"homeroom" poems
In my homeroom class, we don't have a seating chart.
But I still sit as far away from the door as I can.
Subconsciously it's probably because of a school shooting.
I've been anticipating one to strike at my small high school for a couple years now.
It's probably because of a lock down we had a couple years ago when I was still in middle school.
There were armed men on campus.
We had to be silent for hours.
I was in choir at the time.
Over 100 of us were squeezed into a small space.
There were girls crying,
my best friend was holding my hand,
I was having an anxiety attack.
I was only thinking
"Please not today..."
I'm not surprised anymore.
When another school is in the news,
it's deeply upsetting
but not surprising.
It's all I've ever known.
The Columbine High School shooting happened in 2001.
I was born a year later.
I've never actually known peace in this country...
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.
like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
Remember the time
I thought I liked you
But it only lasted a week.
Remember the time
I cursed for the first time;
And it was at you.
Remember the time
I liked you for an entire year
And obsessed over you.
Remember the time
You teased me everyday.
Remember the time
We used to take piano from the same woman
And I saw you at a lesson one day.
Remember the time
You told me about the night
The black thing came to you,
Up your arm.
Remember the time
We spent backstage
Goofing off.
Remember the time
I wrote about how much I hated you
In my diary,
Everyday.
Remember the time
I dated your best friend
And you were the obligatory third wheel.
Remember the time
You threatened to punch me
Because I made fun of the girl you liked.
Remember the time
We spent during choir practice
Looking at squirrels through the window.
Remember the time
You told me
"I don't care what homeroom I have,
As long as you're not in it."
Remember the time
The stinkbug kept following your shoes
In Spanish class.
Remember the time
You threw a pinecone at me
Because I deserved it.
Remember the time
We sat together in all our classes.
Remember the time
I dreamed about you
Dying
In my front room.
Remember the time
We Skyped for three hours.
Remember the time
I beat you up
Because I was angry.
Remember the time
My two best friends started dating
Because you finally got up the courage and asked her.
Remember the time
You told me you wanted to break up with her.
Remember the time
You stole my Sharpies
Until I asked him out.
Remember the time
You broke up with her
And avoided me for a week.
Remember the time
We spent after school,
Studying for Spanish.
Remember the time
I was scared of you
But walked with you,
In silence.
Remember the time
You had a rave in class
And asked me to tape it.
Remember the time
I cut myself
And you got mad at me
And we spoke even less.
Remember the time
The algebra teacher threatened to separate us
Because we talked too much in class.
Remember the time
I messaged you
And messaged you
And you wouldn't answer.
Remember the time
You and your mum invited me to dinner.
Remember the time
I saw you for the first time
In two months
And, despite the same clothes
And hair,
You looked like a stranger.
Remember the time
You asked him out for me.
Remember the time
We Skyped for five minutes
And had nothing to say.
Remember the time
You held my hand all period
Because you were cold.
Remember the time
You told me you were insane
And we couldn't be like we used to.
Remember the time
You told me not to worry,
That we were still the same, relationship-wise.
Remember the time
You told me not to cry
But I did.
Remember the time
You held me while I sobbed,
The first time you'd ever seen me cry.
Remember the time
You assured me you'd be fine.
Remember the time
I shook while you held my hands.
Remember the time
You hugged me after class,
A week later
And I nearly cried of happiness.
Remember the times.
Do you remember the times?
Because it seems all I'm doing these days
Is remembering you.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 6:40 PM UTC
Yes, ear hustlers exist.
They at home, at work, and even at church.
Instead of concentrating on themselves.
They seem to be concentrating on your conversation.
What little bit they hear?
Has now became a blown up story.
With more added details than they ever know.
That's how the ear hustling stories goes.
One small detail that they came in the middle of has destroyed many relationships.
What makes us get involved in things not related to them?
Is the oldest question to ever be asked.
Ear hustling in school.
Ear hustling in the homeroom.
Makes you know that many are concern with you.
What rumor that is spread?
Never has that much truth within it.
Maybe a half percentage if at all.
Oh, the rumor mill won't ever fade.
Some people lives to talk about people they do and don't know.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
~
*Apathetic city skyline
This must be Drum Street
There's critical thinking
Digital tendencies
Pigeons on the roof
Kids in the library
Hail and flashpoint
Homeroom
Their final resting place
Who of you misses the bleak missiles of youth?
And how they used to hit like needles?
I can count your sufferings on my fingers
See them hidden in the tall grass
They move in secret
With shadow blister
As much as the caterpillar:
Elusive and eruciform
Sixteen crane wives
Collect on the guide wire
Their weathered plumage
Strangely displayed
Airplane debris on an uncharted wild
Macabre flowers growing out of air masks, gone quiet
The magic word is drear
It's a sorrow-filled caw
As if feathers from the grave
Clothing our fears
I can count the flock on my fingers
See them separate in mid-flight
Each a solitary path
Fusing rage and grief
Each a solitary path
Fusing rage and grief*
~
Jun 23, 2022
Jun 23, 2022 at 4:08 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
Parents are the weirdest - of God's creation.
I mean, who on Earth would desire the responsibility of another human being from the time they **** in their pants to the time they leave saying 'what have you ever done for me?' ?
Who would, of all the things in the world, like their homeroom stuffed with stupid CDs and stuffed racoons, waterguns and Legos, dried acrylics and miniature utensil sets, ugly pyjamas and strange half-knit sweaters?
I need to know why parents don't object to their kids pooping everywhere.
It's either the kids are super cute or the parents are super crazy.
I'm sure it isn't the former.
A certain lack of imaginative faculties, in parents, is evident to me,quite frankly.
Think of it this way- if it weren't for us - kids, our parents would have been carefree playboys and playgirls, and 'living their lives' - cliché.
What weirdos really!
Their standards of children's safety too possess a particular oddity.
It's only the exact moment of physical contact during a hug that our parents feel we're safe.
Their sense of economy and finance is oxymoronic.
They love discounts. But they'll pay extra for whatever their kids wish.
I wonder how they resist TV shows of most sorts just because they won't have their kids watch remotely explicit content, visual or auditory.
I bet their sense of direction is most unnaturally affected too.
Why do they even follow their kids, when they know kids don't have a working GPS?
Do you have any idea, to what lengths parents go to make veggies seem delicious?
Veggies, Really?
Parents will have you take disgusting syrups and painful **** injections,
And claim they love you.
Parents will have you hit the books,
And claim they love you.
Parents will ground you because you do something they don't like (but they too did it when they were kids),
And claim they love you.
Parents will stop you every time you say a swear word (but they swear all the time),
And claim they love you.
Parents will claim they love you,
Maybe, because they really love you.
Oh, their weirdness never ends.
Parents may seem eccentric,
Their ways might seem a bit too bizarre,
Maybe that's how the people who really love us behave!
Yet, we're always rushing away from them.
If you have ever traveled in a bus, you'll know how absurdly keen the passengers are, to get off, when it stops.
That's how keen the kids are, to leave the laps of their mothers, quite literally the most comfortable place in the world.
Parents really are - the weirdest of God's creation.
And the loveliest too.
Mar 12, 2019
Mar 12, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
I remember my body trembling as I took my first step inside Payton High,
I remember my hitched breath and twitching eye,
I remember sitting behind a blue eyed boy during homeroom,
I remember thinking his eyes would be able to light up the gloom.
I remember it took me exactly one day,
To walk to him during lunch with my tray,
I remember offering him my cheese dip,
And that was the start of our friendship.
I remember wondering why he was always alone,
When he was the most beautiful being I’ve ever known,
He was spontaneous; he loved feathers; he loved star gazing,
You could say I fell in love with him because he was amazing.
Everyone ignored him as he walked on by,
I never understood the reason why.
So cold, so aloof, so distant from the crowd,
I remember thinking it was because he was so proud.
I tried many ways to draw him close,
A movie, a drink, a lunch, all that I could propose,
I am sorry, I am so sorry, was all he said,
The light in his eyes went dead.
I was never his and he was never mine,
With this fact, I had to pretend I was fine,
Little did he know he was killing me,
Because my heart was locked and he had the key.
I remember it was a rainy fifth of July,
When I was talking to a teary eyed guy,
Who had a newspaper on his right hand,
And on the left was a pink wristband.
R.I.P it wrote in capital letters,
With a picture of two white feathers,
I took the newspaper and there on the obituary,
I saw ‘To the 1st anniversary of Alfie Ary’.
The picture of my blue eyed boy was staring back at me,
Black and white his smile filled with glee,
My world started spinning round and round,
My thoughts in disarray as I fell to the ground.
Where was he, I looked all around,
But he was nowhere to be found.
The corridors were filled with haunting memories,
Of questions unasked and cryptic apologies.
I was in shock, was his existence a lie?
Just then a cold breeze blew by,
I remember his shaky breath whispering one last time,
“I love you baby, but you can't be mine”.
W.H.Y~
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC
you’ve had your whole future mapped out
since you were 16, sitting in homeroom
and hand-picking your life.
me, i’ve got no plans to speak of,
still trying to figure myself out;
everything major still undecided and undeclared
because pandora’s box is
always really pretty until you open it,
and the future’s really alluring until you’re in it
and you’re wondering if it really fits.
and i know it’s stupid trying to
plan for a car crash,
to plan on ******* up
but i’ve been trying to take precautions
in case i don’t grow into who you were counting on.
i keep your promises tucked in my pocket,
you make vows just to talk about it.
and i don’t know much about fate
because once my horoscope actually told me
that i’ll be alone and unloved forever,
born under an unlucky star,
so i’m not placing my trust in the stars
even if sometimes i get the sneaking suspicion
they might just be right.
i’m trying to dictate my own future without having a tongue,
i’m trying to find a future i’ll be content living in.
people are always waiting for time to run out,
and i’ve always been waiting for the fall out.
because i know all good things have to end
all bands have to break up, all stars have to explode,
all slow dances have to still, and eventually
all loves have to run out in one way or another.
and i’ve got front row seats to
the inevitable explosion
because you’re a heart attack and i’m totally doomed
we’re just bombs going off too soon
we’re just strangers dancing in a crowded room
we’re just ****** up and wishing on the moon
we’re just racking up casual causalities
we’re just reading our fortunes
in the coffee grinds and tea leaves,
half-joking and half-a-little-too-honest
when you peered at yours and said,
“it says we’re gonna grow old and grey together,
and move out of the city and have a bunch
of loud mouthed kids with your eyes.”
i don’t know about the future
and i suppose you’d like to tell me about it,
after all you’ve had your whole future mapped out
since you were 16, sitting in homeroom
and hand-picking your life.
but it’s an affliction, all those ******* predictions.
don’t tell me where you want to be in five years in from now;
tell where you’re actually going to be tomorrow.
because i was dying for this week to be over
and then i was dying for this year to be over.
and i can see it clearly,
my whole life lived in transit
on the way to something else.
i was dying to finish high school
and then i was dying to finish college
and then i was just dying,
and i forgot to live in the present in my rush
to get to the future.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:37 PM UTC
I remember breaking down that barrier.
A Berlin wall, of sorts,
That haunts every friendship.
On one side,
There are pleasantries.
There is “How are you?”
Who shares an apartment with “It’s been too long dear”,
Who lives across the street from “I have so much homework!”
And down the hall from “We ought to see a movie this weekend”.
On the other side, there are feelings.
Not the simple kind.
Not the kind that can be expressed at a locker,
Before homeroom,
Or over a cup of coffee.
The kind that are ugly.
The ones with rough edges,
That will ***** your hand,
If you hold them the wrong way.
The ones that sit alone in dark corners,
Because no one wants to claim ownership.
It’s a thrilling moment to break down.
Falling to the ground, you cry,
You wail,
And you blabber out every feeling you’ve ever felt,
No longer able to hold them inside.
I remember when I broke down for the first time.
Like a citizen of West Berlin,
I took a sledge hammer to the wall.
With each word, chunks of concrete disintegrated,
Into crumpled tissues,
And tear-stained pillow cases.
The last word hung in the air.
Inhaling deeply,
Freedom filled my lungs.
I held my breath.
I saw shining lights,
Glimmering stars,
And vibrant smiles.
I knew that behind me,
You saw rusted steel,
Broken glass,
And graffiti.
It wasn’t too late,
I could run away.
Run away and never look back.
And re-build that wall with every stride.
If you didn’t want to cross that threshold,
Between shining stars and broken walls,
Between singing joyously and sitting silently,
Between happiness and heart-ache.
I would not force you.
“Dearie.” You said, arms outstretched.
“Come here.”
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 12:05 PM UTC
The best truths are told with fingers tied
behind the backs of the greatest liars,
and for every time I've heard something too good to be true,
I remember this.
I remember fists,
clenched tight while wishing my body
would disappear in high school hallways.
While I fought against myself halfway out the door to homeroom.
I was “that kid.”
The one who sat with a half eaten lunch
where prying eyes couldn't touch
for fear of people watching me take a bite of what sustains life.
I wanted to be the emptiness that creates a star;
the friction of aimless atoms collapsing into one another to fabricate something beautiful.
People are unmerciful, because I’m still waiting for gravity to do the trick.
I’m still waiting to be worth more than a second pick.
I’m waiting for these shaking hands to stop and hold their fingers steady.
The thing about a star, I learned,
is that when we are staring at Orion’s Belt,
we are looking approximately 1340 years into the past.
I can only hope that my body can last
until I can see my own light.
I’ll keep trying to force my spine
to sit in line with the rest of me;
keep trying like a lightening bug to create my own stars.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
Is it okay that I'm
Laughing
But yet still want to go cry
Like I did earlier in homeroom?
Is it okay that I
Want to hold onto him and
Make his shirt a
Deeper red
With my tears?
Is it okay that I snuck those glances
Hoping that maybe you'd do
The same?
Nobody acts the same with me and
I hate it so much.
Why don't you just pretend I'm
Okay instead of making me feel more
Miserable about myself.
Being mad at me doesn't make me feel any better.
It makes me feel even more useless than
I did with the things that happened with my
Stepbrother.
God, I don't even know where this poem is going any more...
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Painting my toenails, eating lid poppers
A school bus overdose
I'm collecting my senses
Hungry, bee stings, ferris wheel, red shirt, lips, pale, homeroom
I've climbed the fences
Ambulance, weak, tired
Tube, throat, charcoal
Parents, psychiatrist, abuse, eating disorder
Floated medicatons seeping into my body
Home, *** drugs, abuse, lonely
Thank you Bobby
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 12:49 AM UTC
Remember when we first met?
At recess on the pavement
In my little white dress
And pink high tops.
Six years old.
You didn't care that it hurt,
So you did it again
And again
And again.
You came into my life
And refused to leave
Until I "grew up".
Well I grew up.
You met the daughter of bullying,
Her foot in your side.
She didn't care that it hurt.
She didn't care that you cried.
"Grow up" bullying told her father.
I met you again at the new school.
New town, I thought,
This will be better.
Boy, was I wrong.
The weird girl.
The girl with the black t shirt.
But you could no longer hurt me.
I had a wall,
Made of bricks
Piled one on top of the other,
Even taller than you.
You found me again,
When my wall went crashing down.
When she left me,
You found me.
You made them leave me.
You didn't care that I cried
During the national anthem
On a Tuesday morning
In homeroom.
You got worse.
Because you got silent
You became a knife in my back
Whispers across the hall
To the girl with the beautiful long hair.
You started giggling
From across the white tiled classroom,
While you stuck you "Hello My Name Is" stickers on my forehead.
So everyone could laugh with you.
But I am here to tell you one thing.
You are wrong.
I am not the weird girl.
I am the beautiful girl.
I am the happy girl.
You lost.
And I don't care if you hurt.
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 7:33 PM UTC
Too familiar with the unhealthy coping mechanism of numbing emptiness with mindlessness
Your hands are too tired of the math review you’re desperately trying to finish.
You find yourself
Tapping through Snapchat stories, barely paying attention to
The group selfies, of bright, well-lit rooms decked with Christmas decorations
Of red ribbons and green pine and mistletoe
Of the white glints of friends’ toothy smiles
Sometimes the snaps would be videos
With deafening, muffled sounds of cheers, people’s faces recognizable
Even when turned away, laughing, looking at the star, the subject of the snap
All the cameras point to her face as she dances
It’s a party, and the late realization makes you feel dumb
I wasn’t invited. But why would I be?
I’m the asocial one, the one who always has to politely decline with
“Sorry, I have to do homework, have to do this, have to do that”
They’re IB kids. You’re in AP. What’s your excuse?
You think as you sit in front of your fluorescent LED screen
The phone’s luminosity searing through your eyes
But you can’t tear them away from the festive scene playing in front of you.
They’re having fun. It’s nighttime, 11:04, 5 seconds in, but
The environment in your house versus theirs
Seem 12 hours apart, night and day,
You squint, because wow, everyone is there. The close ones, the acquaintances,
That one guy you had to sit next to once in homeroom.
It’s almost Christmas.
You glance around your room.
No cat in sight, mother upstairs, conked out.
Your phone isn’t even alive. The snap has long been over. No vibrations of incoming texts.
You sigh.
Only a semester left.
And your fingers wearily
Pick up the pencil
And you resume
Alone.
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 1:15 AM UTC
School is child labor.
illegal, it is.
Teachers pay off the cops
to torture us kids.
The government runs school,
I hate them with passion,
I show my responses
in unspeakable fashion.
School's like China,
communism.
When I hear the bell for homeroom,
Satan has risen.
We live here and thrive,
in jail cells of sadness,
Please o' Lord!
End all this madness!
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:28 PM UTC
(a throwback poem from High school)
I'm the most popular girl in my homeroom.
Of course, that's my own bedroom -
cause we're on COVID lockdown, zoom.
My bedroom is the math class, which doubles as the gym,
it triples as the theater - you should see the shows I'm in.
They're only in my mirror, so my cats get free admission.
My sudden popularity's due, to a matter of attrition.
If I play my cards right, I can probably be prom queen
I'll hold the ceremony in the garden, so the travesty goes unseen.
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 1:08 PM UTC
i was thinking back to how we got started
and realized i never told anyone the story of us.
we met on a saturday at a party i was dragged to
and you were there because you were the host.
it was the standard party with joints and kegs
and i remember seeing you do a toast
while you were standing on the couch with a red cup.
you pointed out a girl in the crowd and said,
"to the ******* absolute mistake of falling in love
with your ******* best ******* friend. ****
and to the pretty girls who won't rescue me. drink up."
and i realized you were an exquisite human being,
even in my drunken state i knew you were special.
we met on september 2nd, the first day of school,
in homeroom, and you didn't remember or talk to me
while i memorized the colour of your eyes and
the curve your lips and the sturdiness of your jaw
throughout the year.
we met again at the same party a year ago
and, as it's said, the rest was history.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
she pulls up to school with
the short jean skirt that she begged
her mother for
with knee-high socks and tall white chucks
she’s got an
overripe peach logo on her
faded off white shirt
which she tucked in after she got into homeroom..
this was it
the first year..
only three more to go..
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 11:55 PM UTC
Why wasn't I enough
Why couldn't I stop you
Why didn't you believe me when I said it would get better
Why didn't you believe me when I said I love you
Why wasn't me needed you enough
Why did you have to go
I still try
I still text "I love you, It could have gotten better, I still need you"
But it doesn't matter what I say
It won't bring you back
It won't put you back at that desk in homeroom
It won't put you back at your mother's dinner table
It won't put you back in my room every Friday
It won't bring you back to me
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 9:47 PM UTC
It’s been 625 days since I first knew love
When I handed you a note and you said yes
I still remember your arms around me
As some movie we weren’t watching played
I still remember your smile as we kissed
My lips on yours to shut you up for the first time
It’s been 510 days since I last knew love
When you broke me and deftly left
I still remember the tears on my cheeks
As my friends held me through band practice
I still remember sleeping in your hoodie
My last way to keep you with me
It’s been 336 days since I thought I knew love
When you came back to me so suddenly
I still remember you leaning against me
As you ignored your favorite sport to tickle me
I still remember you keeping me close
Forcing me on elevators and new paths between class
It’s been 237 days since I found love again
When I ended the worst day in the best way
I still remember Parks and Rec lighting the room
As we paid all our attention to one another
I still remember the look in your eyes
As you kissed my scars and pulled me closer
It’s been 221 days since I lost love again
When I needed you and you said no
I still remember crying on the couch
As you left me on open for the millionth time
I still remember the knife in my shaking hand
As you broke your promise again
It’s been 28 days since I let love go
When I gave you up for the final time
I gave up remembering the sparkle in your eyes
Glimmering every single time you smiled
I gave up remembering the calls we shared
When I was drunk on sleep and you were high on life
I let love go
But it’s been 2 hours and 18 minutes since I last saw you
When you walked past and waved at my friends
I remember wishing it was me you’d say hi to
As you headed to your homeroom for the morning
I remember asking my friends what happened after
Because I closed my eyes the second I saw you
It’s been 625 days since I first felt hope
It’s been 336 days since I found happiness again
It’s been 237 days since I felt my heart opening again
But it’s been 510 since I first lost you
But it’s been 221 days since I lost you again
But it’s been 28 days since I last felt happy
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 11:01 AM UTC
This is my last year teaching, here, at Columbine.
I’ll be leaving Colorado and these bad memories far behind..
The kids come into homeroom and each year it’s the same.
The seat where Eric Harris sat is one that’s never claimed.
I guess, as High School massacres rank, others , since, were worse.
We suffer notoriety because we were the first.
The names and faces of the dead still haunt me in my sleep.
I had the charge to keep them safe; a charge I failed to keep.
Eric was intelligent; in a different place and time,
He might have found a better use for his creative mind.
But he was often bullied; I had failed to intervene.
Some say he thirsted for revenge both brutal and obscene.
On April twentieth of Ninety nine, he and Dylan came here late.
Eric warned one friend to flee; to stay was a mistake.
I heard the first shots fired and saw bodies hit the floor.
They headed for the library. I hid and locked the door.
I confess I was a coward; I was no hero born to save
Those young and beautiful children destined for an early grave.
I hid, as many others did, and cringed at every blast,
As youthful dreams were shattered and this day became their last..
In the end they died as suicides. Their crude bombs had failed to blow.
Had their plot been a complete success- we’d all have died, I know.
Instead I’ve lived with my regrets, my shame and my despair;
haunted always by my guilt and Eric’s empty chair.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
Blades in your mouth but you're not chainsaw man
Any opportunity to be an opp
You take it by hand
Forever you swear we tight
Like a Shaolin clan
Yet I see a katana eveytime
You say “You understand”
We grew side by side
Edamame
Call each other family members
Uncle and aunty
So why anytime I trip
Over my family tree
You were there waiting
To catch and bury me
In Homeroom debating cartoons
To lying about taking shrooms
With the water girls to see
If they part vacuum
Thought our college days be
A different world
You saw it like who “the best man”
Now our friendships otherworld
Maybe in the next life, we can
give it A whirl
Until then where’s the knife
We have a lot to unfurl
Continuing to grow making room for
A family
Adding decimals to make their life more
Exceptional
It always seemed medicinal until the economy went critical
Now it's every man for themselves
Even if there’s enough on the shelves
You see me and mine as wanting
Yours to fail
At least that’s what it looks like
When I scroll on my cell
May 21, 2024
May 21, 2024 at 9:14 AM UTC