"freshmen" poems
Flashback to as far back as the mind goes,
Masculinity is mighty and feminism is flawed,
Man is right and woman is wrong,
Boy is strong and girl is weak,
I’m a gentleman as long as I’m on top,
She can’t speak unless spoken to,
No place for women at the pulpit,
Men can’t learn from lesser beings.
Flashback to four years old,
The first time he was told,
Homosexuals will burn eternally,
Because they’re *******
He said God doesn’t love them,
They’re an abomination to creation.
Flashback to age twelve,
Welcome to the USA,
Export the Mexicans,
Eliminate the rag heads,
Burn the gays.
Flashback to seventh grade,
She left him for her,
The hate talk convinced him,
All gays were wrong always.
Flashback to freshmen year,
It was Halloween,
Debate class in the morning,
She was dressed as a nerd,
But obviously that so wasn’t her,
Because she was Iranian,
He asked where her turban was,
Said her outfit wasn’t complete without it.
Flashback to the close-minded, conservatively, homeschooled child,
Racism was as familiar as his father’s laugh,
Sexism known like the scent of his mother’s casseroles,
Ignorance was his bestfriend,
And hate pumped through his veins.
I don’t know if right wing racist remarks are forgivable,
But the one he was bred to despise showed nothing but forgiveness.
The Iranian girl shed tears,
Which caused him to shed his foggy lens,
For the first time, he saw his own sins,
A joke rooted in hate hurt an innocent girl,
An innocent tear hurt an ignorant boy,
I am an ignorant boy,
I felt her pain,
I stabbed myself with shame,
She befriended me,
She forgave.
Flawed people produced twisted identification,
She isn’t the Iranian girl,
Just a person.
Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Irrelevant.
Mexican, black, dark skinned, or light,
Christian, Atheist, Muslim,
Left wing or right,
Straight, gay, man, woman,
Human.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of 4 am’s eating donuts on the bus,
Piled in big heaps to conserve warmth,
Not caring who we were laying on.
I think of lips on fire,
Sectionals that drag on and on in
The scorching sun, and staying
At attention for longer than you can bear.
I think of impossibly quick changes into uniforms,
Asking your friends to zip you up,
Band moms wiping off bibbers and shoes,
And when you’re all ready, realizing you didn’t put on your mic.
I think of falling on turf during
25 mph wind gusts, hearing the hail smash your instrument,
Not being able to feel your face,
But knowing you have to play on just the same.
I think of eating at weird times,
Breakfast at 4 am, lunch at 10 am, and supper at 10 pm,
But knowing that when you get you get a chance to eat,
The band dads have got you covered.
I think of laughing so hard on the bus
You’re crying, sobbing even, sprawled across
Your best friends, and you think you’ll never calm down
Enough to ever play your instrument again.
I think of the drum majors’ voices yelling
LEFT LEFT LEFT
Over and over again until the freshmen finally understand.
There’s always that one that never does.
I think of the moment of utter agony
Before they announce the last place in your class,
And you’re squeezing your eyes shut, praying
That at the very least, you won’t be last.
I think of that moment of utter relief
After you hear the last place in your class,
And it’s not you, and your prayers have been answered
That at the very least, you were not last.
I think of the last competition of the season,
When the seniors are bawling and it seems like
Your entire world is crashing down,
And nothing will ever be right again.
This poem could go on forever,
But finally: finally.
When I hear the words “marching band”,
I think of that triumphant moment right
As your show ends for the last time,
That last horns down,
And you know you’ve given it your all,
And no matter what your score is,
You feel in your heart that you have put everything
You have out there,
All the music, the drill, the blood, sweat and tears,
Out there on that football field.
And that moment, you can get no where else, but
Marching band.
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 5:42 PM UTC
Slumming.
Slumming around downtown.
Slumming around downtown St. Paul.
A broke high school student.
A broke student with perpetual down time.
A broken down senior student letting go of time.
Slumming.
Slumming down to Raspberry.
Slumming down to Raspberry Island.
Walking across the Mississippi River.
The bridge had been raided.
Marching.
Marching down teal and raspberry stairs.
Icycle nose hairs.
Seeing my breath as my chest shivers.
I found my heart trapped under the solid river.
Teenagers ******** about freshmen that got the bridge raided,
Teenagers ******** about artists they've always hated
and artists ******** about things they've created.
Underagers slowly letting out smoke.
Underagers letting out what keeps their lungs beating.
Underagers slowly letting out steam, cheating.
Me.
letting out smoke that came from the ice.
Smoke of below zero temperature, freezing my insides.
Mindless.
Mindlessly walking.
Mindlessly walking through endless skyways.
Mindless.
Mindlessly talking.
Mindlessly talking about things I don't remember.
Until we've arrived at We-Be-Smokin'.
Huddling.
Huddling in a group.
Admiring the art that claimed the spot before we did.
Scuttling.
Feet scuttling.
Feet scuttling in place to outrun the cold.
Reminiscing of months before when I was sitting alone in Starbucks with my
venti white chocolate mocha listening to crazy George yell at his imaginary
wife. Not being bothered. Not being cold.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:06 AM UTC
I've had
****
Not ***
Not **********
Not consensually.
I've been
******
*****
abused.
taken advantage of.
whatever it is you want to call it
I've had it done.
I've been kissed
Fingered
choked
hit
spit on
spit in
I've been held,
hostage
with knives against my throat
guns to my head,
in my mouth
drugs down my throat
barely conscious I've been
******
I've been in love
I've been heartbroken
I've been touched
consensually,
let me tell you about the consensually.
I've been kissed in the bathroom, lifting
her
up against the wall
laughing when our teeth brushed against
one another's
hands fumbling up a skirt
around a throat
fingers tangled in wavy hair.
I've been touched sitting in her lap
outside on a hot day
wearing her hoodie
around children
freshmen year.
I've been touched
multiple times
by him
in band rooms, away from prying eyes
secrets to be kept and wooed over
laying in a dress
during a concert event
head in the lap of my best friend
underwear brushed to the side
fingers thrusting in
and yes, this was consentually.
I've been touched
in the school hallways
every day after school or in between classes
tasted and tasted
he tasted me
I tasted myself.
And in the living room of our best friend's house
even though I told him no
I told him the safe word
he continued.
I say it was consensual because in the end,
I said I loved it.
Don't argue about it.
I wanted it.
and I've been touched
in her pool
heated ever so lovingly
LED lights danced us into the temptation
as did the alcohol on my part
with her lips against my chest
desperate to mark, yet not to show
i mean, hey, my step-dad's homophobic
though I'd love nothing more than to show who I belong to.
We switched a lot, but ultimately I landed in her lap
water licking up my sides,
sending chills to *******
goosebumps
and her fingers hesitating
not daring to touch.
"i'm going to need a yes."
finally.
Finally asked.
I nodded eagerly
and she treated me like a piano
perfect notes
though brief I know that I was
drenched in all ways
the chlorine water yes
and of course the obvious.
you see, we were going to do something that night
we had the chance to
I wanted to
she wanted to
In the end,
she took something for her headache
though it was a sort of
similar thing to Nyquil
We were going to.
But we laid in bed
and we molded against each other
and sailed asleep.
I've slept with one person.
Her
Sydney
My Muse.
But Still, A ******
am I
Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 5:31 AM UTC
Fashion’s symbolic sensuality draws eyes, stir passions and maybe even resentments! =]
Of course, maybe you’re above worldly conceits, above fashion. YOU, go through life as unaware as sinless Adam and you’re excessively handsome, or pretty, obviously.
But for the rest of us - fashion is the medium of our beauty and God created Paris for fashion.
We’re pretending we’ve come to Paris (our immediate, pandemic safety-pod-family) for a family reunion - but REALLY, we’re on safari - a freshmen, college-wear, “back to school,” ensemble hunt (for meeeeeeeeeeee!).
Step 1 (there’s only 1 step) - go to the Rue Saint-Honoré.
This year, I like-like Anna Molinari - most of the ready-to-wear daily-trash I snapped-up is hers - all hers. It didn’t start out that way - but she sould me on an uncharted course at first sight.
Other designers seem to be pushing old-lady-looking floral prints this season. Eeuw! Why?? DIAF.
My gran-mère (grandmother) told me - 6 days ago - as she attempted to tame my run-away hair: “You need to be unpredictable, petite beauté, not some comely young automaton. Then everyone will find you interesting and watch to see what you do next.”
Thank you, gran-mère - I’ll settle for looking interesting any time.
Jul 30, 2021
Jul 30, 2021 at 8:42 AM UTC
Five years ago
I knew an 8th grader
who felt ashamed for who he was
who felt constantly out of place
who tossed and turned at night
with deep enough despairs
with ideas of throwing it all away
with plans for those actions
with no dreams, and only one long nightmare
Three years ago
I knew a sophomore
who finally just started to accept it
who reached out and tried
who thought everyone felt the same
with only blank stares for replies
with only confused "friends"
with no family backing
with no true "inner circle"
Last year
I knew a senior
who carried the burden alone
who perfected his mask
who finally learned how to hide
with perceived success
with sarcasm and quick jokes
with pushing everyone away
with justified fear of opening up
This year
I know a college freshmen
who is struggling for acceptance of himself
who brags of the physical scars
who is afraid to reveal the deeper ones
with walls as big as he could muster
with iron bars to conceal what is beneath
with pandora's box within
with that same scared kid locked inside.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
Please tell everyone your name, grade,
And what instrument you play.
We’re just going to go over some basics.
You can have a break in ten minutes.
Band, ten, HUT!
HUT!
Come to set!
Attention!
I said come to set!
Heels together, toes apart.
Check your posture!
Guide to your left!
No, your other left!
Your steps are too big.
No, now your steps are too small.
You have to stay at set for three minutes;
If anyone moves, we start again.
Restart the time!
Restart again!
Get your feet in time, freshmen!
Section leaders, I need to see you. Now.
Your water break is still ten minutes away.
Drum majors, go get more batteries for the met.
First competition guys, good luck!
I don’t care if it’s late, we need to learn the drill.
Someone go run and turn on the field lights!
You’ll thank me later.
First football game, good luck!
Drumline, did I say you could put your instruments down?
Trumpets, get your horns up! To the press box!
You’ll get it, don’t give up!
Last competition guys, congrats!
Give it your all and don’t look back!
Guard, don’t **** anybody with your flags.
GUARD!
Last football game, congrats!
Somebody please let the bass drums through!
Everybody give me your plumes!
Do NOT set your uniform on the ground!
I expect all of you back next year.
Thank you for giving me your best.
I apologize for when I was at my worst.
I love you guys.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:22 PM UTC
Memories can become blurry, over time,
like underdeveloped photographs,
or incomplete, like sunlight through blinds.
Our lives move ever forward,
like the inflexible patterns of stars.
Once fevered and immediate events
recede, with frightening, doppler effect,
as remembered yesterdays,
become forgotten yesterdays.
New Haven was abuzz. The hotels were booked and moving trucks had taken every free parking space for miles. Last Sunday was freshmen move-in day and 1,554 freshmen moved into their Yale residences. It’s one of our favorite days of the year. The hubbub of freshmen moving, lunching, shopping and later, seeing off their departing parents, created a delicious emotional chaos that we watched unfold, like a Greek chorus.
The movie ‘Love Actually’ begins and ends with montages of people greeting friends, family and loved ones at Heathrow airport - it’s emotional and heartwarming. Move-in days are a lot like that - with their gordian knots of beginnings and endings. My parents were nervous and emotional on my freshman move-in day - as was I - but we all tried, desperately, not to show it.
Welcome to New Haven freshmen, everything’s beautiful, but you’ll get too busy to enjoy it much.
We upperclassmen move in tomorrow.
Aug 24, 2023
Aug 24, 2023 at 1:20 PM UTC
The clock strikes 3:30 and the pit behind the school opens.
We feast on the smell of burning skin and sunscreen.
There is chaos as instruments are strewn across the back room,
No exits and the doors are blocked.
My eyes slide past his but I'm too burned out to care.
Freshmen are the worst,
Insisting on acting as if
They are four year olds.
Not a second late, for Whit is never late.
I have lost feeling in my legs
Still I have perfect
Technique just as he does. Water.
Water does not have an existence in this world.
Heat and sun have taken over.
Our tuba players have given up,
There they lay down in the burning
Grass. He never complains.
As I'm close to my breaking point,
Air no longer passes my
Lips and not one note escapes my keys.
The perfect string of notes and rhythm
Sound from my left. He never missed
A note.
March it back,
March it back,
March it back sixteen counts.
An endless routine.
Opening set.
These single words are bitter sweet.
In ten minutes I am free to go home
And write poetry about him.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
~and for Harlan, who loved this one best~
*"for tandem is the ever-changing, graying color of their fierce attached tenacity"
waking/walking in
careful pacing regular lock steps,
like new cadets, counting cadence,
in perfect silent, almost motionless,
except for the minuscule quivering of
slightly parted moving lips
these two elders,
still now plebes,
freshmen
but of a latter, graduated stage,
demonstrating robustly
the slow shuffle-along,
a well practiced dance conjured
'in tandem'
her arm, crooked in his,
his other hand,
in protective custody of a
knight's armored chain glove
encasing hers,
he, shuffling just,
a precise, intended half-a-beat slower
lest she ever think
that she, ever be a drag upon him
hair, his,
threaded with daily,
new arriving grays,
proudly accepted
as the privilege of
graceful aging
hers,
disguised with periodic outings,
outings for the hidings of life's bookmarks,
conceding nothing ever to
time's lunatic desire to separate them
modest in dress,
styling hints of pasts' elegant,
the man's hat defiant,
daringly jaunty angled,
a small scarf to handbag knotted,
matching his Windsor knotted tie
the passers-by, all smile,
the signal charm of an
end game processional,
thinking so sweet,
yet mine eyes detect more,
something
hardy and radical
a fierce, fierce fierceness,
both fighters in the resistance,
armed with tandem tenacity,
ground given,
but only inches surrendered,
wounds resisted by
scar skin toughened
by the caress of ions bonding
under the pressure
of atomic level mutuality
worn out,
well past Purple Hearts,
no capitulation feared,
to the ever changing,
enemies' new disguises,
they,
a two person platoon,
each,
having the other's back
and I burst into tears on the street,
a train of out loud moans,
even groans emitted,
like a string of perfect pearls
breaking,
clattering on an asphalt terrain
weeping
not
from visions of the inevitable,
sighing
not
from the certitude of a
cycle's uptime ending*
but jealous furious by this reminder delightful,
angry at myself, for having lost so many wasted years,
mine, the loss greatest, for absent was the
fierce tenacity of tandem
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:41 PM UTC
We were young and dumb and learning to grow up in a world that wanted us to stay young
We kissed under the stars at the lake with our shoes thrown down the hill
Our hands intertwined as we experienced what a french kiss was--
messy, sloppy, and full of my long hair
you would call it weird
We thought we were older than we really were
annoyed that the adults couldn't see that we weren't children even though we still were
We complained about rules and your step-siblings being sent to watch us
We would sneak out of the house at night where we would dance to no music in the streets
and would lay on the trampoline trying to figure out exactly what first, second, and third base were
We didn't really know anything even though you played baseball
We were freshmen in college
miles apart and set up by my best friend
I resisted initially but our connection was instant and I finally realized this is what love was
not awkward kissing that never felt right
not experimental touching
it was true and funny and it didn't judge or get upset if my weird long hair got in the way of a kiss
It was losing my virginity and staying in your arms all night
It was you.
It still is you even these years later
I'm sorry it took a while before I could get to you
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 11:45 PM UTC
Here’s to the girls who have so much to give and no one to give it to.
The ones who spent their freshmen homecoming crying under a table.
The ones who take pills everyday praying it will take the pain away.
The girls who went through high school invisible
and the ones that are still trying to heal from that.
Here’s to the girls that have scars on their skin and even deeper ones on their heart.
Here’s to the tears that have become all too familiar.
Here’s to the endless nights, ragged breathing, and bloodshot eyes.
Here’s to the girls who know pain,
who have been through it all yet still choose to have a soft heart.
The girls that still chose to fill their lungs with air.
Here’s to the girls who haven’t given up.
The girls who have hope that burns in their souls and shines in even the darkest of nights.
Here’s to you. Here’s to me.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
She and I exchanged disdainful glances
across the parking lot. The verbally brash
invitation she gave me at 10:30 two nights
earlier from a low-riding car resounded
in my brain. She wanted our graduating class
to get together and sit awkwardly around
a campfire while a few reminisced
of homeroom and half days back in high
school. And as the last few embers glowed
like residence halls, she would clear
her throat and bash college. She’d denounce
the curriculum, professors, and parking spaces
then praise the days of hurrying through carpeted
hallways and freshmen traffic. To see our classmates
laughing with hands outstretched to the flames
would bring a smile to her summer-chapped lips.
But we’re no longer classmates.
We’re just seventeen people trying to live our lives
outside the confines of Galeton High School. Sure,
we’ll bite our tongues and fake smiles every now
and then, but we’ll never be more than superficial.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
yes all women
because people cringe at the word "feminism".
because I am not a feminist, I am a woman.
I am a human being.
because this poem is a one-sided sexist rant.
because I was fifteen years old when my mother first taught me about how to hold car keys as a weapon in case anyone ever attacked me.
because teenage girls are taught to never walk alone in a parking garage.
because in elementary school I was told to switch which side of the street I was walking on while going home if a man was approaching me in the same direction.
because when I was twelve my parents gave me my first cell phone for when I was out riding my bike, or taking a walk.
because I can't wear a spaghetti strap tank top to school, as it will "distract the boys".
because boys are distracted by a bony girl in a spaghetti strap tank top.
because freshmen girls are taught not to date senior boys, instead of senior boys being taught not to go after freshmen girls.
because senior boys go after freshmen girls.
because when I was ten years old I told my dad that my grandfather made me feel uncomfortable, and he got angry at me for making such a blasphemous statement.
because even after I told my mother, and she talked to my father, he ignored it completely.
because my grandfather made me, at ten years old, feel uncomfortable.
because when I was fourteen my boyfriend broke up with me since I "didn't put out".
fourteen.
because by ninth grade I had received my first unwanted and unwelcomed advance.
because I didn't tell anyone.
because school administrators turn the other cheek when a girl is ***** in the stairwell*.
because **** charges are being dropped by judges.
because victims are being bullied into silence.
because a hashtag is the most sincere form of activism.
*because **** is a crime no matter what color you try to paint the picture*.
because I will go to bed tonight, after posting this poem, after telling my story, and I will wake up tomorrow.
and nothing will change.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
I still remember freshmen year as if it was just yesterday we walked through those unfamiliar hallways for the first time. Four years have passed and gone and now we're sitting here saying our last words, words that will be remembered, saying all our thank yous and all our goodbyes. It was in high school when we made our closest friends, hoped for places in sports teams, believed anything could come true even the impossible blissful dreams, and learned our first lessons in life. When you look back at those years you spent, memories come flooding back and that's all we'll ever have left; memories, photographs and moments of joy. I hope your dreams take you to the corners of your smiles, to the highest of your hopes, to the windows of your opportunities and to the most special places your heart has ever known.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 5:26 PM UTC
7:30PM, October 9, 2015, 65*F, 10mph breeze, 5% humidity (somehow 10% where I was sitting), 50.0001% chance of rain, dark, cold, late, loud...I think that's enough. Alright! Spoiler alert, Birkston High won the game. If you simply have ears you've known that for a while (many of us who were at the game don't). All the people in Grenfolkshire were there, so there were some empty bleachers, but the Student section was full and lively, and did I say loud, because LOUD....! My ears were ringing (at a B8 note, for the musically overcurious people) for three days straight. I think it was a healthcare tactic, dare I say it. All those figurehead townspeople were there as well, like Mayor Arnofold Plattersbury with his orange jumpsuit, waving a pompom in the air like he just didn't care. Really, he didn't-I got whacked in the head with it eleven times. Recently, after taking a recent poll on the recent event, it was found that only about 35% of people really knew what happened, a number that has declined, recently. This very well is contributed to 1.) most of the people are there for the free food and don't exactly major in football 2.) teenagers are highly social creatures 3.) a bunch of hands in the air and six foot tall mammoths standing on the bleachers will tend to block the view of the people who are five foot small. The freshmen had a real problem on their heads. Nevertheless, the Wildcats found themselves with the bell for another year, whether they knew it or not. The Panthers found themselves nose-in-the-dirt, tail-dragging, while we found ourselves filing out like a herd of wild penguins onto the field.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
Seriously where the **** are you. I need you now more than ever and I don't know where you are. You've stood by my side since my freshmen year, please don't leave me now. Please. I need you. My rock my anchor my semicolon. Where the **** are you....
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
XC is running through the sprinklers with your crazy goofy team
Rolling your ankles running hills
Cross country means so much to me it’s true
Running is all we do
School day seems shorter
Practice seems longer
The sun is shining
It’s warmer then it’s colder
XC every single moment is worth its weight in gold
XC it’s high school’s best story
And it’s waiting to be told
It’s bleacher 5K’s, well earned PRs
And your sport’s punishment
Cross country man where do I begin
XC we’re rained on during practice and we run with soaking feet
XC we get lost on distance runs and say we went out to eat
It’s also
Basma’s smart wisecracks, also Mariam’s sass
And calling Amy the wrong name
Courtney going ham, my freshmen children
And ab workouts causing us pain
Mehak!
Oh wait. Maybe I’m going too fast.
XC it’s weight room and it’s hard work ‘cause you do it for the *****
XC it’s crying at the banquet
Cuz your team is just one happy family
And I don’t wanna leave
First year was longer
Last year was shorter
I’m gonna miss y’all
My eyes are getting warmer
XC every single moment was worth its weight in gold
XC it was my favorite story thanks to you guys it was told
A running high and my team cheering
And then that final sprint
Cross country man where do I begin
(XC)
Where do I begin
(XC)
I promise I’ll visit
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 11:08 PM UTC
My excitement
and antsy feet
came to a halt today;
I looked around the halls
that I will soon
no longer rush through.
My annoyance
and jaded mindset
quickly transformed;
a month from now
I will no longer be a part
of the building that flourished
some of my most cherished friendships.
I won't be able
to scoff at the freshmen
shuffling monotonously in front of me
while on my way to class
or be able to be grossed out
by the weird band kids making out
WHILE they are walking (I really don't get that).
It's almost over
and
it doesn't
seem
real.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
I started high school with grand intentions of grand friends and grand grades and boys would only be a street-side fruit stand to glance at while I cruised on by.
Intentions never quite work the way you plan.
My first class of the day, a boy with striking blue eyes, an awkward gaunt, and floppy hair sat down next to me and started talking about Pokemon. He had seen my Pokeball pin on my backpack and had singled me out as the person to vilify him the least. I was uncomfortable and unsure, horrified by his brashness. The seat had been meant for my best friend, Cathy.
But the second his mouth opened the teen awkwardness faded from his face and he become bright exuberance. Stunned and flustered, I stared as he passionately smiled and seemed to revel in our one-sided conversation.
This happened for weeks and I eventually became comfortable enough to talk back. His smile widened as he seemed pleased to find another person who was willing to be a little weird. I didn't know nearly as much as him, but I learned because I loved to watch him beam.
Right before the homecoming dance, he asked me out with a poster that said, "I choose you! Do you want to choose me too?" I blushed and said yes, and we coordinated red for our first dance as high school freshmen.
At the dance, though, my blue eyed beamer was someone anew. He was dorky and the way he danced was flamboyant but terrifying. He often ditched me for his marching band friends, and I felt more humiliated and uncomfortable around him than the bright admiration I had felt before.
When he took me home that night, he tried to kiss me and at the last second I ducked away and gave him a hug before running inside. Those lips weren't nearly as enticing anymore when they weren't beaming at me.
The next week in class, he sat next to a different person. A guy from his science class, I heard from my friends. I shrugged and went on doodling on my notebook. At least I learned now what a Gardevoir was.
There we were, back to square one. Guess it takes more than a semi-mutual interest and a beautiful smile to maintain a relationship. And there I was, back to grand intentions and great expectations, but this time I knew things won't ever go quite exactly as you plan.
He ended up dating Cathy later, and he and I are close friends now. He's actually pretty fun when he bothers pays attention.
But this was the end of our love story.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 10:37 AM UTC
i tell myself someday i'll start living
not just breathing and moving
and using fake ****** expressions
i don't wanna make waves as a freshmen
'cause i know one you throw the stone
you don't control the ripple
and the waves can reach many shores
so i'm afraid to become attached
and afraid to say how i feel
i'm not comfortable with myself
hell, i'm barely comfortable with people
if it weren't for my three really good friends
Camille, Elizabeth, and Lexi
would i still smile
no
would i start living
no
living, to me, is doing what you love
every **** day
and loving people
and being happy
all the time
and listening to music that makes you dance
going outside
being able to sit with people and not wanting to leave, or feeling like your being judged
not judging yourself
loving yourself
making beautiful art, but no one gets it except you
and when someone does understand it, you fight for them, because you know it's meant to be
and if they slip through you hands, you move on
no regrets
no broken promises
you go after each dream
every **** one
and one day, you'll die
but you won't say "i wish i did this..."
you'll smile and say
"i'm glad i did this..."
i think it's the saddest thing in the world that some people aren't living
in a sense, they are already dead
they are just atoms moving through the air
until the air stops coming
and the atoms cease to move
they die
never knowing
life
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 5:55 PM UTC
When I needed a google search to tell me if I was still a ******
It took a game of dare or double dare to teach me I don’t know repeated sounds an awful lot like yes
and two fingers can drop mountains on boundaries not yet built –
serrated edges on once innocent skin
I let you carve me.
Nine years later and I’m still trying to find air in the ocean where it all happened.
I took lessons, but I never learned how to swim.
I remember thinking you must’ve liked me, that was the reason
and returning the favor would’ve made it okay. I found you in my freshmen year yearbook.
But I was wearing a bikini shaped like ignorance and a smile lined with naïve
you weren’t reaching for my heart when you went to hold my hand,
forcibly lacing my fingers like ribs around your ****
I still wonder if dropping the I don’t before the know would’ve made any difference.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
i'll give you a
good kick between the
shoulder blades
rub your face
into the ground
until you taste
the dirt
*this is what it means
to fall
don't ********
yourself
into thinking
it's love.*
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 7:29 AM UTC
i walk you to class, our stubby legs powering through the hallways.
i try so desperately to keep my hands on my books, although the digits reach towards yours on their own accord.
we walk, laughing at your friends.
i know i’ll be quite late to class, i always have to push it.
if i had it my way, neither of us would attend first period.
your baggy clothes would come off, the constricting binder would go on.
i’d fix up your hair and make you feel comfortable.
i’d give you a sweater of mine and i’d whisk you into my soccer mom van.
i’d drive us far away, my hand glued to yours the whole way.
we’d go out, ignoring stares and just being.
we can’t do that here.
here i can’t even call you mine.
i have to spend 8 hours without seeing you and 8 hours without holding you it’s like i’m spending 8 hours without loving you.
that’s why i walk you to class.
you go to freshmen biology while i go to college level composition.
you take french one, i’m in spanish four.
i drop you off.
super christian Abbie gives me a look.
but god, i’d love to see her face if i had it my way.
i’d pin you up against someone’s locker, preferably hers, and call you mine, claim you as me, you’d be mine.
we wouldn’t care.
Abbie’s face would contort into a sour look like someone squirted lemon juice in her mouth, her mind searching for bible verses to condemn us with, her hands already grasping markers to scrawl “god hates **** in big angry letters on poster boards.
but you’d be mine.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 10:35 AM UTC
A wall of Jacobean era lattice-windows
line my dorm room - my private eyes.
How many freshmen have watched
the gilt harvest moon from this seat?
I keep them open, for cool breezes,
and the comforting the sounds of life,
in overworked, needy moments.
Nov 9, 2021
Nov 9, 2021 at 9:41 AM UTC