"graders" poems
Most schools have projects, in science classes and such.
Most of us, mastered the science of surviving in projects.
It's those at the bottom who need the most help, but cant even get proper school supplies.. where's the logic ?.
But oh, the rags to riches story is prevalent isn't it? Nope, the only rich I know is Professor Richard.
And that's not even something worth mentioning, he does more lessening than lessons lets paint the picture..
But these young kids don't understand, they try to curse them, place them in prisons, its a trap from birth..
Give them these Rick Rosses as role models, knowing they don't have fathers, instead of Tupac Shakur, showing them worth..
My bestfriend Tony once questioned his dark skin, just like i once questioned my brown.
how profound, a couple 4th graders at the time, having to prove that they were "down".
Crazy how Tony proved he was down, now i visit his site yearly on November the third.
And things aren't getting better, but nobody gives a **** haven't you heard..
The prayers our mothers chant, ritually every night.
Praying to the Sun gods, perhaps one day we'll all unite.
-afj
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Abandonment in the form of a 8 year old who's most loyal friend triped n left him to be beaten by the 5th graders
Abandonment in the form of a 10 year old boy, told to wait outside before going to the park only to wait an hour n see his siblings return in a sweat from the park.
Abandonment in the form of a 15 year old boy, told to wait in front of school for rehearsal only to be told a lie n wait there for countless hours while rehearsals were somewhere else.
Abandonment in the form of a 17 year old boy, told to come out to eat with friends only to return from the restroom n be left with the bill.
Abandonment in the form of a 21 year
Old man, who realized people aren't what they seem n abandoned them all.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 2:15 AM UTC
lips become cherry red when I cry
and chasing cars hurts from my ears
down to my toes
because it was never wasting time
I almost killed my jeep battery
(forgot to turn the lights off)
drinking coffee to Iowa cornfields and a resurrected yearning
maybe I'll leave (I want to)
--LA, Paris, Austria, Versailles, Rio, Carmel, Amsterdam, Mumbai--
I'm audacious and arrogant--much too proud of
my flaws
leaving would be easy: intoxicating
like caffeine
stars
fear
laughing kisses
but staying means home and English and standing out like a sore thumb (a beautiful one) in public
and the people I deeply love
(and need) I can admit that now
so I'll watch the Capri Sun orange sunset
once again tonight
and try to intoxicate myself with
cornfields, sassy 8th graders, my beautiful examples of true love, ADD, bashful boy,
and pieces of the world
on my body
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
To me you show choir is really cool. There are 16 singer dancers' 1 drummer' 1 piano' 1 guitar' And string instruments. Of course I am auditioning for drummer. Because I am one. Everyone will think I am phenomenal. Because I am. I will blow people's mind like tnt mixed with grenades ' bombs'C4' And Fire. I am that good. But is it only 7th and 8th graders. So next year they will need a drummer. And next year that part will be mine. And no one will take it for me.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
He was the best hide and seek
Player in the
Second grade
There were whispers
Rumors
He could beat the 5th and 6th
Graders
Nothing was ever lost to him
But time spent
And that was worth it
I hid and
When he found me I told all his classmates that he had stolen my lunch money.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:00 PM UTC
Your name,
has become a curse word that falls from my lips.
The picture of you in my head,
has become blurred and wants to be forgotten.
Your voice,
has become a door that lacks oil.
The way you move your body,
must be because of your deceiving bones.
Your rat like eyes,
have become the worst color of diarrhea.
I know this is not the just the “Call out a back stabbers” poem,
lets name the flaws on and in my own skin,
that just so happened,
to be pointed out by you.
As you covered my face in nine pounds of a “makeover”,
you said you couldn’t see the flaws on my skin anymore.
Flaws?
You went far enough to point the pubescent scars.
of my lips, cheeks, and chin.
The shyness I have of talking to my friends,
was pointed out because you didn’t have someone to talk to that night.
Excuse me,
but I thought the effort of the friendship was supposed to be put forth by both “friends”?
Next,
near the end of the friendship,
you often told me I was a terrible friend.
I cried.
A lot.
Later when that came up,
you told me you were just trying to make a point.
Why as a friend didn’t you just try to talk to me,
instead of trying to start insignificant bull crap?
But here I sit now,
with friends that could always be so much better than you.
I often hear your snickering words behind me a your lunch table,
and I turn around and smile at you and your “friend’.
You usually **** your head in confusion,
but really,
that's me.
The 15 year old giant ginger with a second graders personality,
stinking my pinky finger up at you to flip you off in Chinese,
and to say in a nonexistent voice,
“frick you”.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
The scuff of sneakers, boots and flats form the solid and stable beat.
Add in the chuckles, silences and brief interruptions to create the varying and rhythm.
All that remains is what goes unsaid but is speeding around in your mind.
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was telling us how peace and non-violence starts with us,
With middle-schools, with teens, with future leaders
To all those who laugh, when I say violence is never the answer,
You're the ones I worry about
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was speaking to us about how the kids had a parliament in Uzbekistan
Those kids had a say in what their fate would be
Believe it or not,
But adults are not the only things to make up our society...
Infants, toddlers, 5th graders, 8th graders, 11th graders, seniors, the diseases make up us, us..
So maybe parents shelter us too much, or not at all.
And kids throw fits in the grocery store
While teenagers attempt to jump off the nearest bridge
This is our society..
But we're like those kids in Uzbekistan
We have a say in what our fate will be
That man from Uzbekistan,
He was sharing out how blessed he was to be living here in the United States
Even though he could live in a much more peaceful and welcoming society.
I have no idea how many years i will be,
Or what has to happen before we get the message across..
That's what's played out isn't acceptable
The American people,
Were baffled, devastated, overwhelmed
That all those stereotypes really were mixed within us.
Obama stood up in that room
With a shaky camera man, staring while he slumped and grieved
He addressed our nation,
Homeland,
Country
Community
Family
About Newtown,
Clackamas Town Center
No leader should ever be forced to speak about children dying long before there time was up
Or about average people ducking and diving from bullets
Gun Control is only a little layer
And that's the start of our restoration to end up being a peaceful, safe country
It begins with how youth are shown how to solve problems.
I'm willing to reach my hand out to every single state in this country
And if that means devoting everything I've got to making our restoration successful,
Then so be it..
No leader or person should be raising candles to the sky for little kids to see that they are missed.
And I took all of this in at a Lebanese Luncheon
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
You were in a Donatella Versaci masterpiece
I was in a Bottega Veneta custom
Diana Krall was in the stereo
Lemon lobster baking in the oven
And you and I
You and I were slow dancing like eighth graders
In the living room
With the coffee table pushed to the wall
And the T.V. cabinet cupboard shut
So we could have a little more room for our evening waltz
I guess that's what I get
For watching a romantic comedy and the Emmy's
On the same night
And even though that dream may be twenty years from ever coming true,
Because both you and I were in our forties
Trying to impress each other with how interesting
We could keep our relationship
Even though we both knew all we had to do
Was wake up in the morning and smile at each other
To fall in love again,
It was worth it because in that dream
I could actually dance
And the lobster was amazing
Say what you will
I have very sensory dreams
And things feel, taste, and smell like they do in real life
And it may have had something to do
With how beautiful you looked in that dress
Or the scent you were wearing
But that lobster was amazing
And your hands on my shoulders
Was a massage you weren't giving
As we two stepped through the room
And my lips mouthing every line
That danced through the air
Directly onto you earlobe
Was just an excuse for my cheek to touch yours
And as Veneta and Versace got comfortable on the floor
And my sensory dreams turned into a little bit more
My fleeting thoughts were of your smile in the morning
And I know you don't see yourself there yet
Taking pleasure in slow dancing
And waking up next to each other
But I see myself there just as clear
As I see myself right here
And I'll to drop the Veneta for jeans
Your Versace for pajamas
Lobster for KFC
If I'm slow dancing with you to Diana Krall in our living room
I don't give a **** if
We own the coffee table to push out of the way
I want to spend my life with you
I want to spend my life slow dancing with you
I want to spend my life whisper-humming
Standards into your ear slow dancing
In the living room of our house with you
Duplex with you
Apartment with you
Trailer with you
I don't care
I want to spend my life slow dancing with you
I want to spend my life with you
And I'm not being too sweet
I'm being too honest
And I know grand romantic gestures aren't your thing
Girl, flowers on Valentine's Day aren't your thing
But I hope someday soon you make a hobby out of slow dancing
Because I had a dream last night
I'd love to come true
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 10:19 AM UTC
In March of 2010 a 46 year old white male was brought to this hospital after a severe 'episode'. He was placed in the Mental Health Intensive Care Unit . He was diagnosed with " Major Depression ". This is considered Slow Death , a treatable disorder by the AMA currently . Artist and Architect will lay out Hallucinations and conceptual designs , Engineers , Mathematicians and Surveyors will coordinate more pills at higher doses because minute details to within fractions of an inch followed by schizophrenia by Earth moving equipment , graders , bulldozers , psychotic episodes , dump trucks , Carpenters and Concrete , bi-polar disorder and Bricklayer will labor different Help treatment methods because the drugs are having absolutely no piece by piece constructing form , pylon , shoring embankments for Steel Worker and Welder ,Pipefitter and Increased risk of suicide was reported for Plumber and all manner of tradesman , supplier and Pharmacist ........
Psychiatrist and Psychologist will formulate a treatment plan which will include drug therapy and counseling sessions with Electrician and patient and Spouse plus other family members if needed in order to reach the island Drowning which will be a difficult task . Emory Hospital is conducting new research because they finally admit to depression drugs not working in Freak more than half the patients today , like every other building bridges in hopes of getting to the island that is depression .
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
The little kids we used to be,
still play like the kids we were,
but now it’s graveyards instead of a playground.
Instead of dress-up costumes,
it’s makeup lathered to our faces,
we must be like those perfect pictures in magazines.
We play boyfriends and girlfriends instead of hopscotch,
anorexia instead of basketball.
Instead of storybooks, it’s facebook posts telling us
we don’t deserve to live.
We used to wear those colorful sillybandz,
and trade them with each other,
but now it’s scars from a razor
we wish we could take off.
It was always begging for seconds of ice cream,
but now it’s sneaking away to throw up the
little amount of food they make you eat.
Instead of staring at a summer campfire
waiting to roast marshmallows,
we stare at the fire waiting to burn ourselves.
Instead of angry first graders getting into a fistfight,
the anger now directs the punch to ourselves.
We used to sneak Halloween candy,
trying to stuff ourselves,
but now you sneak pills,
trying to overdose and hoping for death.
We used to play so freely,
we thought it’d always be like that.
But now we run among graveyards,
the bones of the ones we left behind
clutter the passages.
And we’re still children playing games
with the worlds, but the stakes are higher,
we wonder if we’ll make it.
It’s just a roll of the dice on this graveyard
playground.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
just hormones
i tell myself
not real pain
not a big deal
but everything hurts and i want to die
just hormones
hiding behind eyeliner
it masks the red
i wasn't crying
allergies
mine are bad this time of year
i wasn't sad
why do you ask?
how ridiculous
i
don't
get
sad
i don't need help
i just need some time alone
no people
just the static crackling of a car radio a few yards away
a talk show with the volume **** turned too loud
screams and laughter from where my friends stand
they aren't like me
they don't want me
i don't want them
i'll hide in a corner
hide behind a mask
of eyeliner
and lip gloss
cloaked in shadows
drip drip
goes the water
it's cold over here
but hidden
nobody can see me
i'm just another person on their phone
clipped into technology
indifferent
not in pain
just hormones
i remind myself
you aren't really hurting
the slightest touch will turn your eyes into waterfalls
so stay hidden
stay safe
it's ***** over here
bird **** on a window
how is it that even possible?
moist
disgusting
guarded by 6th graders
to afraid to approach me
but i can feel their eyes on me
creepy pasta
is what they discuss
as they beat their violin strings
with their bows
unpleasant noises
there's my mom's car
pulling up
get ready
smile
energy
brush your hair back
natural
act natural
"How was your day?"
hard
"Fine"
it's just hormones.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
They won't teach you cursive anymore, kids.
We're in the digital age.
You've got an electronic page.
What are things that don't fade?
Please know there isn't a substitute for writing things down.
As I type this on my phone.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
For Sam Cook and Michael Lee
While standing at Marshall and 140th
the lightning over the horizon begs me to come to it
it's like the flickering streetlights, seeming like silent firefights,
simply asking to be looked for.
When I still elementary,
I used to watch the sky as the bolts shocked the earth
and I'd count:
one
two
three
Until I heard the boom and crack of thunder
three miles away, at least, the fourth graders said each second was a mile
it could have been true, it could have not, yet still I watch the light.
The flickering of the fading streetlamp tells me that this moment is not going to last forever
that it will not be heavenly or touchable, but it is there
and it wants you to touch the light as it flickers like a strobe light
like kids playing with the tabs of flashlights
and like the first discovery of light switches
and I'm reaching out so far.
Trying to grab hold of a piece of simplicity,
of normal,
of what I can always find:
Mistakes and wounds
and trying to hold on
Because lately, it seems like the only places we want to flicker are in the clubs.
Standing on a planet where illness and difference are cause enough to torch cities.
We like to light the fires and we like to watch them burn,
but we could care less about what their burning
and it seems like the dark ages came and stayed,
But like tributes to Guy Fawkes say:
*A man can be killed and forgotten,
but four hundred years later an idea can still change the world*
So I think as I stand at that intersection
watching the streetlights and the night's light bulbs flicker on and off like the light in my head
I can feel my fingertips prickle and I seize that moment to reach for the lamppost and final destination
those kids are flipping tabs faster and faster
my hair is at attention
and I can feel the race.
For a second,
everything slows down.
The streetlight stops flickering as my fingertips come upon it
and the lightning illuminates the sky
I can feel the breeze push my hair to this minutes path
and for a second,
I have something.
I pull my fingers away from the light and it returns to its flicker
the lightning fades away
and the boom comes in.
And here, standing at what once for me was Marshall and 140th
I realize,
that all I have
is all
I'll ever claim to know
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 6:48 AM UTC
*** 101
by Michael R. Burch
That day the late spring heat
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...
Where we sat exhausted
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...
Giggly first graders sat two abreast
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...
The most unlikely coupling―
Lambert, 18, the only college prospect
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...
Beside him, Wanda, 13,
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...
And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her,
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...
that love is a forlorn enterprise,
that I would never understand it.
Keywords/Tags: first, love, *** lust, passion, desire, school, bus, foreplay, ********* odor, musk
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 4:29 AM UTC
Im the girl that will do two wrongs before she ever does a right
Forever with chipped fingernails and untamable hair
And maybe I talk a little fast and think a little slow,
but I never let my self be embarrassed by my short comings
Yes a little short
But I never let the courage that I carry like a back pack
Rest handedly at my side
I wear my unconditional love like a sleeve
And I'll pick the wrong guy 9 times out of ten
Or maybe 22
But I always bounce back
And I know myself a little to well
Or maybe not at all
And my obsession with the stars wavers on unhealthy
And I love the way the moon looks in the morning
And the way my sisters look at their spouses
And I fake confidence
Like black jack players biggest gamble
And I ramble
And I'm great at awkward moments
Like a 6th graders first open mouth kiss
I cry a little to often
And watch a little too much bad tv
But you won't find me judging your poor choices
Because I've made them too
Like 5000 knives my words can unravel you
But I try to place pressure
On the tiny hurts
Because sometimes that's the only way i know I'm alive
I identify with my gemini traits
Swimming from happy to miserable in 3 seconds flat
And I probably admire you
But would never say
Because rejection is a game I rarely ever play
And I would rather be singing with a 5 yr old
Then dealing with grown up stuff
Because I still see myself at 16
Sometimes insecure but never flat chested
And I'm never satisfied with ordinary
Because this world holds way to much beauty for ordinary to be trusted
And when I laugh I really mean it
And when I cry I mean that too
I hate being late
And the feeling of being left behind
And I surprise myself with internal motivation
Like running in knee deep water
Or lifting 500 lbs
But I always miss the people that mean the most
I almost never have good timing
But when the end is near
When all the songs have been sung
When all my dreams have been reached
When all my failures have been exposed
I will always always always
Stand arms outstretched waiting to embrace life's possibility
Cause that's not just the tight rope I walk on
That's just me.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
For Ricky*
Ricky Williams, Miami Running Back (2002-2003, 2005)
When the news broke and the camera pointed at a torn tent
on the outskirts of Miami where you sat knees-up-to-chest
professing enlightenment, the football world sacked itself
wondering how good your *** really was. Must have been
growing straight from Buddha’s back yard because to give
up 16 million like that, to go from bachelor pad demigod
to hippy hero of the pimply *** smokers, requires some
kind of unfathomable spirituality. I wonder if the Sadhu
could even find a desk big enough for your frame. All 230 pounds
lurching forward with brittle bones towards some kind
of endzone sanctity not represented by a smiling porpoise
but a transcendent 1st and ten where maybe you’d be happy.
After your final game I imagined you’d do what so many
washed up athletes do: find meaning in the parking lot
of a used car palace or open up a Dairy Queen, maybe
join your kids PTA and tell fourth graders stories that
you now half-believe. I didn’t think it be like this: you smoking
****** under a mauled tarpaulin, brushing fly’s away from
dingy dredlocks, running forward, exasperatedly free,
while a nation wonders why you’ve failed us.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
Maybe it was the fact that you only knew broken English
And that you cried when all your tongue could only come up with blunt Norwegian
Did you cry when all the other first graders thought you were stupid, grandfather?
Was it that which drew you inwards to the growing child
And the growing misunderstanding of communication.
The barrier between elementary school tongues and accents is a large casme in your world.
Was it the marines, the war, the things you saw
that rationed you
Into the secluded soul that you became?
The distant, angry man, husband and father
Who drove cars far away from home
And than raged when you made it home on the weekend.
Was it that which made my father different?
Made him paint the walls of his room black and break windows at seventeen?
The walls of that confining house had never heard yells that loud.
The front door had never been slammed that hard.
Friends' couches became more familiar family members.
Was it that which made him the eclectic artist, unconfident man, funny husband, and tentative father?
Who mentioned specific detailed taste without any context
Who refuses to be challenged
Socially inept, his daughter thought.
Slight asburgers, she thought.
Ungrateful! Selfish! Attitude stricken! He retaliated.
How the **** was he supposed to react?
He never mentioned how much he loved her,
How much she changes his life.
Was it that made her the way she is?
She began becoming familiar with wine bottles and ***** that wasn't chased.
She drank to forget sometimes
She drank to not worry.
She'd say **** more often
And in the rooms of her best friends,
She'd laugh at her circumstances.
Than all she'd say was,
**** THEM ALL*
And sipped until the bottom of the bottle was her best friend.
May 29, 2011
May 29, 2011 at 1:52 PM UTC
I know I am not really lying on the beach
Eyes facing up towards the sky
Where I really am is in Vienna
In a small classroom filled with fourth graders
Sitting in a circle in a room
That was decorated in glow in the dark stars
And a fake camp fire next to a cardboard cutout of a wolf
I remember learning about the Oregon Trail
And how cowboys would campout underneath stars
Guns close by so other dangerous creators wouldn’t be
And looking at the fake stars in that room
I was in another world, a realer world
Where the cosmos didn’t make stars
Bullets did
Silver bullets meant to hit werewolves
Who were so compelled to howl at the moon
They forwent the odds of being gunned down
And so easily they could be when the moon
Lit perfectly their silhouette
Naked in plain view
All the stars were silver bullets
One that never met their target and flew
Past the wolfs and up into the black sky
Where they pierced the world’s barrio
The bullet holes became not stars
But un-mendable scars
From men who wanting to mutilate
The sky’s beauty with weapons
There to remind me
When the lights turned on in that classroom
The glowing little stars melted into the white popcorn ceiling
And as we, the fourth graders, disconnected our circle on the floor
The reality of the origin of stars I had just come to know
Never left me and the stars I see at night now
Are not as real as the ones I saw that day.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 4:07 PM UTC
I'm filling up
like a landfill
my heart is starting to feel
like an anvil
And I'm starting to think that maybe,
Maybe this world's not meant for me
or me for it
or us for each other like in a
"mutual" break up
which is an idiom,
because love is never quite
symmetrical.
See, love is like a heart drawn by a
fifth grader.
It's never quite the same
on either side
and if you ever told them they were wrong
for drawing it that way
you lied.
Because that:
lop sided
sloppy
hunched over heart,
that:
innocent
delicate
Beautiful heart,
Is exactly what love is.
When we're older,
we learn to draw straighter lines
to hide our shaking hands.
Don't let them know you're nervous.
We learn to whisper what we don't want heard,
To make silent our thoughts,
in public.
Fights were meant for closed doors and walls
that are never quite thick enough
to keep words that hard, from breaking them down.
Even the fights,
that you fought against someone
who looks much too like you.
When, then, can I open my mind like a book
for only them to read.
When can I open my chest like a puzzle box
for them to put together.
When can I apologize for having before,
what I only ever wanted with them?
I just didnt know it yet.
I am a fifth graders heart
that beats five times heavier
than healthy.
Being colored in
with too deep a red.
I'm filling up
like a landfill.
My heart has reached a
stand still.
And I'm starting to think that maybe,
Maybe a square peg can find comfort
in a round hole.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
Acrostic poems shouldn't be reserved for the
Mildly ******** fifth graders who still can't identify
Arkansas on a blank map of the United States.
Real "poets" use formulas, too. Are you trying to tell me
Elizabethan sonnets hold more "poetic" merit
Than this skillfully crafted,
Thought-provoking
Ode to my favorite liqueur?
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 2:22 AM UTC
they called them little Spartans,
the way they pushed and shoved
as the sound of the lunch bell
the way they shown off their weapons,
some of metal and some of paper
the weaker-willed soldiers gave up
their possessions no longer their own
as the 1st graders stole their heart-
shaped kindergarten sandwiches
Mar 28, 2012
Mar 28, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC
During the Depression little Evie
sewed dolls from Granny's quilt scraps.
World War II knew her as Evelyn.
Builder of planes, defender of freedom.
Cousin Bobby called her Auntie,
He moved in with us when he was 12.
44 years of first graders adored Mrs. Bennett,
who read them stories with love and expression.
She was Dad's one and only Sugar.
Now,
one breath later,
she is
the deceased
the body
the cadaver
the remains
Nothing more.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
~For Pradip~
*who reminded me:
We are all God’s Trial & Errors*
tender is the tendency,
so finitely human,
infinitely foolish,
to overlook the
obvious,
let us not delve into our
particular peculiar idiosyncratic knots
in our hair and personalities,
all natural,
inherited or ill begotten
in voyages to far away,
like our childhood
***Thus,
we are all mistakes of a sort***
with natural fault lines,
accumulated dings, scapes, bruises,
furrowed crinkles that took us
years to perfect
We are flawed like diamonds,
valued by these natural flaws
by graders with loups who uncover
our flaunts, our clear air bubbles,
the more flaws the better,
because these attributes make us
most interesting!
you may be blonde,
you may be exotic
perhaps a lovely shade of
iridescence,
but lucky you whose scars speak
out and others wonder why,
they are so interesting
let us design a large animal,
seemingly ungainly, yet keystone to
their environment, so others may
profit thereby,
yet insanely quick on lumbering feet,
no hands, fingers, but a long snakey thinge
that multiple functions for
breathing, drinking, feeding grabbing, smelling and
trumpeting their presence
to foolish beings in their neighborhood
let’s us not debate
whose design is
an efficacy par excellence
so we be
ungainly, too tall, too
this or that,
even too flawless,
a specialized curse of sorts,
we are the product of
a sophisticated design laboratory
that makes many models,
each variegated, always different
so get down on your knees *********
and praise the design engineers
who created you to be
full of
& by elephantine trials and elephantine errors,
thereby making
us each,
a special pronoun,
an I
blessed
by definition:
though not in any dictionary:
unique,
flawless!
**
**^you are the most
flawless poem
you have ever written
and will ever ever
write***
Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 3:59 PM UTC
Boy crazy,
texting addictions,
making new friends,
losing old ones,
parties,
makeout sessions,
sneaking out,
skipping with buds.
8th Graders '10 :D
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 5:35 AM UTC
Dear Gwen Stefani Circa 2006,
The first music I chose to like that wasn’t
just my mom’s tuning of the radio was
Your solo CD, the first and best of two, which
I made sure to get on my twelfth birthday, after
I made sure to get my first kiss.
We were not rookie sixth graders anymore,
In soggy bathing suits teeming with pubescence,
So I publicized my plans to plant one on
Yeorgios Mavromatis, the new seventh grade boyfriend,
The first boy to buy me jewelry I would not like,
The first boy I used to make myself infamous.
Our hallway bottlenecked with twelve year olds,
Alone we sat on the bed, legs dangling above
The stained beige carpet. The kiss was damp and boring.
But the crowd that pressed at the door was an ******
Surged voices told me my dad was walking up the stairs,
I arched around to throw the boyfriend in the closet,
My father caught me, and I wore the walk through them
Like your scarlet lipstick. The album of
My first kiss was not passion, but gossip.
I’ve seen you in red lipstick, bindis, and blue hair,
A pink wedding dress, and a Platinum Blonde Life.
I knew you were making art meant to publicize.
The songs and the clothes and the Harajuku Girls,
The boys and the clothes and the Children’s Theatre,
The day I made a scene was the day I knew.
Catholic guilt and couture gilt and creative goals
Took two West Coast girls, only twenty three years apart
And turned them into people you paid attention to.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC