the faceless desks of power
endorse eugenics,
pharmaceuticals,
and high profile lawyers
sentencing me to a life's term
teaching Sophocles
to an uninterested fifteen year old
too busy stroking a Ritalin limp ****
to star censored ladies on Vegas stripper cards.
And he said "Watch your language"
when I said "What the ****
Jan 13, 2011
Jan 13, 2011 at 3:10 PM UTC
Planes fly into the towers
Planes fly from out the craters in the towers
Black plumes of smoke choke the sky
Windowless planes flying into the towers
And now another, now another
The towers rattle
Planes take-off from in the fire
And go off into the city, into the stars
into our minds.
Planes like laser-lights, jetting off,
imprinting themselves
into our minds.
Over and over and over and over
and over and over and over
There were as many as 1,000 planes
or more.
Desks, glass-shards, people
High-heels, telephones, people
Falling, smashing down from the towers
A Warholian dream
Dying icons on every TV set, 24 hour access
On every channel
For months on end
On end
Headlines recoiled by an antichrist
Rumors he was in Pakistan
In Switzerland, at the mall
In your mind.
The towers burn forever
The towers burn forever
Frozen in pixels online
In our minds.
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 8:51 AM UTC
To the freshman sitting alone on the bus
Counting the scars on your wrists like train tracks
Creating a laundry list of the socially acceptable ways
To **** yourself.
Wondering if you'll jump off a bridge this year
Or bleed out in your bathtub next summer,
They'll be watching you.
You wish you could tell them they're wrong
You're different than all the depressed emo kids in the bad movies
Plastered to the television set like gum on the bottoms of desks
You're popular
But you're not pretty
Or happy.
To the freshman can I just tell you
In four years, you'll be happy.
To the freshman can I just tell you
You are pretty, you are beautiful, they all love you.
To the freshman can I just tell you
That the amount of likes you have on your profile picture
Equates to dust dissipating in the distance
To the freshman can I just tell you
The earth's curved wall will keep you grounded as you go through Hell
To the freshman can I just tell you
You don't know what *** feels like right now
But it is both amazing, like birthday balloons racing through your stomach
And overrated.
To the freshman can I just tell you
That a friend's overdose, two grandfathers' deaths, and one suicide later
You're still here.
To the freshman can I just tell you
Losing friends is the only way you know you can rely on yourself
It hurts like crazy, but the bleeding heals
And you find your own skin was the agent.
To the freshman can I just tell you
You'll go through horrific fashion trends
(Though none worse than the skeletons of middle school)
And still come out looking ****
To the freshman can I just tell you
Graduation is not far away.
To the freshman can I just tell you
You're going to be ******* fantastic.
To the freshman can I just tell you
How ******* fantastic it is
To grow up to be me.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
In my Prada purse, I carry my heavy medical textbook
I carry an extra tube of my MAC lipstick in Russian Red
I carry a comb
My ID
A clear nail polish topcoat
And a bottle of eye drops that I avoid using because it makes my mascara run.
In my wholesome home, I have glossy tiled bathrooms
Pristine, crisp, snow white curtains
Organic, citrus scented cleansers
Granite counter tops
And large mahogany desks.
In my hollow heart I cradle my worries of a straying spouse,
My anger towards the anonymous administrator
My notions of a sneaky baba
My choking OCD
My crippling debt to a vile man
And the breaking weight of having to shield my children from all that goes on behind locked doors.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
You know... sitting can become very tiresome
and boring.
You sit in the car,
you sit on couches,
you sit on tigers,
on houses,
in desks,
on the floor, in tire shops, at school, at home, at Ally's house,
on computers, at computers, by computers, next to computers, in computers,
at movie theaters...
i just can't name them all.
I've been sitting all weekend... and it's pretty boring and tiresome...
I don't understand why people sit down to take a rest... I'd rather lay on the floor and look
up at the big white
puffs of cotton candy floating through the
silent air.
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
The forgotten umbrella
Fretted
Did he get wet?
Cry because it was missing?
Would his mother have given him a beating?
Benches and desks
Are cozing
The board still retains
The day’s remnants
Night came,
The umbrella was in tears
Rain rain
Umbrella umbrella
Said the rain outside
Only the umbrella heard
His voice was raining over the shower
“my darling umbrella”
Crying itself to sleep,
Headmaster’s room
Came in a dream
Question papers, canes
Maps, globe, skeleton,
Chalk power,
Fat lady teachers,
Farts and baloney
Startled itself awake
No, it is not light yet
Through the darkness
Nothing other than his embroidered name
Still you forgot me!
Other umbrellas came
And sat on either sides
Didn’t you get wet yesterday?
Didn’t you go home?
How can it be said that he forgot me?
There he is!
Umbrella closed its eyes
Let him come running
Give a hundred kisses
He didn’t come even after the bell rang
On opening the eyes, saw
His new darling umbrella
Hasn’t put it down..
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
This job is just one long drawn out lobotomy.
Hey quit putting gum on the bottom of these desks you *******
I can think of a few ways to get out of here but I don't think I can afford a ****** harassment lawsuit.
I'm about 2 minutes away from a faking a seizure and about 5 from a real one.
Hey Guantanamo Bay, are your methods of torture outdated and boring? Then have I got a deal for you...
You think you can just drop Seinfeld references and I won't pick up on them? You thought wrong, *****
I think I lost the ability to see color...
All work and no play makes Ashton a dull boy...
I'm still waiting on Betty White to crawl her old *** out here and tell me this is some kind of practical joke.
Homelessness is looking more and more like a serious option
Don't pull the fire alarm. Don't pull the fire alarm. Don't pull the fire alarm.
Enough is enough! I have had it with all these ************* boogers on these ************* desks!
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
Wake up, wake up
The Whole World Is Watching
And your skin is crawling
I wonder why it's
Bubbling, boiling
Is it alive or am I?
Lifting the digital lid to let them in
Feeds that feed my insatiable hunger
For what my ex is doing now
Soon becomes irrelevant
When people are dying
Who will lose their life
In front of the next camera?
Why does it take so much
Just to open our eyes ?
Just to listen, just
Sit down
Get off him, please
Please.
I don’t want to hear another mother
Crying for her son
Another wife sister brother
I don’t want to watch their children
Learn why their daddy died
I don’t want to be this detached
From loss of life because I’ve lost my life
I don’t want to hear from a clown
Or discuss his position, even his mind
I refuse him my energy
I know big and he is the smallest
What is a President
Sorry, who?
What government
The one that destroys us?
Puts everyone in in cages, our strongest men, our brightest children
Makes us watch
From our couches
From our desks
Because we are that good at multitasking
Pillaging, ****** recognizing
Shrugging and closing the door
The powerful people killing real people of power
Of using color to teach color and power flowing
To keep it going
What does it mean
To put a human beneath you
We were not made for this
But we built it anyway
Was I made for this?
I don’t want to be here
God, I am lucky to be here
I am here
And it doesn’t take long
Not to be
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 10:01 PM UTC
There is a bullet in a box of crayons with really strange names like Parkland Perrywinkle, Sandy Hook Sanguine, and Great Mills Green in a place where children play Russian Roulette with their school supplies when they reach in to grab one and they’ve been learning about probability this week Forrest Gump will tell them you never know if you’re going to finish the lesson or turn into a statistic my sister likes to create mosaics by putting a hairdryer to crayons melting cascades of wax down a blank page sometimes she reaches in and it’s the one lead crayon at the top of the page and it’s only one color that seeps down into the crevices of the cafeteria’s tile floor that proceeds to wash away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers washes away the Proud Honor Roll Parent stickers I see another child reach into the box and I write another word problem I write another word problem: “Zoey reaches into a box of crayons. What is the likelihood she will not get to hang her drawing up on her kitchen refrigerator? What is the likelihood her funeral photo will hang there instead?” Draw students’ attention to the key word “likelihood.” Tell students This word shows that the question is asking whether or not you will live to tell your parents how your day at school was. and I wonder when school desks will take the shape of caskets in a place where both screams of laughter and screams of terror
are permitted
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
I
Fall has started.
Students pile into their desks
as teacher begins the lesson,
with 32 apple gifts in her bottom drawer.
II
Wake up in the morning.
Walk down the stairs.
Grab an apple
among the bananas and
pears.
III
Sitting under a tree, dreaming,
disturbed by a falling fruit.
The apple that knocked your head.
The apple that discovered gravity.
IV
Lovers entwined in each others’ arms.
“I love you,” says one.
“I love you more,” says the other.
“You are the apple of my eye,” says the first.
The second smiles.
V
Kids running rampant,
touch football and tag.
Trading card games while eating lunch.
Lunch? PB&J;, a banana,
and Mott’s Apple Juice.
VI
One of the largest computer companies: Apple.
The Beatles music company: Apple.
Apples are the foundation of everything.
Makes sense,
right?
VII
The Disney hotel room was tan all over.
Even my 6-year-old brain remembers that.
The green sheen of the apple skin was
more appealing than the tan, for sure.
VIII
Apples, apple juice, applesauce, apple pie,
apple cider, candied apples, Redd’s apple ale.
So many choices.
So many variations.
None quite as good as the first one listed.
IX
The red on her lips matched the fruit’s skin
as she bit down into the juicy apple.
Within minutes she was down to its core
and mine.
X
Apply applesauce to the aforementioned area.
This isn’t a game, HeadOn.
It is just alliteration.
XI
The stanzas in this poem
couldn’t be more different
than apples and oranges.
Gotcha.
XII
Mi corazón se dispara a mi garganta
cuando yo te veo. Siento mi nuez de Adán se endurece.
Tus labios, rojos como manzanas,
se ven tan dulces.
Te extraño, Red. Y, finalmente,
te amo.
XIII
This poem brought to you by:
Mott’s Apple Juice, Redd’s Apple Ale,
The Beatles’ Apple, Steve Jobs and Steve Wozniak’s Apple
Sir Isaac Newton’s Apple, Adam’s Apple,
God’s apple, my apple, your apple, he/she/it apple,
It apple bit the apple.
The core of this poem, much like the core of an apple.
Seeds throughout.
This poem brought to you by:
My 15” Macbook Pro Apple laptop.
And the author, moi. From my heart. From my brain.
This poem brought to you by apples.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 3:02 PM UTC
Writing heads, stooping down,
On desks made to conform
While water plays outside
Free, no form.
A wandering mind,
With Innocence is filled,
A question of marriage,
Drops running down the sill.
In uniforms so close,
People come and go,
Forget the magic rumble
Of the world in tow.
The need to wake up,
To sights like these,
We forget and sink,
In the streams with unease.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 1:53 AM UTC