"duolingo" poems - Hello Poetry

I downloaded Duolingo, thought, “Cool, I’ll learn some French!” But now that little owl got me living on the bench. I opened it for practice, just fooling around, but now I know Korean— about two hundred words down! I practice small sentences, I sound kinda neat, like (saranghae) — and sometimes (shebal!) in heat. Chinese is harder, I’ll admit with a sigh, but hey, twenty words— I can still order chai. I skipped one single lesson, just ONE—don’t roll your eyes, next thing I know he’s texting me: “Practice… or goodbyes.” I chase K-dramas nightly, my goal is quite clear: understand the crying scene before subs appear! But the owl is relentless, he haunts me in my dreams, taps on my window, and silently screams. I drill German phrases before I even pray, and sometimes I swear I hear him whisper: “Now… Italian with me.” So if one day you see me laugh, gasp, or freeze, just know it’s not me losing it— it’s that green-eyed nightmare telling me to learn… or else.

0

Aug 31, 2025

Aug 31, 2025 at 2:57 PM UTC

ski-j

Duolingo Drama

I downloaded Duolingo, thought, “Cool, I’ll learn some French!” But now that little owl got me living on the bench. I opened it for practice, just fooling around, but now I know Korean— about two hundred words down! I practice small sentences, I sound kinda neat, like (saranghae) — and sometimes (shebal!) in heat. Chinese is harder, I’ll admit with a sigh, but hey, twenty words— I can still order chai. I skipped one single lesson, just ONE—don’t roll your eyes, next thing I know he’s texting me: “Practice… or goodbyes.” I chase K-dramas nightly, my goal is quite clear: understand the crying scene before subs appear! But the owl is relentless, he haunts me in my dreams, taps on my window, and silently screams. I drill German phrases before I even pray, and sometimes I swear I hear him whisper: “Now… Italian with me.” So if one day you see me laugh, gasp, or freeze, just know it’s not me losing it— it’s that green-eyed nightmare telling me to learn… or else.

37

I signed up for Duolingo again, So when I grow old, And I am weary of this mortal country, I may take my aching bones, To old Italy. Where I will have coffee, And read paper news, That way the old game can't bother me.

0

Feb 12, 2025

Feb 12, 2025 at 8:34 AM UTC

AbbottJHardison

Ciao!

I signed up for Duolingo again, So when I grow old, And I am weary of this mortal country, I may take my aching bones, To old Italy. Where I will have coffee, And read paper news, That way the old game can't bother me.

8

Am I doing it right? I took a bath with eight capfuls of eucalyptus bubble soap Instead of the recommended four. I ran the water fever hot. I wonder how long that feeling will last on my skin. It doesn’t last long. The next day, I read a poem about this bath To my creative writing class. Call that vulnerability. Gold star for me and my vulnerability. I make tea with my vulnerability, And sometimes I let other people sniff the fumes— Raspberry-pomegranate-flavored-matcha-green— But I never make a full *** Because I guess I don’t want anyone else to burn their tongues on my scalding vulnerability. They like my poem, I think. I don’t really listen to their response, Am glad when it’s over. I answer their questions about it without Really answering their questions. I don’t think they notice. As for me, I absorb their comments like vitamins And, as such, the excess is filtered out In the middle of the night when I’m trying to sleep. When I do sleep, I try badly to stay awake, When I must sleep, I am kept awake by various physical sensations, Which I may complain about on Twitter (Gold star for my vulnerability) But maybe not, because I’m trying to detox, And by that I mean I’ll stare At Duolingo, the Atlantic, YouTube and Netflix, Instead of Twitter, Instagram, Tik Tok and Snapchat, And when I talk about it to my friends, I feel the need to compare myself to an addict in rehab to get over heroine. Because, in my mind, they are the same thing. Call that empathy. Gold star for me and my empathy. Am I doing it right yet? This poem makes me feel good, When I write something that makes me feel good, I feel as though I could be talented. But do I like myself for it? If I get too cocky I might have to cut my own **** off, Cut myself down to size. But it’s no use, my ego haunts me Like a bad childhood memory. I didn’t feel guilt for the first time until I was fifteen. It took that long To feel sorry for pruning the leaves on my relationships, until the plants disappeared And I forgot what species they were. Even now that I have friends I can admire, Can I be trusted not to rate myself more highly? Call that self-confidence. Goldstar for me and my self-confidence. When I get home from work, I take another bath, hotter than before, with wine. The wine and the heat make me dizzy, which is good Because I can’t fall asleep unless I’m dizzy. But later I will not be able to sleep because this is my third hot bath in a row, it’s winter, and my skin is so dry that it will itch and burn As if every fabric I touch were made of fire ants. But for now I am comforted. Call that self-care. Gold star for my self-care. More of a participation trophy, really.

0

Aug 5, 2020

Aug 5, 2020 at 8:36 PM UTC

sarah-sad-matcha

Self, Care

Am I doing it right? I took a bath with eight capfuls of eucalyptus bubble soap Instead of the recommended four. I ran the water fever hot. I wonder how long that feeling will last on my skin. It doesn’t last long. The next day, I read a poem about this bath To my creative writing class. Call that vulnerability. Gold star for me and my vulnerability. I make tea with my vulnerability, And sometimes I let other people sniff the fumes— Raspberry-pomegranate-flavored-matcha-green— But I never make a full *** Because I guess I don’t want anyone else to burn their tongues on my scalding vulnerability. They like my poem, I think. I don’t really listen to their response, Am glad when it’s over. I answer their questions about it without Really answering their questions. I don’t think they notice. As for me, I absorb their comments like vitamins And, as such, the excess is filtered out In the middle of the night when I’m trying to sleep. When I do sleep, I try badly to stay awake, When I must sleep, I am kept awake by various physical sensations, Which I may complain about on Twitter (Gold star for my vulnerability) But maybe not, because I’m trying to detox, And by that I mean I’ll stare At Duolingo, the Atlantic, YouTube and Netflix, Instead of Twitter, Instagram, Tik Tok and Snapchat, And when I talk about it to my friends, I feel the need to compare myself to an addict in rehab to get over heroine. Because, in my mind, they are the same thing. Call that empathy. Gold star for me and my empathy. Am I doing it right yet? This poem makes me feel good, When I write something that makes me feel good, I feel as though I could be talented. But do I like myself for it? If I get too cocky I might have to cut my own **** off, Cut myself down to size. But it’s no use, my ego haunts me Like a bad childhood memory. I didn’t feel guilt for the first time until I was fifteen. It took that long To feel sorry for pruning the leaves on my relationships, until the plants disappeared And I forgot what species they were. Even now that I have friends I can admire, Can I be trusted not to rate myself more highly? Call that self-confidence. Goldstar for me and my self-confidence. When I get home from work, I take another bath, hotter than before, with wine. The wine and the heat make me dizzy, which is good Because I can’t fall asleep unless I’m dizzy. But later I will not be able to sleep because this is my third hot bath in a row, it’s winter, and my skin is so dry that it will itch and burn As if every fabric I touch were made of fire ants. But for now I am comforted. Call that self-care. Gold star for my self-care. More of a participation trophy, really.

71