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Giovanna Becerra Apr 2013
People say they relate to your problems, but instead of seeking their comfort you just push them away. It's funny how when you want to be alone, is the time when you need people the most.

Confusion is so dizzying, you feel lost and helpless, you feel the weight of the world crash around you, louder than thunder and stronger than the tide.

You feel useless and helpless; you are nothing more than a broken toy cast in the corner.
Few really truly care for the lost and scared.
You are smart and bright and beautiful but no one really notices.
In the end of the day we are all diminished to numbers, scores, gpas, grades.

Sometimes I feel people don’t really care for the person  or the individual and the world has become so mechanical and cold; yet people wonder where all the love in the world has really gone. Love is when you see past the imperfections, the mistakes.

As people we strive for the best but when you fall you are just seen as weak and you are trying to get back to a place where you can confirm to yourself that you are worth something.
Andrew Klein Sep 2010
My college instituted a new policy today.
In an effort to promote solidarity,
All students, professors, service workers,
Janitors, coaches, board members,
Dining hall workers, librarians, baristas,
Gardeners and printers
Are required to mark their foreheads,
A sort of branding if you will,
With permanent marker.
This is retroactive immediately.
I had thought I had seen it all within week one:
Lions, GPAs, phone numbers concealed by long
bangs
Personality traits, four letter words, names of
significant others
The very same that were crossed out as the bottom
fell out,
Rocket ships,
Or what I'm assuming were rocket ships,
Advertisements, slogans, “taken”.
I also saw bar codes
And statistics
And long, non-terminating sequences.
I looked at myself in the mirror
And saw that I had not yet marked my forehead.
I pulled out a sharpie
And upon my face
Highlighted my wrinkles.
Because, who isn't tired of being a cog in the machine?
And who doesn't worry about life otherwise?
In an effort to protect the identity of my college and whereabouts, this poem has been edited to be more generic.  I hope, however, that you enjoy it.
Sarah Pitman Apr 2013
You talk about corruption,
and you spit words of destruction.
But you won't offer redemption
or even protection,
for the youth of this nation,
the people of this generation.
Kids who know they could be better
fathers or mothers
than they have.
Who know they should be better
sisters or brothers,
they want it so bad.
They who know they need more
than a job a McDonald's or WalMart,
or some department store
because they're so smart.
High schoolers who dream
of college
but know they'll never get there
with any of their knowledge.
Who want to offer more to the world
than just a ******* remark,
but can't because they didn't get better marks
on their report card,
though they tried so hard.
But their GPAs never rised,
and they lied.
And that Grade Point Average?
It says "less than average."
But a college professor,
a "truth" confessor,
wouldn't accept "less than average"
unless it was written in binary code.
Well that's a load,
they're full of it.
For every kid who's ever taken a hit,
took a chance, but lost all of it.
Because "the nation's best" never learn,
they only care about what they earn
day after day.
It's sad,
because some of us can't afford to live that way.
© Sarah Pitman 2013
Amanda Bird Jun 2018
Welcome to the generation of revolution,
Millions and counting, in a few years you’ll be counting on us.
While some of us still use a pass for the bathroom, we’ve been programmed
Much like the devices you tie us to,
To look forward.
The skills you instilled for GPAs and resumes have made us unafraid to say
That something needs to be done, and from that you run away
If we don’t agree we’re immature, uninformed, need to be kept quiet more.
You say we’ve become slaves to the almighty “I”
But we scourge for information
Because we’ve seen a tweet change lives
We’ve seen a hashtag bring millions into the fight,
Artists, victims, protests blow up overnight
We are the first generation with the world at our fingers in such a real way,
Here we are, standing stronger than you’ve seen us,
These kids; you cloth, shelter and feed us,
Just to call us lazy and insane for using the very brains that you instilled,
The “common core” you used, because you didn’t want to build a generation of robots,
Fear not, guess what, you didn’t.

— The End —