Madilim na sulok kung san nagdurugo ang mga palad
Na alala ko pa no'y si Inang ingat na ingat
Mga lamok na dumadapo di ligtas sa kanyang paglilitis
Na di ko na maalala itsura kung anong ipis

Ngunit sa loob ng maliit na kwadro
Sapat ang isang upua't mesa at isang kabayo
Sabit pati ang yabang kong diploma sa taas ng orocan
Lukot na resumé sa aking harapan nagmuka nang basahan
Mas tanggap pa sa trabahong pamunas ng puwitan
Ngunit mas higit pa ba ang munting papel kung nasaan aking larawan?
Bakas ng ilang buwang puyat at thesis na pinaghirapan
Bakit ako tatanggap ng trabahong mababa pa sa aking kakayahan
O maging alila sa mga sinliit rin nila ang pinag-aralan?

Kahapon itlog at pancit canton,
Dala ni nanay noon pang huling dalaw sa aking kahon
Isang buwan nang matapos na ako
Inakalang ito na ang hudyat ng aking pag ahon
Totoong mundong ganito pala ang paghamak at paghamon
Di maatim ng sikmura sila'y yumayabong

Taga UP ako, isang iskolar ng bayang nais maglingkod sa bayan
Taas ng pinag-aralan ko, kung sa ibang bansa, sahod lang ng bayaran?
Inyo na ang thirteenth month pay ninyong tinamuran!

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Like a cloud of magic
Lives can be changed in an instant.

Once the bottle is grasped
Your past can disappear in seconds.

Ones head seems to buzz
Reality masked by a shield of smoke.

A father, lifting his child
Smiles and laughs, holding him close.

His first day of school
New and different, a milestone in life.

The child giggles then winces,
Smelling the cloud of poison on his fathers breath.

His mother cries,
Wondering who it was she knew as her husband

Did he like me sober?
Or only when he had his walls of smoke protecting him.

Time will pass,
Years turn to months turn to minutes turn to seconds

The last fluctuation on the line
The red movements go still
Just like that he’s gone.

A boy walks down the path to his diploma.

His mother waves in the distance, proud, yet alone.

The boy giggles, for the first time in a while, he is happy.

A familiar smell wafts into the room.
A young man fidgets with his emptying pack of cigarettes.

The boy stops dead in his tracks.
He winces.

Do you really
Blowing smoke into my face
In my pocket a razor blade
I run my finger against it
Pick anything
Anything you want

Cough Syrup
Cigarettes
Liquor
As if you weren't white trash enough

Walk in
You are calm and no one cares
Pick anything
Anything and walk out
You own it

Some lie to themselves
Pseudophilisophical teenage masturbations
As if shoving a couple cold beers into your boxer shorts
And downing a bottle of robo in the toy section of wal-mart
yeah bro, youv'e totally thrown a wrench into the gears of the corporate machine while we drink these cold cans of beer that were pressed against your *****

Marijuana
I wish I was alive for once
Then I wouldn't waste my time typing poems on my cellphone
While you finger your girlfriend on the couch
Sleeping on the floor is great for a while
You appreciate a safe place to sleep
Something different than the bus seats and train stations

I wish the universe didn't
Whose idea was this whole life thing anyway

Tomorrow you will wake up
And stealing DVDs from Best Buy will consume the day
I found a little bag of ****
And we are kings
Of a personnel universe
Your girlfriend
Is
eighteen
She still thinks I'm cool
Cause my General Education Diploma
I hate everything in my life
It's all breaking apart
The seams I have carefully sewn
I need to get out of here
I am tired of January
Appreciate each moment
Appreciate each moment
Because the tumor on my brain waits on nobody
I cant overcome the sense of meaninglessness
It's just the comedown
Xanax
Cigarettes 1:12 a.m
1:13 a.m
Follow my noble eightfold path to oblivion
#1 go **** yourself

If you're a writer your main trade is hating yourself and
finding ways to be clever about it.
Smoke cigar and coffee-stained typewriters,
bachelor in the sixties, suicide in the seventies.
I'm just a cliché, raining cats and dogs, beating dead horses and singing
a little song about death
a little song about love
there is nothing new under the sun.
Dylan doesn't understand what you do is better than
accounting, your trade is people
like stock markets-
string them up and watch them fall
I play with hearts, you say like
a girl showing off her somersaults in the backyard.
But no one is listening.
…
…
…

So you burn your eyes out with hot wax in the living room
and swear
your name is Icarus
throw your diploma into the laundry and watch it turn into tissue paper,
taking moonlight walks down the beach and
straight into the bottom
of the ocean.

(you thought she would hit you
when you told her you wanted to write
but she only laughed...
and you were surprised
how much
it hurt.)

Your father's pride, a phone full of contacts,
seeing straight in the ******* morning and the heart
of a girl that was once foolish
enough to love nitroglycerine,
sold for
a bottle of ink and a scrap of paper
and your name in the
obituaries.
...
...
...

Tell yourself it was worth it.

Finding you was the best thing that ever happened to me
You have showed me what it is like to have someone that actually cares about me
You guide me and encourage me to keep going and to succeed
Finding you was like finding a needle in a haystack
I don't know how to explain the way I feel about you
It is like something that I have never felt before
I can't stop smiling when I'm around you
You make me feel so comfortable when I'm around you
It's like I don't even have to try around you
I can be myself around you 100% and I have never felt that before
You make me laugh and smile
You make me happy and forget about my anxiety for a little bit
You talk me out of all my problems and tell me to take things day by day
You are there for me when I'm struggling and need someone to vent to
Finding you has changed my life for the best
Finding you has bettered me
I don't know what I would do without you in my life
Yes, things are complicated right now
But, everything comes so much easier when you are there
You make me see the good in myself
You keep me focused on my education
Finding you has kept me determined to get my teaching degree
I can't wait to graduate college and see you sitting there in the audience watching me walk across stage accepting my diploma
Finding you has made me who I am

we learn to speak,
we learn to write,
we learn to count,
that's education.

but everything changes in high school,
education is slowly losing it's true meaning,
we compete for high marks,
we compete for good grades,
just to overcome the fear of getting into 'bad' colleges and universities.

we learn something without knowing the purpose,
we memorize facts without understanding,
that's education of modern world.

it had made it such that,
people are judged on their level of education,
Diploma, Degree, Masters, PhD,
important certificates just to get recognition from the society.

so think about it,
are we really educated or are we just a person,
who everyone calls 'nerd'.

I’ve shred open my own skin,
I’ve insulated myself and I have searched to
find answers at the bottom of empty pill bottles.
I’ve abandoned the nutrients from my own stomach.
What I’m saying is I am no stranger to self inflicted pain;
I am an expert in punishing myself for existing.

Write about being seen, really being seen.
(Remember to go with your "first flash," and write for 10 minutes without stopping or thinking.)

I was so humiliated. Besides feeling humiliated, I felt like I was on display. Each step I took down the hallway, every person in every little group glared at me, glanced away, and the whispers were buzzing. I felt it unjust, but I knew I brought it on myself. I cannot say I felt betrayal, as I was the original betrayer, (well, he was, but our emotional volley had collapsed with the weight of my action) but I hated him for savoring the revenge of my ruined reputation. I knew the pain I bestowed on him wouldn’t go away, but his smug satisfaction of broadcasting my shame only added to my humiliation.

When is graduation? Exactly two months away. That was April first, and I would have my high school diploma June 1st. I was a survivor, for my whole life, and although it was awful, I knew I could get past it. Still, every step I took in the hallway following that dreaded day, every move I made, every word I spoke, every breath I exhaled– was noticed, and I was judged without given the opportunity to provide an explanation of my perspective. High school rumors were ruthless, but what was worse is when it wasn’t a rumor. It was a scandal.

Even though no one dared to ask about it, to obtain information from me, I knew they all knew. Everyone knew, and once the basic information was known, details were not important. I wondered how many other girls experienced what I was experiencing, having to hold their head high and act proud despite the shame. It was strengthening, inadvertently, but the only other option was to hide away and avoid everyone. Even with a reputation, I couldn’t do that. Peers whispered and laughed degrading words, female faculty cast judgmental stares and all male teachers avoided eye contact, to avoid any association with me.

throwing papers
up in the air
everywhere
wonderful bliss
4 years for this
I miss you now
we talked about how
this would be us
kissing
throwing it up
not giving a ****
i don't give a ****
i really don't

graduating next week
and i pretend to be sad to go
it really doesn't matter
ill walk and ill bow
ill get my diploma
i really don't know how....
I got the papers from the recycling bin
it says a lot doesn't it

When we approached the intersection
Contaminated with political signs,
Yes on 1, No on 1. I asked,
“What did you vote for, daddy?”

We waited an hour in line for the elevator
Inside the crowded Empire State Building.
It was our turn but you said,
“We aren’t going in there with them.”

I had just received my diploma
And was floating on the high of achievement.
She put her arm around me and you said,
“Stop being so queer.”

My heart is broken
And I stay locked away for days
You knock on my door and ask,
“What’s wrong?”

I am not going to tell you what’s wrong
When I grew up hearing from your lips
That I am what’s wrong.
He doesn’t need that extra burden.

I will carry the memories of
Your vote against gay marriage,
The two men holding hands in the elevator,
The words that made my diploma a dagger.

There is no shame, in moving back with your parents.

To them you still smell of diapers and the time you puked jelly beans all over the back of the car after you tilt-a-whirled your “I’m a big girl” attitude into giggles.

Around them you still clumsily tip over you own puberty when they ask you to clean your room.

You’re still in college. And that diploma on your wall is still less of an accomplishment, than when you suddenly discovered your thumbs.

So, how do you cope with the baby talk condescension scribbled over directions to empty a dishwasher properly?

1) Realize this is just temporary. You have till you’re at least 40 to fix this.

2) Clean your room of all the embarrassing childish evidence (i.e. N’Synch Posters, Pokemon Cards, Ect) . When CSI comes in they will just assume you were visiting.

3) Take long, long walks far, far away from your residence. Preferably the woods, so you may not run into any high school nemeses.

4) Pray you can get laid by someone, your age. Preferably someone you have not had any prepubescent encounters with already.

5) Eat all the free food you can.

With theses steps you can safely avoid pulling out your own fingernails with the self-loathing hiding under your bed.

Do not let it fill your Pog champion hands with delusions that you have failed to tie your own shoes, let alone pay your own taxes or get married.

Might as well give up those big girl pants and open lid cups and go back to Sesame Street and ******* in your own pants.

This…

Is only temporary.

You must say.

A temporary walk through the woods. Praying to lay down relax, and enjoy the air you are still eating.

This is only temporary.

I don’t know you yet,
But I’m scared I won’t ever get the chance
And there is still so much I want to tell you.
So I hope tonight you’re listening to
The sun whispering secrets and promises to the earth
While the stars play sonatas and symphonies
with a crescendo that Shakes beliefs
and crystallizes my voice in the wind
I hope it’s carried to you, wherever you are.
I hope you feel what I’m feeling right now
And know you’re not alone
And wherever you are
Whoever you are
I love you
So put down your blade
For you should only bleed with the moon
Life’s the gift in your veins and
Your wrist was meant to be kissed by lips
Untie your noose,
Use the rope to tie the backyard swing
Someone someday
Will pump their legs so they can
Fly and kiss the universe
But that’s not the only thing I want to tell you

Like the mother that gives up her unborn
Tears in her eyes for the
Countless nights she won’t be able to
Tuck her daughter into bed
And tell secrets of the strength she possesses
That she’s so much more than beautiful
her legs are strong enough to carve her own path
And someday she’ll find success buried
Inside her own bones
Read her son fairytales
Of how to love gently
Break the stereotypes
Because It’s okay if he cries
There’s strength in tears
She has so many lessons and stories to
Share but
She’s only 16 and she’s still a child herself
this is the second time
Her mistakes will burn scars in the empty space
Between her arms as she cradles regrets and
Kisses the soft skin of an imaginary cheek
right below the should-be reflection
Of herself
There’s still so much she wants to tell them


And there’s a girl wandering the street alone
who’s given up believing in anything
Except empty promises and lies
The same night her god died in
The arms of a stranger who
had too much to drink
Bruises on her thighs
And stale breath burned into her neck
Knowing no amounts of soap could wash
The filth away, not even the sun is bright enough to guide her
When her eyes are stained with black cigarette ash
Not knowing there’s someone out there that
Has the stars to bring her safely home
that there are empty hands aching
To hold her
show her there is so much more
Than wrists and razors
That Heaven can be found
In hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows
a safe arm around her shoulders as they toast
One another by the fireplace
But she’s already given up
With the barrel to her chest,
She takes a deep breath
and pulls the trigger
While miles away in foster care
In a run-down room with
three beds and tear stained sheets
is the lonely other half with stars in his pupils
A smile for the hope of making a home
Despite the promises of homes that’s been constantly broken
He keeps his strength in ink
so he keeps on writing
And even without dinner for a week
He’s full with dreams of
A home he would’ve shared with her but
he’ll never know that except for the pain in his chest
From never hearing the voice that
Could sing back his heartbeats, a muse
with hands that mirror his lifelines
But tonight with no realization of the could-be family
He’ll press his pen to paper;
Writing poetry for the girl he’ll never meet,
folding his words into a paper airplane
That he can release to the atmosphere
And pray it finds her, wherever she is.
There’s still so much he wants to tell her


And
I want to whisper secrets in your ear
Of every nightmare I’ve ever had
And how I believe you can turn the falling sand
Into dreams
Give bodies to the ghosts
Of those who haven’t died yet
I want to tell you stories of
My grandmother under the Tuscan sun,
Losing everything but still believing in her dreams
And how with shaky hands from world war II bombs
She signs her name on the Ellis Island wall
An Italian accent tinging her tongue
As she learns how to dream in English
Of how she joins the American war so she can
Shakily hold a diploma and finally
Teeter on the edge of the precipice
Singing songs of triumph and kissing
The things she dreamt of as a child
And with those same shaky hands
She’ll hold my mother and kiss her eyelids
Not once resenting those explosions
Because fate has a funny way of
Bringing you to where you were meant to be
And she was meant to love the American man
Who stares down at his new born child with
A new kind of gentleness in his smile
And these are the things I admire the most

But I also want to tell you how I’m terrified
Of how I’ll inherit my grandfathers disease
(the same man with a gentle smile)
Of mania in iridescent white
And depression so deep you drown in blue
With his OCD mannerisms and bi-polar Medication
he shakes too.
And sometimes I’m convinced
That this shame will be repaid
With my own set of pill boxes
Mapping out every white and brown tablet
That I’ll take day after day
To control the chaos
To control the hysteria
To bottle myself up in chains
So I can say no to the shining razorblade that
Beckons to release the pressure of
Red (blood)
White (highs)
And blue. Deep deep blue.
He has chocolate brown eyes just like mine
So maybe that’s not the only thing
I’ve inherited

I want you to be someone I hold
Under sheets kissing your forehead as you fall asleep
Both feeling holy as Jesus as we finally let go and cry
Knowing that our tears will reach their hands into the sky
To pick out the brightest stars
and light up one another’s face in the dark.
Invincible but not invisible in your embrace.
I want to tell you of all my dreams and how I used to
Pretend I had superpowers
Pretend I could fly with a red cape
i want to tell you
Of how I still sleep with the moon as my night light
Because I’ve always been scared of what lurks in the dark
And
When I look in the mirror
I don’t really know who looks back
but I still think life is beautiful
When you’re looking for pictures in clouds.
Most importantly I want to tell you
I love you.
I don’t know you yet,
but I love you
And I hope when I pass you on the street
Not yet knowing your name
I will dream of you.
And someday when I come across you again
In some coffee shop on the corner of
Reality and make believe
I’ll have the courage to ask you to
Stay and talk a while
The steam from your Chai washing away
The stress from your face
As we both realize this is it
So let‘s start with our names and explain
there is so much we need to tell each other.

The retail and fashion industries offer a lot opportunities but there are challenges and stiff competition. To stay ahead, retail and fashion stores need to offer the latest and best quality products at competitive prices. The job can be get done through professionals called merchandizing managers or merchandizers who play a vital link between the vendors and the customers.

Merchandizing managers are professionals who select the products to be sold keeping in mind the requirements of targeted customers. These managers are usually employed by boutiques, departmental stores, malls and retail outlets.

Merchandizers work closely with buyers to identify any upcoming trends. The main focus of a merchandizer is to ensure that the departments or stores for which they work meets its sales targets and earns a healthy profit. If margins are below expectations, they need to analyse the reasons and alert management about the problems.

Though the field of merchandizing does not require any specific degree but a bachelor's degree in business, merchandizing or similar field is preferred. A student can further pursue master's or a doctoral degree for better prospects. Also, merchandizing manager must possess good knowledge of the company and customer needs, industry awareness, presentation and negotiation skills, a confident personality and innovative ideas. Merchandizing is a challenging field, hence the merchandizing manager should be able to provide effective solutions for various problems.

"The scope of merchandizing is huge. Unfortunately, there are hardly any merchandizing companies in Nagpur. You don't need a specific background to enter this field. Any person with good communication skills and the ability to learn can excel in the field," said Prashant Siriah, director of city-based Global Merchandize and Logistics.

"The biggest challenge of this field is to meet customer's demands. The market is huge. I feel there is dire need to boost merchandizing industry in the city. Being a garment merchandizer, I would suggest students to be stay updated with the latest trends and traits of retail markets," said Pooja Bembi, garment merchandizer, owner B Different boutique.

"Merchandizing has a huge market outside Nagpur. We began from Nagpur but are business is now set in Bengaluru. We have seen the industry grow. As an experienced professional, I can only say that merchandizing has a lot to offer. Students should be open to explore. Out of the box thinking and excellent management skills are qualities a merchandizing managers need to have," said Nikhil Pandey, co- founder of Thinkstrokes, Bengaluru.

"People who want to join this industry need to have complete interest in it. I am passionate about my work. It's important because once you come into this industry you have to create your own path. I feel as merchandizers we need to come up with innovative ideas to cater to the interest of today's generation who are so much aware of fashion and apparels," said Anmol Huda, garment merchandizer, SWAG Store, Nagpur.

Merchandizing offers a decent pay scale. It offers steady growth to people having the right skills and attitude but one needs to be patient.

(Reporting by Shrushti Wanare)

STUDENT QUOTES

I think fashion is something you create. You work on it. It's more than theory. It challenges your creativity. It's not when I read books but it's when I sit with the outfits I understand its details. Merchandizing interests me. It has multiple layers to experiment with. I am particularly more inclined towards garment merchandizing.

Gundeep Kalra | fashion and merchandizing, Indian national institute of fashion designing,

I am pursuing fashion designing. I wish to study fashion further and I think merchandizing as an industry offers good opportunities as well as bright financial prospects as a career. It tests your imagination skills. It is a very indulgent course. A student needs a mix of creative potential and aptitude to excel in this field.

Ayshna Verma | UG student fashion designing, pearl academy, delhi

Colleges offering merchandizing courses

Parsons School of Design, Talent Edge, Nagpur

Courses offered: Online

Program: Diploma in Executive Programme Of fashion and Merchandizing

Duration: 5 months

Fees: Rs65,000

School of Fashion and Technology, Pune

Courses offered: On Campus

Program: Post Graduation in Fashion and Merchandizing

Duration: 2 years

Pearl Academy, Delhi/ NCR

Courses offered: On Campus

Program: Post Graduation in Fashion and Merchandizing

Duration: 2 years.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

Flash back to grade four, sitting in my room, listening to Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance. Pin up posters of Pete Wentz and Gerard Way filled my room. (Thanks a lot, Tiger Beat.)
My sister held out her pinky saying, "Promise me you'll never be emo."
Fifth grade me, not even know what emo meant, intertwined our pinkies.

Flash forward to grade six, sitting in my room, listening to Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance. Pin up posters of Pete Wentz and Gerard Way filled my room. (Thanks a lot, Tiger Beat.)
My tiny pale wrist appeared to be a canvas for art. I wanted to draw a self portrait; a sad little girl with big dreams, no friends, a mommy with a heart condition and a daddy that didn't love her.
I took a tack from my wall and began to paint my wrist with blood.

Flash back to grade five, when wen we spent all our time on the soccer field behind the school.
Whether we were playing soccer or picking at the leaves that hung by the fence, every recess we were there.
Sometimes the older kids would come along, if not just to bug us.
Eighth grade meant swearing and spitting.
My best friend was always braver than I was. I remember her saying "the Earth has never tasted anything as vile as your spit."
I swallowed down my own saliva.

Flash forward to the eleventh grade, where we spent all our time in the smoker's pit in front of the school.
Whether we were smoking cigarettes or waiting for someone to finish, ever lunch break we were there.
Sometimes people would walk through us to get to the bus stop.
Ninth grade meant coughing as much as you could just to let everyone know you were ******* about breathing the smoke filled air.
No one was brave anymore. We were all cowards, our vile, nicotine infused spit hitting the pavement in front of us.
I stepped on my cigarette ****.

Flash back to first semester, grade nine, hearing about people I used to know doing drugs and hooking up.
I said I couldn't believe it. These people that I used to know. I couldn't believe Sarah was doing drugs. She was so pure and innocent.
I promised my best friend I would never do anything.
She promised me she wouldn't either.

Flash forward to second semester, grade nine, doing drugs and hooking up.
I said it was just a coping mechanism. The person that you used to know was still there. I'm still pure and innocent.
I promised my best friend I was okay.
She asked me if I was high.

Flash back to my first day of kindergarten. Letting go of my mom's hand for the first time.
The caterpillars in my stomach had turned into butterflies for the first time.
I kissed my mom goodbye and finally, like the caterpillars in my stomach, I broke through my cocoon.
For the first time in my life, I was free to spread my wings and fly.

Flash forward to my last day of high school. Wrapping my arms around friendships I had worked so hard to build and saying my final goodbyes.
The caterpillars in my stomach had turned into butterflies for the second time.
I shook my teacher's hand and took my diploma and finally, like the caterpillars in my stomach, I broke through my cocoon.
For the second time in my life, I was free to spread my wings and fly.

We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers.
White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind
Was too busy visiting sea after sea.
We did not succeed in interesting the animals.
Dogs, disappointed, expected an order,
A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep.
A person seemingly very close
Did not care to hear of things long past.
Conversations with friends over ***** or coffee
Ought not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom.
It would be humiliating to pay by the hour
A man with a diploma, just for listening.
Churches. Perhaps churches. But to confess there what?
That we used to see ourselves as handsome and noble
Yet later in our place an ugly toad
Half-opens its thick eyelid
And one sees clearly: "That's me."

A poem a day takes the pain away.
"It could always be worse"
That's what they all would say.

If it could always be worse,
Then why don't your words make it better?
Don't diminish what I'm feeling,
Simply bc someone's circumstances were harder.

A town was destroyed,
Lives stripped away.
My family and home still in tact,
But I too felt the wrath of that 22nd May.

The ****** and the bruised,
Don't forget the whaling sirens,
Continually speeding by for the first 48 hours.

Anything to help,
Water to the families
Prayers for the refugees.

Thank goodness it wasn't destroyed,
That football field.
What else would have sufficed?
To house the bodies,
In number, nearly 165.

Prayer and tears cannot rectify,
The pain and the hurt evident in mine eye.

Grasp hold of
The friends you were able to get ahold of.

Proud of this town I call home,
Banded together.
But my school, a whole other story on it's own,

I lived, breathed, what was just a building.
My faith in a structure,
Security and normality soon ripped from feelings.

The boxcar children?
The boxed mall children.
Diploma in a shopping bag,
Earned through PowerPoint presentations and 9GAG.

Thank goodness for glassed in boxes,
How else would I have been able to think?
Those tanks have awesome acoustics,
And hey couples can use them for **** tricks.

Build a fort of cardboard,
Film a music video that'll win zero awards!

Throw ping pong ***** over the walls,
Practice ACT while you hear the drama kids doing bird calls.

Can't use photoshop?
There's a class for that.
"Teacher" can't help with trig?
Here's an F for that.

Grief counselors available 24/7.
Doors are also always open,
So go get some lunch at the 7/11.

Took advantage of naïveté,
Skipped school to deal with that 22nd May.

But hey! Prom was still awesome,
And the seniors got scholarships,
So it's alright that my gpa was messed with.
Heck, I was a junior, easily forgotten.

Off to bigger, better things!
Forget the past,
Endure the change.

Hello MSSU or Crowder.
Community college "fo dayz"

This is how we deal with windstorms, in the little old land of Jomo.
The town banded together, but school....
It's more broken than ever.

They turn ya loose and you'll move on,
Cuz for a few years ya had a laptop,
And hey that's enough to build your future upon!

Her baby walks
She looks on proudly
One foot then the other
Step by step
Across the stage

His eyes find hers
Arms thrown high in victory
Diploma in hand
“Mommy look at me”
Her baby walks

Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, picket line
across the parking lot in front of some
school that no one bothered to name?

Our exhaustion-mumbled whispers
skipping across lips dropping to the street
that tapered ladders on gargantuan gadflies as the summer heat
etched the tear lines into mud tracks against
our ruddied faces.

Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing political sores --
tell me how to cross my t’s and fill in scantron circles before
the suits step over brown-bag lunches
to stretch the yawning yellow tape over the students’ lockers.

We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
The political analysts call this “The biggest school closing in decades.”

Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a young boy’s diploma
crying white chalk bricks
from university’s doors instead on to
prison yard orange jumpsuits.

Can we call this a school improvement project
or can we call this the Same Salem Witch Hunt
As unwashed teachers and students alike deck the sidewalks like
Either Christmas decorations on Michigan Avenue or
Inmates on the gallows platform

I’m completely unable to read the television marquee that told the neighborhood that City Hall was too stuffed with paperwork to defend the mothers and invisible fathers.

I’m completely unable to write out of respect for these children’s already-carved in stone pathway to the gutter, graveyard, and/or prisons.

In the first wink of dawn
We will all scatter
To our respective positions
Carved out in concrete before the
barricades fall
to flood the street.

What does it mean

To be a Mommy, a Mom, or a Mother?

A Mommy…carries you for nine months.
Her feet swell and she can’t sleep well.
She sings to her belly waiting for her miracle to come.
She rushes to the hospital, staying strong but scared all at once.
She lets your older sister hold you before she even does because your sister was so excited to finally have a little girl in the family.
She spends sleepless nights trying to persuade you to close your eyes.
She sings “You are My Sunshine,” “Once upon a Dream,” and “An Irish Lullaby” as you drift off to sleep with her comforting voice.
She cradles you in her arms, hoping the tight blanket wrapped around your tiny body will prevent you from growing up too soon.
She lets your hand go as you take your first steps, the little bells on your shoes jingling away.
She watches your bright eyes discover the dark world she was afraid to bring you into.
She teaches you everything she knows.
How to be kind, how to tie your shoes, how to apologize, and mean it.
She sits on the edge of the bed reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar and rewinds Mulan for the hundredth time that day.
She showers you with love and you don’t realize how lucky you are.
She holds your tiny hand in hers as she shows you what life has to offer.

A Mom…helps you with all the school projects you bring home, and let’s be honest, she does it all for you.
She picks you up from school every day, an hour after school was out. The teachers started to become accustom to this routine.
She makes dinner for you every night. You never went to bed hungry.
She asks you to pick up your toys and to not leave them laying around the house.
She scolds you for constantly picking on your little siblings.
She jams out to Tim McGraw, Faith Hill, and Eminem in her big red van with the windows rolled down on a warm summer day.
You stay up until the sun rises the next day watching whatever came on TV because you’re both night owls.
She makes you a pink heart shaped cake every year for your birthday decorated with your favorite princess figurines.
She reminds you when you get on her nerves that she gave you your life, and she can take it away.
She sits on the edge of the bed, blow drying your hair, while you doze off from the warmth and security of her love.
You look at her and know she is the woman you want to be one day, so you live each day with the kindness and compassion she bestowed upon you.
She is quiet but you’re too young to think anything of it besides being soft spoken and modeling yourself after her.

A Mother…reminds you to finish your homework before you watch TV.
She sits in the passenger seat, telling you every five seconds to “slow down” or “don’t get too close”.
She gets mad when you don’t help out around the house as much as you used to.
She says you spend too much time with your friends.
She’s waves proudly from the crowd as you walk across the stage, accepting your diploma.
She tells you, “Why don’t you pay for it? You have a job.”
She says you spend too much time with your boyfriend.
She tells you that you don’t need all that makeup to look pretty.
She asks you where you’re going but you just want to be independent.
She feels like her little girl is slipping away.
She sits on the edge of the bed, but this time you’re all grown.
You’ve been hurt badly. A cut so deep you think it won’t ever heal
You’ve been crying for days because a boy broke your heart.
You’re confused and lost. You feel like you could never be happy again.
She sits on the edge of the bed.
She listens as you sob, asking yourself what you ever did to deserve such cruelty, all the while still hoping he’ll take you back.
Then she tells you
About the boy that broke her heart.
How she thought that was the end for her. She didn’t want to go on after he left.
And then you realize that your mom is human.
She isn’t superwoman, a princess, or an angel.
No.
She’s you.
Because everything she’s experienced, she’s survived, and it made her the woman she is today. Faults and all.
And she raised you to be like her.
She raised you to realize that sorry little boys don’t deserve the time you give them.
She raised you to be strong, honest, loyal, and most importantly, kind.
And after that night, you never loved your mother more than you do now.
Because she’***** rock bottom, but survived.
And you now see the courageous woman that she is.
And one day, when you’re sitting on the edge of the bed singing to your daughter, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know dear how much I love you. Please. Don’t take my sunshine away.” You realize that the sunshine doesn’t last forever, but it always comes back after the dark nights.

And after that dark night, the sun rose.
And you gave your mother a hug.
A real hug.
One like that little girl who called her mommy would give her.
Because you never want to lose your sunshine.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom.

Love,
Ashley

We've done it
We've did it
It's concurred and done
We've been at it since two thousand and one
The Class of 2014 is what we are
And boy have we gotten far
We are the generation that expierienced things none other has
From 9-11 to those new Internet fads
We are turning our tassel
It took a thirteen year haul of hassle
But as we stand
Diploma in our hand
We know it was worth it
We are the Class of 2014
And we did one heck of a job

i did study schizophrenia for several years,
i'd 7, in total -
                             but would i agree
with Kraepelin? probably not...
                       after studying five psychiatrists
with the power position of:
                 well... i'm not...
                                          what you think
i am in your attempts to treat me, i learned a great
deal of things... as you know the now infamous
national health service is doing a cracking job
at infuriating junior doctors...
              the media are pressing
for more investment in why no one has bothered
themselves to identify premature depression...
only because... schizophrenia... is... quiet frankly...
a non-medical noun... call it what you want
otherwise... it's a highly polarised name
for the leftist agenda: it's basically medicine:
politicised -
                       i.e. you can be a conservative,
a liberal, a socialist, a ****** fascist...
or a schizophrenic...
                                       i'm just thinking about
genuine sufferers huddling in their dozens saying,
in accordance with the previous name for
the condition (premature dementia):
   why the ****... am i so creative... all of a sudden?
and Nietzsche was right when he said:
individual madness is rare... madness en masse?
that's a norm...
                                 none of those bargain shoppers
waiting overnight in queues to get into
bargain sales at Harrods ever get mentioned...
but to my: i spy with my little eye...
        about a hundred crackpots standing to ovation
(deeply desired) -
                   **** me if you get trapped in this
windmill of the medical joke...
                     the part of medicine that left it open
to allow politics to engage with authentic conditions...
authenticity has a ring to it: John Nash's
Nobel prize medal and diploma will fetch
an apparent $4 million at Sotheby's (if not more)...
   i just can't see how schizophrenic are what
they aren't: wouldn't it be easier to say:
                  the other kind of dualism?
or Geminis without the ****** zodiac talk of:
peasant watching pheasants die at a shooting range?
     i don't want to be believed...
         i have my national security number,
i have my passport number,
   i have my date of birth... and **** me... a telephone number
  +44 01708 766 994...  
                i just hate the fact that people with
this condition aren't acknowledged...
    ****** me off, day in, day out...
                          the peasants just licked the salt
from the wound and added pepper for the extra sting...
it's the one medical condition, not
                 understood, precisely because it was reined in
by politicians... and, let me tell you,
understanding something while practising
rhetoric is how sophists go about their ways...
they're already two timing the ******* crowd,
and they can't seem to address what schizophrenics are:
hallucinatory self-esteem minders: basically:
they don't know how lucky they are...
             symptoms of the Buddha preaching a middle
path... or Nietzsche's beyond good and evil...
                  they are simply exercising
   an experimental duality without a need for
obstructive conscience or lack of it...
             yes, experimental because of the symptoms...
and therefore lacking all the symptoms of someone
without a conscience:
                     enclosed: the subconscious speaks -
and god forbid i like this psychological verbiage...
let's just say i want to make language pharmacological...
    i want to make the ideal pill in terms of language...
but never prescribe anyone anything...
                           but in popular press
the political elite always exploit a genuine
medical condition in order to quash their competitors,
while the genuine sufferers become obsolete
oddities...
                    because why would you first call it
premature dementia (two classes of old people:
the melancholic and the demented...
                the demented are suffering for past and hidden
ills done unto others... the melancholics?
      it is done, and all i have in reward is a television
set and a bribe from death to live 25 years in leisure
watching sea waves and wrinkles tattoo my forehead
with age)...
                         but imagine premature dementia...
(the praecox variation) -
                                    the older name evolved
into a description of en enhanced version of dualism:
or split-mind (******                        could evolve
further into duo-                   or two, rather than split,
            and hence the mind, or -phren) duophren...
the lost impulse to follow-up thinking of choice -
          in the "schizoid's" mind i see
                      the subconscious brimming to its full
potential and reaching a hallucinatory status -
and if ever you thought that auditory hallucination
wasn't the worst imaginable hallucination -
then your Darwinism is shy-locked into
    the fancies of Huxley on mescalin and the hipster
trend of the 1960's escapism...
                  auditory hallucination?
well... you're probably part of the bible crew...
       and that nutty fragrance of your words:
appeals to the few: frightens the villagers...
(**** break, headbutting the cat, yum yum yum)
           or the Sims...
                                  i stopped playing the first
edition after discovering a wormhole when
i steered the Sim to play computer games...
          you know how it goes: you're playing a
game of puppets, you make a puppet go to a computer
and play computer games, you're yourself playing
a computer game... ****! then you stop playing the
computer game.
                that's 7 years studying the disease
(lighter use of language? dis- [negation] of -ease,
          being denied a certain ease of mobility)
                  and not based on theory,
but based on experience...
                                   on the petition so far?
   Bukowski and Burroughs...
                                      obviously icons but not exactly
saints...
                                  but after a while, you sort of
forget scientific positivism...
             they're looking for life on Mars and a Jupiter moon
when they know that the earth as hostile to anything
but volcanic reactions... if there is life on these two
globes: it's way past gone...
                     as already stated,
            schizophrenics are actually the most formidable
political tools: the fear of men in white coats...
  because everyone accepts the apathy due to their
persistent lying (politicians): the men in grey suits...
                        schizophrenics, i'd say,
are the source of all phobias surrounding mankind...
         oddly enough: schizophrenics are the most
adaptable to fathom the divine comedy...
                        it's gone way past Balzac and the human
comedy... it really has...
                                         i just don't like the way
schizophrenics have their condition robbed of any
medical ambition to say something, but instead are
drowned in sophism, a mere rhetorical tool
to scare off opponents... 7 ****** years...
                      and as i began, i'd disagree with
Kraepelin, but agree with Eugen Bleuler -
a Swiss who i thought was an Estonian... never mind...
because psychiatry is at best, a populist version
of philosophy... like Christianity is populist Platonism...
psychiatry is a populist version of philosophy...
   and what we're talking about is not a sigma
interpretation of uniform evolution of species,
but the evolution of words, or, specifically:
compound words - the desire to replenish aged
standards of then original insight:
         premature dementia (dementia praecox),
that evolved into              schizophrenia
                                   (split mind)
                          that had to evolve into a tier of
acceptable dualism -                     casually phrased:
           to be of two-minds                   as in zodiac
in all alchemy shortened to:               the schematic of twins.
obviously the table will not evolve -
                          it's probably a borrowed word
and has its limits - probably Nordic or Germanic
and standardised to a babel transliteration -
             but concerning scientific words...
i see a need for a linguistic Darwinism (fancy words,
coming from someone without an
authoritarian position to prescribe pills to people),
                it has too evolve, primarily because the word
has been underused by the medical profession...
       and has been overused for political despotism in
shaming political competitors and exposé journalists...
       added to the fact that psychiatrists in
England are clueless people who were abused as
children... one even admitted to me,
a confession, musing aloud, not exactly prescribing me
with a delusion, although i gathered just as much:
             oh, he must have been abused as a child -
to which i might have added:
           and turned toward the study of psychiatry to
claim the ultimate fetish'o-sadistic status in society...
   a cowboy psychiatrist.
               they're out there... they're waiting with
the zombie pills...
                                    anything except sleeping pills,
vitamins and high-blood pressure pills...
             i'd flush down the toilet:
well sure, i used to weigh as much as i do now...
the weight doesn't make me uncomfortable...
               i went down from 101kg to 70kg
       over one summer riding my bicycle i

You’re treading water, tantalizing your audience as they watch you sink deeper and deeper into the ocean.  They want you to fail as your vision blurs and your limbs shrivel with exhaustion.  You watch their pale faces with painted on smiles and take one last breath as you plunge into oblivion.  
But I don’t want you to go like that.  

I want to give you iridescent pearls so that when you take your last breath you feel beautiful and hold that breath in your heart until your posture becomes so confident that you finally know your worth.  I want you to believe that a white washed world isn't a “right” one but instead one that has become accepted by the same society that told you 245 years ago that you were property and your purpose in life was to serve those without melanin in their skin but steel in their hearts.  And the only difference between being branded by your slave owner is that now you pay $250 for that brand new pair of Jordans and participate in a sport where your leaders more often than not refuse to respect you as an individual but instead as a number followed by a k that can make them rich and you in pain.  

But you will succeed and no one will ever pierce your ebony skin because I promise you, I promise you that you are a speck of galaxy in world of pure Crayola.  You are brown, intelligent, and tall in a generation of ignorance of the fact that Michael Jackson wasn't trying to communicate to a certain race but instead a feeling but we associate everything with race.  When I am emotional I tend to not make sense but the thing is that YOU make sense so hold the microphone and speak to the world and one day instead of Martin Luther King being a memorial it will just be. To be.  

The only thing that scares me is that your night terrors tend to take place in front of mirrors where I cant protect you from shards of glass breaking your skin and tearing your self esteem apart.  And when you walk on graduation day and a white male hands you your diploma say thank you with your mouth and I made it with your eyes and then turn to your mom and hug her because in two years as you walk down the street in a dress suit and nice shoes instead of Jordans you realize that most of communication between the white male is non-verbal and all he's saying is, “get out” “you do NOT belong”.  They think it’s appropriate to act this way because the howl of your skin breeds intimidation and it is sadly accepted to just shoot
— you
not that it matters anyway

in this moment I want you to remember when you were seven years old and you rubbed white lotion into your knees thinking it would make your skin lighter your life lighter your problem lighter.  It didn’t.  Hold your head high for that seven year old now 27 year old brown child.
                                                                                            

And one day you will be happy because you are happy when you are loved.  So many in this world neglect you but love your culture.  Each year you complain about your routine becoming routine but go ahead and cry about your life because I know the zest in your tears reminds you of your Grandfathers cologne.  And I want you to start over, say hello to yourself.  Take a step back and bask in your beauty because that is you and you are close to perfect.  You can be magic.  

Touch the heart of the world and make it smile.  Marry a moonbeam and hear the stars sing and don’t let the monsters in your head ruin your dreams.  And the people who don’t want you to succeed you need to destroy them in the most beautiful way possible.  And when you leave them for something greater they will finally understand why storms are named after people.

He was a mid life crisis
Wrapped in black velvet:
A curtained tunnel
Of scarcity
the drive to create it.
I was a placeholder
A magazine while you wait
Your diploma comes in the mail
Marketing copy in Latin.
The only thing you fear
Is the weight of your own sound
Resounding:
An invisible fist
Beating a drum,
The one your rib cage locks away.
Soundless.

I use my pennies to buy experiences
Like your smile
The smell of your skin
Fresh and real
For those I steal
Lie
And cheat
A drug to beat
Another drug
To beat the need for drugs.

I want you
                  to know that I forgot
the memory I wanted to expound upon here,
                  the tears I never cried make it difficult to dryly
blot the pages.
                  I suppose you know I never loved you, but
more meaningfully, I hope you now see how trifling and hollow
love is. Like a warm Spring day, love means nothing but the
nearing embrace of a dying star.
                   I want you to know what I'm referring to
in this line. It's called "astronomy." It seems to hold the
attention of other mystics, such as her.
                   But I want you
to know
                    that it's just about gravity and
luminosity and
                    what our star hasn't got, but
others have.
                    The wind blows my page as I'm writing this standing on
my porch, and I fail to
                    Look up. My hand holds down the dry, decaying
tree pulp in an attempt to stabilize the
                    metaphor for
Life
                    your absence has become.
When the dead leaves of last Fall rattle, I can see you there,
running past the chain-link fence containing me and the
tennis surface.
                     It would be weeks before sweat dripped from my nervous
head as we jumped up and down while others slow danced.
                     And then I wake up in my new apartment in a city
you've never been to and remember jumping was only me. It's been seven years, but
I still have my diploma from that early graduation--
it's above my fridge so I can ignore it every time I
reach inside
                      To drink the cool water and
remember the things I should have learned
and the time I ran fast, back
                       to your host parents' so I could use the bathroom
without you knowing, because my stomach was convulsing.
                        And maybe what I meant to say is that the earth's on
its yearly sojourn which brings me to that place-- that group of folding chairs
and the endless line of cows dancing slowly past the podium with nothing
but a piece of paper that tells them "you were once here."
                        It takes me on the highway, past my father's farms to that
man-made reservoir that irrigates them. It amuses Nebraskan farm boys
that the girls that ride along seem to know the way
                        better.
                        But you weren't from Nebraska, and you only knew the way
in water, in the bikini I helped you choose at target-- I don't remember the hue.
                         Your skin looked amazing and warm
                         transplanted, prairie-grass nestled gently on your supple thighs
under my grasping hands which held on firmly yet
were knocked off with the jolt as you spurred our gas-powered sea-horse, laughing
as we both sped off from our island rendezvous and
became oblivious of my self.

degenerate beauty queen
treasure from the dredge of the Earth
strung up like Christmas lights
white crystal **** aflame
hydrangeas cower from her gaze
pink ribbons stained with age
droop lonesome in soft noir locks
pulled loose from men along the way

she'll be lucky if she doesn't die young
photos on the television
gunned down in some gang's maze
or somewhere in the gutters she calls home
expensive death bought by scratch
she'll be lucky to make it to twenty three
cigarettes and xanax soothe her to sleep
dancing on a silver pole took her hazily

high school diploma left her trailer park bound
never felt love 'less it came from a bottle
kissed only by knuckles since she began
running from ambitions to become no one
just someone's baby mama left shattered
she smiles to the world, for anyone who can see
inside she's full of rage, i see the tear stains
mascara runs black from her bambi eyes

complacent at best, naïve at worst
****** never grew up, she just grew angrier
i pray for you and the person you've become
ring me when you find your head
ring me when you find your way home
there's nothing from you that i wanna take
no matter how insignificant or terrifying
i love you forever and always

with a shrill cry we entered here,
we pitter-pattered on broken concrete,
we channel surfed the static,
charged with disdain and an
affinity for quickly dismissing
hopes for change,

with a shrill cry we entered here,
diploma in hand,
vocabulary expansive--
we tabbed the browsers,
waited for the buffer,
thought silent prayers,

with a shrill cry we entered here,
a jungle of shouts, busted fenders,
AA meetings, and white male kings,
waiting to mean anything more than seem,
and while we wait they talk polite-
ask us to line up against a newly white-washed wall,
the sunlight gleams over barrel, over trigger,

with a shrill cry we exit here.

Billionaire: I were

                    been Corollary,
                       at the party,
                                and petition,
                                where populism,
                            there is no discussion,
                                   and abolished
                                   
                   ­                   and the average,
                                       the epicurean scenes,
                                        
                ­                          beloved my testamentary,
                                               and I partisan,
                                                  and                            raw balance of my profits,
                                                 and       my diploma,
                                                        ­ my university triumphs,
                                                       ­       I am the planetary star,
                                                           ­    skin and clothing
                                                        ­          
 protozoan,
                                          ­                       
   
                                     ­                                             
                   ­                                                      Legionnaire­

I wish to work at a bank,
merely to work the opening shift.

I wouldn’t steal money,
just work until my first paycheck,
then quit.

As I’d walk out,
I’d yell to all,
**** yourselves!
I’ve completed a life goal!

They’re merely working
because violin lessons
or that marketing diploma
didn’t quite pan out.

And as I triumphantly walk
through the doors to freedom,
I’d be shot by thieves
beginning to rob the bank.

It’s an honor
to be made an example of.