"highlighters" poems
A mirror is never just your reflection,
My mother once said
The mind has this devilish way of
Twisting
Things around
Making then a lot more or a lot less
That what stands before me
Suddenly
My face isn't my face anymore
Instead
I stare blankly at a blueprint
Society itself has hand-sketched
For me.
Post-it's on where things had gone wrong
Scribbles on things I needed less of
Highlighters on places I needed
Brighter brights
Thinner thins
And I just stood there
Watching
As these self-proclaimed architects
Unraveled
The plans they had for a body that wasn't theirs.
Accepting
The new rooms they had drawn next to the ones that already existed,
The ones that were always there
The ones I made a home out of,
The mole on my ear
That never seemed out of place
Until,
The impact of a critical post it told me so.
The place where my thighs met
I've always ignored,
Assuming I was normal
But the scribbles that
Begged
For less of me,
Proved otherwise.
The marks of stretched skin
I considered battle scars over a few calories at a buffet table
Nullified
By society's architects
Disapproved
As if it were up to them
Invalid
Like human came in the form of overruns
But I stare at this blueprint that suggests to change me from
Floor to floor
Head to toe
And wonder
If the one who owns the lot in which I am
Wonder
If He wanted to change me anymore than them
If He liked the original rooms
More than the ones carved to fit the trends
If He wanted me to ignore the architects
And the drafts of copies
And copies
And copies
Of different versions of me
Didn't He want me to accept the mirror for who I am?
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
It was supposed to be fun.
New school, new supplies,
Thin, neon highlighters glowing inside
Vera Bradley backpacks.
Skinny folders assigned to
Pointless subjects,
Which would be fattened
With pointless homework
By the end of the day.
It was supposed to be fun,
And for a little while, I forgot.
I forgot until History.
The new teacher hadn't lived here
Longer than a week,
Which was why he was
Excited
About teaching.
He had on a brand new tie
From Banana Republic
Which was obviously tied
By his wide eyed fiance.
His classroom was bare, as he explained,
"Don't worry,
I ordered posters yesterday."
The teacher wasn't the problem.
The problem was,
Between Richardson
And Roberts,
He still existed.
At least in the school system he did.
"Ashley Paulette?"
"-Here."
"Abby Richardson?"
"-Here."
"Bennett Rill?"
And my life shattered all over again.
The silence felt
Deafening.
Remembering how he wouldn't be there.
Not ever.
"Bennett Rill?"
The teacher was confused, looking around the room
For someone
Who was buried six feet under.
Someone who the teacher might've thought
Was sick, or vacationing.
It was supposed to be fun.
But then I remembered
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
If you could only see
One color
of the rainbow and beyond
What- how could you decide?
Red
anger, love, elmo and stop signs
i'd give you roses - not just a dozen- a flower shop full
Orange
fruit, sherbet, traffic cones and tigers
i could watch a billion sunsets- if you would just hold my hand?
Yellow
lemonade, fear, highlighters and dandelions
you are my sunshine, my only sunshine
Green
luck, mint, leprechauns, and grass
i'm envious of her, though her significance is debatable
Blue
rain, robin eggs, sky, and oceans
could i cry with you? i'm still not sure.
Purple
mountains, shadows, lilacs and royalty
i'll bake you a mulberry pie, dripping with juice and made with love- that eternal 'secret' ingredient
As for me, I'd choose brown.
Brown for honest earth, for rich dark chocolate, for tall reaching trees, and for coffee dark as night, hot as hell, strong as love.
For your smooth skin, warm and vibrant.
An inch away from mine, I wonder what it would feel like to kiss you, soft and sweet.
But I look away, laugh with my friend, watch the black evening outside.
And sigh.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 3:10 PM UTC
monday hit you like a stack of bricks. ultimately, she tried to fix you. you probably dated her early on. fists full of highlighters and notebooks left no room for your hand to hold. she was too focused on the future, she forgot about the present. half here, half there, flittering in and out of reality. she made being together feel scheduled. monday drowned you in her sea of checklist bulletpoints.
you can’t remember tuesday all that much. the milky blue of the tattoo on your left knee is all you have left of her. you finger it fondly, a ghost of a memory.
wednesday made you want to change yourself. but you are not play dough, not created to be moulded. she gave you the urge to be someone new. but you lost yourself in her passions. you will never understand wednesday.
thursday got you back on track, but it felt like a routine. surely there’s something more. there were things you loved about thursday, but it felt like you were waiting for something else. you sat on the couch together like bookends, not a pair. thursday was a marionette show, you were run by the strings.
friday was a dream. she was a perfect 10. you felt free with friday. but then friday got a little crazy. you couldn’t keep up with her. carefree nights turned into mornings of advil chased by black coffee. when she snuck under the rusty chain link fence and beckoned for you to follow her to paradise you walked away with a scar from a stray wire. she only gained happy memories. you were sinking in the very tequila shots that made her float.
after you recovered from friday, you met saturday. aren’t we all racing through monday through friday in hopes that we finally meet saturday? saturday was fun. she was different from the others. you fell in love with saturday. but sometimes, saturday doesn’t always work out. you had plans and hopes for saturday, but as you look back and realize, she wasn’t everything you always wanted it to be. saturday broke your heart. but, for every saturday you face, there will be a sunday.
you know when you see sunrise after staying up all night and a feeling of pure serenity washes over you? that’s what it’s like to meet a sunday. you can be yourself around sunday. sunday helps you become a better person. she kisses your scars left from the others. sundays are magical, but they are also human. she will not sit on a pedestal, but sit beside you in the most human form. there will still be bumps on the road, but that road will lead to happiness.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
Breathe
We've only just started
And heartbreak seems inevitable only because it is
Just breathe
Shed your tears if you wish
For these days of sorrow are lessons
Deeply
Take in the age you show
Weave in the stories and scars in your tapestry of time
Calmly, Serene
Taste life, both sweet and bitter
See the rain clouds as they are, highlighters of the sunshine
Love is breathing
Living is dreaming, nightmare or vision
Dare to dream, dare to love, dare to look, dare to live, dare to...
Breathe
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
Paint
Glitter
Highlighters
Water
Glow in the dark
Sharpie markers
Canvas
Red Bull
Cigarettes
Lighter
Sparklers
Feathers
Chronic
Uppers
Downers
Middlers
Extravagent
4th dimension
hyper being
Nocturanal Drug Fiend
Best Friend to the Speaker
Bass
Middle Fingers
Breakdowns
womp
womp
womp
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
Part I
My body never prepared to run out of air
celebrate it?
I said Send.
I said it again and again. Send.
the world's loneliest flipping machine
withering from your obtusity.
I'm sclerotic.
Yes, yes that's it.
I want to stir you
strike you into soup.
I'll observe the dictionary,
every word will flow from me to you.
Flip, flip off the diver's board,
Blank and Blank by the shore
Color it in, out, up, down
I'm sclerotic.
Remember this, need this
counting people all in pairs:
I saw everything through sixteen vision,
bleary, misted with vanilla yous.
Soft skinned, little girls, hot and milds between their teeth
I don't hunt but I could.
Autumnal again and I'm just repetition
speaking of repressed rage.
Let us analyze the handwriting of every
colleague, drop out, ghost buster,
Coffee house inspired.
I'm sclerotic.
I'm walking through the forest and
you're not there.
Part II
I write because I'll die
I die, I die, I diee.
It's been too long since I went swinging
Missing my pour of moon to the tip top
of my new ceramic mugs.
It's all up for traps
the reindeer, the telltales, the chlorine.
Hyperextended among the cruel cats, where are the cool cats?
REVERSE back to nail polish
I got manicures as a little girl
Staring at my hair now
every shaved bit on my leg is its own waterfall. Hah.
I cry for my beauty
I was told I was wrong with
highlighters, colored ads,
illuminated in the eyes of old dogs.
Take a gulp,
I did and I walked
for every moment I regretted.
I walked.
Childish foolish acts, crimeful commitments.
I said Send. Send.
She said you might not like me but to never fret
you love me.
I'm walking in a tunnel
(Where's the light?)
and you're not there.
Part III
This is the beginning
of a low-budget film, black and white
this part is when the audience yells
"Someone fall in love already!"
I think there is something truly remarkable about me
(and you)
and the boy who cried wolf and
probably other people
too
I don't want my words to dissipate or fall
into space
disappear in the inners of the web.
I want them to creep in through the crevices
speak to the many as they
walk and see and notice.
I find a strange comfort in swinging at night in
an empty park
and a intriguing mystery the first time someone sighs my name.
I'm swinging in the park and
you're not there.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
A student again, how cute it is and really I feel free
the thoughts, of life, and planning and how things could be
not tied down to a job and obsessing about my boss did this and that
and what does it mean for me now and why and
today I had a wasted day but that is normal
Because life is full of wasted moments, and
the most tragic moments are those we don't feel
The painful part isn't that we were at the laundromat
and put our stuff down to study and highlight in different colors
and a woman put her family there on top of our stuff with McDonald's for five even
though there were only three, and that there was nothing good at the Goodwill
Even the Rainbow colored sweater from Lane Bryant, which was way too big
and that the laundry from a month took hours and yes, we really do have that many socks
What is wasted are those moments folding the pile of shirts where we are not there
we are somewhere lost in mourning over a lost love and thinking,
he loved me more than he loves her, I just know.
Because all we have at that moment is this pile of a zillion articles of clothing
most of which looks like it could be hanging at the Goodwil and
a flimsy plastic chair and two times the amount of highlighters we needed because they were half price and we are hungry, but the snack machine is turned off and you can
only look at the cookies and hot cheetohs
and yearn for them and imagine the flakey tenderness of the vanilla wafer
crumble gentley into your mouth, and watch your creepy
neighbors walk into the strip mall listening to a song on a phone
like it's a boom box
and this is your moment to feel and live
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
What goes on in my head?
The words start playing with themselves and I try
to make sense of the nonsense occupying what little space there is left.
It is so hard to explain what goes on, in, under, above, across
when all I want is a projectile through this skull.
Some nights, I'm as scared as you are.
The noise louder than panicking sirens as I cower
hoping it all stops
before it's too late,
before the worst
yet most relieving end.
But sometimes I grow as numb
as the people who think they know
a ********* thing
when they don't.
THEY DON'T.
3 AM is for studying ways to make death look like an accident
so I don't hurt anyone else after the process.
I cry my nonexistent heart and soul out
like I never do in broad daylight
while using neon highlighters
to mark exes on my throat, my wrists, my chest,
then put both blades out of reach.
I try to memorize the places where I shouldn't hurt myself.
But I am already bleeding everywhere.
I don't want to hurt anyone else.
No one wants scars around their hearts because the hurt doesn't count
unless you're dressed up for death in a hospital gown
so that everyone sees it,
*so that everyone ******* believes it.*
I'm not stupid
just sick.
But, if life is a lesson
I quit.
I feel like fading ink
gushing dry on my pile of unread books.
And maybe all those
record stores, libraries, museums, cafés, lighthouses
and sunsets waiting for me
won't wait any longer when I'm gone.
I don't want to hurt anyone else.
It's 3 AM again,
one day
I really am going to lose it.
But for the meantime,
I am tired.
I don't know how
long I could
keep fighting
this.
I don't want to hurt anyone else.
It's 3 AM again,
and again
and again
I'm sinking.
It's 3 AM again,
let the ghosts back in.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 5:20 AM UTC
I was in my chemistry class (lecture #2) and the professor was asking a series of questions. At first, hands were flying up, the answers were easy. But as questions got more complex, and the odds of being right fell off, confidence and raised-hands faltered.
I sit the front row because I film the lectures on my iPad, and there I was, doing my usual bit - taking detailed, color coded notes. If the lecturer mentioned something, I noted it, with my #5 mechanical pencil, but that something could become a heading or a bullet-point in a larger tableau. Those, I would color code with one of several gel pens - tracing carefully over the pencil. Later, in review, I might hi-lite these points with neon, phosphorescent highlighters. (I have a strict color coding system).
I tell you all that because it describes how focused I get on my note taking in classes. I don’t usually interact much due to my filming.
Suddenly, I noticed an unusual hush. I looked up and realized, to my trauma, that the professor had addressed me. He was looking fixedly at me, bent over with his hands on his knees (he’s on a platform).
“Pardon?” I said, meekly.
“Don’t just mouth the answer,” he repeated (apparently), exasperatedly, “say it out loud!”
I thought back to his last question and I offered, “Magnesium nitride,” but he tilted his head like he was waiting for more, “gave off ammonia as it mixed with the water?” I finish the answer like a question.
“Exactly!” he said, standing back up after giving his knees a little slap with his palms. “Thanks for JOINING us,” he says, and after checking his seating chart on his lectern, he added, “MS. Vionet.”
I took a shocked umbrage at this (scolding?), my whole body turning a defensive, atomic pink. What did I do - I thought - why was he being so sassy with me?
I doubt he REALLY wants answers just called out.
It might be a long year.
Sep 7, 2022
Sep 7, 2022 at 12:45 PM UTC
My blood thrums against the confines of its veins
waiting for you to break my capillaries like you broke my heart
and pull it to the surface where everyone can see.
You left your hickeys like highlighters,
fluorescence on my skin.
Bit lip muffles and ****** sheets
We ended just when the *** was getting good.
It was some kind of beautiful
pulling those noises from you.
some kind of worship
I want to be the patron saint of your skin
of the flat shield of your sternum
of the way your eyes flutter closed when I touch you.
I slide into bed next to your shadow
and I want to scream underwater.
Butterfly wings,
you are a tsunami.
I’ve been watching dandelions
waiting to make wishes on dead weeds
The house always wins,
but everybody keeps trying.
And I don’t know how to gamble except
all in
I called you scared
but you have yet to realize that you are
Me, I’ve never been afraid of eternity.
But I didn’t see enough of your skin
to remember all of your tattoos.
When you run away I’ll chase you across the equator
where not even the sky’s the same.
Everyone tells me you’re not worth it
but one smile
and I’ll throw a lasso ’round the moon.
I don’t want you to know I’ve been writing poems about you
until you hear the way my voice cracks on the last line.
May 11, 2011
May 11, 2011 at 12:41 AM UTC
Lisa was carefully pulling a strand of cotton candy off a paper-coned “barbe à papa” - winding it around her finger while absentmindedly gazing at a carousel. She seemed hypnotized by its white horses, trimmed in gold, with their brassy red and blond manes, as they hopped, like slow-motion rabbits, in circles beneath wreaths and garlands of colored lights.
My watch jiggled me awake, mid-dream. I was bemused. It took me a moment to orient myself. I groggily pushed the sheets off and performed a big stretch. It's Monday morning, I think. “Alexa, what’s today?” I ask, to be sure. “It’s Monday, April 25th,” she says.
A beautiful, if cloudy spring morning was going to bloom on the other side of my jacobian glass windows - any minute now. At least according to my weather app. “Alexa, good morning,” I say, to start my rattling, sputtering, steampunk sounding coffee maker.
College time is warped, measured more in deadlines than minutes. There’s no plan other than your class or test schedule and let me refresh you on the rules – there are no rules, I’m free to do whatever I want. I actually chuckle at that thought.
College is transformative but there’s a hoary sameness to it. Read, discuss, review and test - wash, rinse and repeat. This morning is reserved for test review. I have a final this morning - well, sort of.
Some classes have a quintet of tests instead of a big midterm and nerve-racking final. It smooths out the stress, but you still have an almost forensic exploration of ideas, and you want the answers queued-up, ready for easy access.
I quickly washed and donned my workout-wear. A glance at my watch told me I was right on time. I’d loaded my shoulder bag last night, with my book, highlighters, my phone, Air-Pods and a water bottle. I grab it as I head out. I’ll do my review on the treadmill.
Anna opens her door just as I do mine - perfect. We’re off to the gym.
Apr 25, 2022
Apr 25, 2022 at 7:13 AM UTC
Her body is the color of the reddest roses,
Cheeks shimmer with the brightest of highlighters,
Eyes flooded with the thickest blood,
"I am what I am,"
I am RM
I am the red roses & thorned vines fused
"If you look at me in the face,
Do you think that you can find you?
Do you think that what I have in me,
Is what you hold in you?"
Imperfections painted on the walls of a thousands cells in my library,
A mural with demons & angels,
Even though the borders of my enchanted forests screams hell....
Living I'm alive,
I'm breathing better aren't I?
She's doing good in life,
But she knows she'll live 5 times,
Because 5 is the magic number,
Entities in 4 different colors....
Her face is painted with makeup,
It's an illusion to the face, that she wakes up with,
All of my good and happy moments ,
That have failed to exist,
Can't you see it ?
Her eyes shows what she has seen,
Her feet shows where she has gone,
Her hands shows what she has created,
A monster living in a world not so sacred,
On the run, she's on the run,
In the night ,
She's on the run...
This is her description..
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
I propped my heels on a vinyl
trumpet case beside a Rubik's Cube
with mostly white squares. Steel hinges
and a combination latch
kept a midnight groove contained.
Last load's dryer sheets found
their way inside my backpack,
picking up character from uncapped
pens and highlighters.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
In crowded halls, ivy clad, walk the sleepless zombies - the walking dead.
They’ve come to grapple, the chosen few, in trials by pen and pencil too.
Long ago we quietly agreed to trade studies and stress for a lives of ease.
The fire of competition burns within, a pyre fueled by challenge and adrenaline.
We’ve been grinding from morning’s light to dark midnight, fueled largely by tasty caffeine's bite.
Sleep’s a distant memory, that’s been swapped for all-nighters, notecards and highlighters.
Professors who’ve taught us now plant briar-like, trickster-questions, to fraught us.
Have we synthesized it all - the labs, lectures and quotes, the chapters, quizzes and notes?
The hours we’ve spent, dissecting texts, parsing equations, crafting essays - pay off now.
Or don’t - the clutter of fact, theory, and tensors will separate the scholars from the pretenders.
But fear not, dear reader, for we’re tough, seasoned cowgirls and this is just another rodeo.
True, we chew erasers not tobacco and ride desks or lab stations, not bucking broncos
But some are thrown, bruised and scarred - finding their future careers discarded.
We’re required to hand-write our test essays out, a trap that negates AI with age-old foolscap.
We know the challenge, we’ve studied and crammed, to tackle the hurdle of ‘top-tier’ exams.
Beyond the stress beacons the sweet release - of holiday parties and presents that please.
But perhaps the sweetest possible tease, is the promise of slumber and weeks study free.
Dec 10, 2023
Dec 10, 2023 at 10:54 AM UTC
"How are you?"
"I am fine."
"How are you?"
"I am fine."
"How are you?"
And it goes on and on and on,
This courteous game no one invests in
Half-glances sliding over you
Catalouging your state briefly before
Moving onto something else
The unspoken rules of this game dictate
That you keep to routine.
How are yous and I am fines,
Never change
Never stop.
Never, ever, change.
It does not matter
If these are not truths
It does not matter
If you feel like your skin is bursting
And your head is exploding
And your heart is shrieking
And your blood is singing.
They must ask How are yous
And you must say, I am fines
"I am-"
But.
I am not.
I am not fine you want to scream and shout You have not been fine since last year the year you discovered that you don’t matter you are only worth the As in your report book. The teacher’s assessment of you is unfair yet true and you are never anything less than troubled. Red becomes the colour you see behind your eyelids in the dark and in the day When the red stands out and even if it doesn’t because that’s all. You. Can. Think. About. It is the colour under the skin of your thighs when you slap too hard It is the colour that spills over the skin of your forearms where you hide the cuts under sleeves You are falling falling a dizzy mess No one but you will taint this metaphorical white dress. You dig in your work. You solve math problem after math problem and buy new highlighters to line the pages of your Biology textbook and you pay attention in History class even though your friend elbows you in the ribs to get your attention to show off her latest doodle. But still red redred red red red redred dred ered red red is all you can think about, you don’t like the colour but now you just might. it keeps you sane. After class when no one paid attention and everyone disrupted it you ran to the bathroom to create more so. You tell your friends and they look at you sadly but forget later. It takes you months of not eating properly and starving yourself of sentiment before you realize you are too young to be jaded. Other, better friends (though it is no fault of your older ones) pull you through. You learn to like simple things again. You throw yourself in articles and articles of the feminist movement and watch that new TV show and make more friends that loosen you up and make you laugh and dance. You take pictures and create memories again. You live a little more again. You are making progress.
"-fine."
Sep 24, 2013
Sep 24, 2013 at 8:14 AM UTC
I have these imperfections
That I try to cover up
But recently I’ve ditched the concealers
For a more natural and tired look
And to my surprise
I have never been called beautiful
More times in my life
The warming of my heart
Stemming from the compliments
Adds a glow to my cheeks
That not even the most expensive of highlighters could provide
The wide smile across my lips
Creates a perfect shade of lipstick
That you wouldn’t find at the Mac store
The sincerity heard from strangers
Creates a sparkle in my eyes
Hence eyeshadow is no longer needed
People point out the allure
Where I myself see flaws
And instead of unattractive
I have never felt more beautiful
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
So noisy, it’s crushing
Its songs; sad ones
happy ones, silly ones.
It's jokes; fallen pens,
****** texts, Durcan’s poetry.
None of these thoughts are helpful.
Not even by a little bit.
Pastel highlighters, a new pencil case
My jacket is green.
I did the bare minimum of Spanish
I organised a previous debate’s cards
My Irish notes glare at me.
My math's teacher won't give up.
I keep all of history in my head,
But not in a place I can access.
I can give you Sinn Fein manifesto
but not the sections of Mozart’s
23rd concerto in A major.
The room is loud, but silent in
Comparison to my argumentative mind.
Busy, so busy.
Nothing will be done.
Apr 9, 2020
Apr 9, 2020 at 9:31 PM UTC
Red is a sunset,
Warming the summer air.
It is fighting at all hours,
Spilled liquid on the ground.
Red is poppies spreading across a field,
Petals soft as a hand strokes them.
Orange is a leaf falling to the ground,
Pumpkins sitting on porches,
Children laughing, saying
Trick or Treat!
Orange is baking pies for a holiday,
And saying thank you when it's needed.
Yellow is the sun beating down,
Browning backs and helping growth,
Bouncy ***** in coin machines,
Highlighters marking up a page.
Yellow is sunflowers,
And a bow in a child's hair.
Green is leaves dappled with sunlight,
Smelling cut grass in the early morning,
Apples tossed into the air,
Grasshoppers jumping when a shadow passes.
Green is the ding as the cashier hands change,
Receipts rolling out, tearable paper.
Blue is a thunderous wave,
Crashing against a pale shore,
Wearing at stone and land,
Seeping through the cracks.
Blue is a pen signing a piece of parchment,
A snowflake touching an uncovered nose.
Purple is amethyst in a crown,
The rustle of a cape against the floor,
A gilded throne in a stone room,
Jewels weighing down a smooth collarbone.
Purple is a rosary clasped in fingers,
An old's man's words as they touch the air and fall.
Black is eyes that come from fiery depths,
An aristocrat's smile,
Empty rooms of an abandoned home,
Tears falling on a wooden floor.
Black is a scythe held in skeletal fingers,
A scepter held beside a throne.
Grey is pressing keys and forming words,
Clouds coming in from a dark sky,
A belt worn in a triangle,
Eyes that hold only one emotion.
Grey is a pencil's lead snapping on paper,
Drawn rain with no umbrella.
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
I smile so widely,
And there's a time I act so wildly.
People think I'm a happy go lucky person,
But not really it's only a different version.
I change from time to time.
People doesn't know my struggles.
Too many of them keep on saying that you should love yourself,
How am I going to love myself if I always felt the same way,
Wherein I felt like I'm just a trash.
I'm not degrading myself,
I'm just telling the truth.
Those mistakes hides on my jacket,
While keeping it on a locket.
Drowning myself on my own tears,
Makes me want to run like those cute deers.
People wasting their highlighters ink, on a book, highlighting the important details, while me highlighting the days that I cried a lot.
Behind those smiles,
is sadness.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
I am the only girl sitting in a deserted library.
Lonely girl, sad girl.
Girl who fills her mind with fantasy
and fiction.
The empty rows of shelves,
The unoccupied study cells.
She sees it all, but dreams of
Her comforting bed, her soft pillow.
The printer whirs, the night deepens
And the moon shines through the loose blinds.
Mismatched books, cluttered highlighters,
She has it all in front of her
But midnight strikes, and the tantalizing urge to
Procrastinate presses on her mind.
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 7:09 PM UTC
In the realm of knowledge, where dreams unfold,
Students embark on a journey bold.
With minds ready and spirits high,
They spread their wings and aim for the sky.
In halls of learning, they seek the light,
Guided by dedication, burning bright.
They embrace challenge, with each test,
Determined to overcome, do their best.
With strength of will and hearts aflame,
They face each module with no shame.
Math and science, language and art,
They conquer each hurdle, playing their part.
Through sleepless nights and restless days,
They strive to understand in countless ways.
Highlighters dance across pages of text,
As they absorb knowledge, with minds flexed.
Oh, students, hear this heartfelt cheer,
May success and triumph soon draw near.
Have faith, persevere, never dismay,
For your efforts will pave the way.
Exams may bring nerves, stress, and strain,
But know that your hard work won't be in vain.
For in each question lies an opportunity,
To showcase your brilliance and creativity.
Remember, exams are but stepping stones,
Leading to futures that are yet unknown.
So, go forth, with courage and drive,
Excel, inspire, and make memories thrive.
Believe in the power that lies within,
Embrace the journey, let your spirits win.
With every challenge, you grow and learn,
Each lesson a flame that continues to burn.
In the end, it's not just a grade or score,
It's the knowledge gained, forevermore.
So, face your exams with heads held high,
You're capable of reaching the sky.
You've prepared, you've studied, you're ready,
Now walk into that exam room steady.
Embrace the moment, let your wisdom shine,
And watch as your dreams align.
May luck be on your side, as you take each test,
May brilliance guide you, always, at your best.
Believe in yourself, and all you can do,
The world is yours, students, let it be true.
Oct 22, 2023
Oct 22, 2023 at 9:03 PM UTC
It's the simple things I think I'd miss
The highlighters and neatly organized notes
The colored pens and the loose-leaf papers
The animals and the food
Raindrops on windows
The crunch of snow
Sun hitting my skin
And a fresh summer breeze
Dec 1, 2021
Dec 1, 2021 at 2:20 PM UTC