"lockers" poems
Favorite color yellow.
Yellow means healing.
Broken veins
Not all caused by "bumps" into now bent lockers
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
We used to swing under the big willow tree
We lived 3 doors down from each other
We were princesses who fought dragons
We could save the kingdom and find our prince by lunch time
Our moms laughed and talked about how cute we were
Four years old was a cute age
Fast forward a bit
We went into elementary school innocent and young
Boys had cooties
Girls had cooties
Kickball always ended with someone getting hit in the face
We would always sit out field and pick grass and shape it into a little birds nest
Life was good
Until your parents started fighting and I mean really fighting.
It scared me and I would have to go home
I would make you come with me
three doors down
Our moms didn’t laugh anymore
By Christmas break your parents were broken up and divorced
Eight years old was a confusing age
Junior high was mean.
Girls would rip you to shreds and then hang pieces of you on everyone’s lockers
Boys just wanted to make out
A whirlwind of uncontrolled hormones
We were the quiet ones
Always flew under the radar
Just trying to make it out alive
We found a little spot to eat lunch under the stairs where no one would go
We giggled and talked about boys who didn’t even know that we existed
I remember crying in the bathroom with you because people were brutal and we weren’t good enough
Our moms worried about us and how distant we were becoming
Thirteen years old was a sad age
Highschool is another story
You were put in the hospital for a month
I was left at school alone
I had to find more friends
I found most of them were fake
So I ate my lunch in a bathroom stall
Reading all the swear words that were carved in the wall
You were really sick and we grew apart
We were always close
We will always love each other
You tried to save me from myself
But I didn’t let you
Seventeen was an important age
Now we are at different colleges
I tried to **** myself while you were getting an A on your anatomy test
It’s sad
We don’t swing under the big willow tree or fight dragons anymore
Our moms hardly talk
You are a success
and I am a failure
We don’t really mesh
I miss you every day
I’m sorry I can’t be good enough for you
We were princesses who lived three doors down, we saved the kingdom.
I love you
I’m sorry this has faded
Just like everything else
Nineteen years old is a dying age.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
Here in America,
we improvise morgues
as needed.
in the cafeterias
or by the lockers,
near the ticket booths,
and at the altars.
We divvy up the dead.
Tally them
and report the number
like an answer.
13, 20, 49, 58, 6
Every death count
a timely national shock.
Almost as if
our well-televised
monthly tragedy
was ever anything less
than a game of roulette.
anything less than a matter of time
and time and time again.
Covering them each
with our bed sheets,
we try and stifle it.
Do our best to
staunch the the sights,
the noises,
(“just like chairs falling”)
the names
that keep bleeding out
onto our thoughts
and tongues,
Far too much and
too often
not to choke on.
Here in America,
we’ve learned that
horror is level-headed.
It is debatable.
It is pangless.
It seeps, deep to the core,
perverting with a silent smile.
the steady, feverish dread
weaving itself into the mundane.
the “god help us”
annulled by the
“respectfully disagreed”
the nightmare that lies
always just underneath,
and just out of mind,
Until it insinuates itself
Again and again...
Here, in America
We line the bodies,
death slumped, and
bled out on the pavement.
We arrange them-
Side by side.
Most are missing things-
a hat, a piece of face.
one shoe, a dulled pencil
(fill in C)
phones
buzzing on the ground
lit up with unread messages
(“Please call me”)
They are missing-
an upcoming
7th birthday party,
(Star Wars themed)
They are missing-
their vacations.
their first dates.
their college applications.
job interviews.
kids.
fiancées.
Lined up lifeless,
they are missing
far too many things
to gather.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 3:14 PM UTC
We live in an endless masquerade
Dancing to the same song in the
Same clothes but we change one thing.
We change our masks after every song
And we hide our true identity from the
Other guests at this masquerade.
We hide ourselves from our friends
And we hide ourselves from our family.
We hide ourselves from the most important
People at the masquerade: ourselves.
Every time we put a different mask on
We become someone we’re really not
Because we want to be that person or
Because everyone will like us if we’re
That person and not our true selves.
We change masks to hide the scars
Of our past and the pain we feel now
Sometimes people will like us if we
Only show the good and not the bad
Because the bad hurts not only us but them.
We were bullied when we were young
By our “friends” in school or at the park.
They called us names like *** or ******
Or push us down the stairs or into lockers
Or they call us fat because we are not skinny.
They call us names because they think they
Know us but they really don’t because we
Wear masks at this masquerade even when
We are bullied to hide our true emotions.
We wear masks because of these scars.
We change our masks because we don’t want
Everyone to know what we do or how we act
When we’re home with our family or friends.
In the masquerade we are friendly and nice but
At home we abuse our spouses or kids or friends.
We abuse them verbally or physically
Because we are drunk or we lost our jobs.
We scream at the top of our lungs because
That’s the only way we know how to relax.
That’s us when we’re not at the masquerade.
We lost our best friend from high school
Because he or she decided to commit suicide.
That was in the past but it felt like this morning so
We change masks to hide the pain we are feeling
With every passing second because we miss him or her.
Our world is an endless masquerade without an end
As we dance the dance of hiding our true identity from
Everyone we see with every change of the masks but
Our song is still the same. It’s the song of heartbreak
Because in this masquerade all we feel is pain and sadness.
We lose our true selves with each mask unless we,
With the help of someone, remove our masks and
Put an end to this never ending masquerade so we
Can live our lives the way we want to…as ourselves.
Until then, we dance the dance and change the mask.
Welcome to the Masquerade.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
Since I have no other way
And am in utmost need,
Painter girl,
I filch one of the eight lambs
You have made plump with
Green jackfruit leaves and
Thin gruel with paddy bran.
I will take it to the goat market
And sell it in a jiffy.
I assure you
I will not sell it
To any butcher-
The lamb you made chubby
With sweet sweet words
And much much petting
And nice lilting croons,
Mixing and mixing
Greens with browns.
Don’t be sad, painter girl.
I hear you come running
Searching for your lamb and
Cry out “O my dearest one
Who went grazing in the green fields,”
As the sun in your canvas
Sets in the sea and
The saffron blends with the dusk.
And, see your tears mingle
With the black that you wanted
To adorn the brow of
The naughtiest of them.
Painter girl,
It’s all because I have no other go
And it’s of utmost need.
I could have broken into the
Two-storeyedhouse you sketched
And stolen the ornaments in
Secret lockers that even
You are unaware of.
Or, I could have
Palmed the golden girdle
Of the beautiful ***** princess
Whose portrait you made,
The one with a nose stud.
Or, drugged her with my kisses
And plundered the harem.
Or else, I could have
Entered the snake shrine
Guarded by the dark serpents
That you often drew
And fled the country with
The precious jewel.
Or, I could have shot down
The birds that you drew
And sold them grilled.
I could have axed down the
Mahagony trees you nurtured
And sold them as timber.
I could have blinded your Kanhaiah
And made him a beggar
To become rich from the alms he earned.
I could have enslavened his Gopis
And handed them over
To the red light streets.
Painter girl,
It’s not for anything of this sort.
I take just one of your eight lambs.
Sell it for a good price
And fulfill my need.
Now, perchance,
If a new tenant comes to rent
My brain where nothing resides
And if they pay me a fat advance,
Painter girl,
Surely will I buy back your lamb.
And tether it in your painting.
Don’t you dare say then
Don’t you say then
That you have forgotten it.
Don’t you say then
You have exhausted your stock of
Green jackfruit leaves.
(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
Teacher lectures.
Talking students.
Busy hallways.
Quiet librarys.
Running in gym.
Crying in chem.
Numbers & letters.
Words in a book.
Lockers slamming
& jamming.
Study.
Stress.
Test.
School.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
Halls
Kids come roaring out of dark and light dungeons named “classroom;”
Kids scream and push each other out of fun or out of the fear of being late to class.
The halls go from a peaceful forest made of cement and carpet to the war zone of World War Two.
Teachers
They watch with the eye of a hawk never missing students face.
They become walls when running or going rebel from the dark side.
There is one chosen one, he keeps the hall safe his sword made with the dark wood of oak.
Lockers
The slam shut or burst open.
The student has to keep them clean, but some look like a hoarders closet;
Filled with trash and binders that have never seen the light of a florist LED school light.
School
The place where dreams are made and were tears are born;
A place where we come to have fun and come to suffer torture.
School the place we can never escape.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
Contents of the lockers lay in a pile
A flask, a Marlboro box, a thousand
textbooks, pills in an orange see-through bottle
One item, unique to the others,
is a notebook
Full of confessions and Sexton and Plath
Sad yearnings and accounts of complete moments
This notebook
Surrounded by the cigarettes and concealed ***** and mathematical equations
Shows the other world
within this world
That spins in time with this world
But gives and takes
for lovelier sakes
-cj
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 1:45 AM UTC
forget the drugs. yeah, they’re going
around and yeah, they’re pretty
dangerous, but they don’t take as many
lives. stop searching kids’
lockers and start looking for the deeper
stuff, the things that leave heavier
inflictions. yeah, i
know it’s nearly one
hundred degrees outside, and
there’s girls in here wearing
long sleeved sweaters. they’re
hiding something more
sinister, something
that can’t be measured in
kilos.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
Pinstriped suit
Black briefcase
clink of heels
On marble floors
imposing glass walls
Emails coming in
Emails coming in
Slacks and a tshirt
Powderblue backpack
Red hightops
on gravel
lockers on walls
Students coming in
Students coming in
Oak desk
Open door
Client comes in
Check the emails
"I want a divorce"
turn to the client
turn to the client
Blackboard
Open door
Students stream through
Smile in greeting
"Recess 'aint long enough"
Open up textbooks
Open up textbooks
Client cries
Keep professional poise
nod in understanding
Show no weakness
"He won't sign the papers"
Just nod
Just nod
Students protest
explain over the noise
try to make them love it
show no weakness
"who cares abour 1945?!"
I care
I care
Go home
Collapse onto the
Black leather sofa
in front of
the plasma screen TV
Instant noodles for dinner
Instant noodles for dinner
Go home
Collapse onto the
stained, worn-out fouton
the kids badger
for some television time
Put the roast in the oven
Put the roast in the oven
The neighbors open
their doors
turn to watch yours
remian tight shut
Noone to expect
Noone to come home to
Noone to come home to
The key turns
in the lock
turn to see
him walk in
bag of groceries in hand
Dinner's almost ready
Dinner's almost ready
TV programs over
Noodles devoured
papers signed
emails replied to
slip into bed
In bed alone
In bed alone
Children fed and bathed
television switched off
homework assistance provided
papers graded
husband made love to
Someone to hold on to
Someone to hold on to
Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on Cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood
Alarm goes off
Wake the children
Pack the lunches
Make the breakfast
Read the paper
Such a sad sad suicide
Such a sad sad suicide
Bathtub full of
Cranberry scented foam
Water's cold now
Body's cold now
Cold blade on cold marble floor
So much blood
So much blood
Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Transfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had it all
She had it all
Nobody to inheret
The condo with a view
The money in the bank
The diamond earrings
the workload
Nobody to miss
Nobody to miss
Hold him close
So much warmth
Hold the kids tight
Tarnsfer body heat
Why did she die?
She had nothing
She had nothing
May 17, 2012
May 17, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
"What happened to the bully,
to turn him that way?
What is he repressing inside,
ignoring,
blaming himself for,
and taking it out on others?
Whats going on inside that head of his?
Did something happen as a child?
Is something going on now?"
These are the things I think,
when they push me down the stairs,
into the lockers,
or trip me in the halls.
I'm selflessly thinking about them,
while they're torturing me.
Why are they calling me ****
Are they secretly gay themselves,
and too ashamed to come out,
and they're jealous of my bravery,
to walk down the hall hand in hand,
with the girl I love?
Is that whats going on?
Because not all that long ago,
I was in their shoes.
I was poking fun at the girl who didn't quite fit in,
or the boy with the fabulous hair.
I wanted so badly to just be myself,
and then hated myself because I couldn't,
and then in turn,
I hated them.
So when the bullies do these things,
I dont judge,
or hate them for it,
or seek justice,
or revenge for their actions.
I just feel bad for them,
because they're the person now,
who I used to be a few years ago.
My friends,
they dont understand why.
Why I do just go tell the teacher of whats going on,
or tell my parents.
I dont want to do that.
It would only cause more repression,
and more problems.
Instead,
after they knock me down,
I brush it off,
and reach out a hand,
as a friend,
not a foe.
I'm there for them,
no matter how much they resist.
I tolerate it,
because I understand.
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
He’s a smuggler, bearing certain small
but heavy packages across the borders.
No one knows the powers from whom his orders
come or what authority he’d call
upon, should he be spotted as he drags
himself through brambles or goes burrowing through
the undergrowth. He carries with him few
possessions and his clothes are all in rags—
he doesn’t care: his sole concern is for
the things he carries and the consequence,
should frontier guards discover and inspect them.
He leaves them in left luggage lockers or
on supermarket shelves or under stones,
and no one ever turns up to collect them.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
tight are the waxers
with gelatin scrub
their alcove smiles paired
on a check-board slate
dive jackets
and coveralls
mark the blue persuaders
stuffed lockers
and lattice straps
for a cold
pilgrim's stare
cork boots
and poly rot
rest in the C block
rank and file
mask a heavily
worn charade
windows wide
and curtains
thread bare
greasers
and **** rats
pardoned
on principle
chain link and
tether held
firm in the grasp
bead bites and
castle tops
slip in the **** steam
chants and speakers
blast from the back wall
elements stacked wide
for tainted leaners
strummers and pickers
held high on the jimmy jack
a chilled base breeze
at the ****** hole
rogues and hatters
stir at the mixer
an imitation face
closing in on the feast
maiden hands clasp
hard at the inseam
scuffed heals shuffle
on the peripheral scene
a cloaked man scurries
(chilled in his double sock)
moonshine
and mickeys
turned up in the jar
light streams blind
the paranoid eyes
laggards peeled
from the wretched
framework
veneer shattered
on a point strip groove
an overwhelming trauma
from slaughter
harbor
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 3:16 PM UTC
I lay on the ground below
the curved hips of the hills at sunset
The aperture of my eyes, my *** my eyes
and the narrow escape
of mind from body
I am ten again
and they’re calling me falsey
“Big **** No bra!”
Shoving them into the lockers
of Holy Name’s pool
My eyes? Brown. My hair? Brown
My body? Invisible, lean and “Leave me alone!
or I’ll punch your lights out!”
Meanwhile, Mom is mortified
but not cause I’m banned from the stupid pool
All I want— is to run bare to the waist
Ride my bike, maniacal
Be a bird
Swipe ice from the milk truck
Marvel over maggots in garbage
Catch toads, caterpillars, pollywogs in jars
Later, sell lemonade— get rich!
…and pretend…pretend…
till the litany of our names, hollered from the porch
till the street lights come on….
*****
“This is for something you haven’t got yet”
says the matron of the fitting room
Bones in a bathing suit?
What I haven’t got?
or they haven’t got?
will never get—
in their worlds of curtained cubicles
Cause of death:
Strangulation by measuring tape!
*****
In my plaid two-piece
sunburned shoulders, wind-wild hair
By sweat and the afternoon’s imaginings
I built a fortress of sand and stones
to endure forever….
But she— shook the blanket
at the tide’s full reach
Peppered the air with an epoch
Clouds darkening
the wind-torqued sea
Finding my flip-flops, we—
trudged off…
into the changing… changing
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
This one is for my pretty girls
For the girls who count calories
And tell their friends they aren’t hungry
So they can see their pretty bones
This one is for my pretty girls
The girls who sit shaking on their bathroom floors
With pain in their hearts and knifes in their hands
So they paint pretty marks on themselves
This one is for my pretty girls
Those who were born boys
And get slammed into lockers and yelled slurs at
Yet still try their hardest to be
One of the pretty girls they’re meant to be
This one is for my pretty girls
The ones who always looks uncomfortable in class
Sitting by the man who makes them queasy
So they don’t make a pretty fuss
This one is for my pretty girls
Who sneak out to pride parades
And ignore the word *** tattooed into their binders
So they could love other pretty girls
This one is for my pretty girls
Whose arms flinch when grabbed
And bodies shudder when voices raise
So they can be daddy’s pretty girl
This one is for my pretty girls
Who don’t talk about after parties
And don’t tell their friends or parents
So they aren’t called pretty little *****
This one is for my pretty girls
The ones who tempt fate and take pills
Take jokes about hating themselves too far
So they can try and get their pretty sleep
This one is for my pretty girls
The ones who cry out when they need help
But no one answers because no one hears them
And they can’t speak
And they can’t breathe
And there’s tears rolling down their cheeks
But they do nothing
This one is for my broken girls
My girls like me
This one is for my strong girls
My girls that haven’t given up
This one is for the pretty girls
My beautiful, beautiful girls
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
First off, we need to become friends and date first but..
Hold hands in public and pow through the hallways
Meet each other at our lockers after class
Walk to school together in the chilly mornings, sharing coffee
Make out to Arctic Monkeys
Make out to Cold War Kids
Make out to Gorillaz
Make out to Arctic Monkeys again
Make out to good music
Make out to bad music, why not?
Go to a concert together
Go to Warped Tour together and laugh at everyone
Go to one of those underground shows you talked about
Cuddle and watch old cartoons
Hang out in a park after dark
Get high
Get high and make out
Share a cigarette in the sunset
Draw weird things together
Take a walk on the beach during a chilly night
Go to one of the radio's block parties together
Get front row at a concert and hear complaints about how tall you are
See Gorillaz when they come back (if they do)
Take a bubble bath together
Tell stories about all the trouble we(lets be real, you) have gotten into
Have dinner with your parent(s) and my parents
Swing on the swings at night
Hang out with my friends some day
Hang out with your friends some day
Combine our friend groups!
Talk about books
Spend a day in bed and cuddle together
Cuddle while we're high
Fall asleep together
Wake up in each other's arms
Get McDonalds at 3am one day
Hang out with my best friend's family
Annoy my best friend's little sister
Annoy your friends
Annoy my friends
Annoy your brother
Annoy my sister
Annoy the teacher together in class
Hell, annoy everyone!
Pick me up so I feel tall
Hug a whole lot
Make out some more
Cuddle a lot more
Create things together
Write a book of ideas you come up with you're intoxicated
Hang out with my sister and her boyfriend
Get high and talk about the future
Fall in love
Spend infinity and some more together
Get cute coffins so we can cuddle together in the dead
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Were you alive when the
bricks began to crumble
beneath our hand-held, picket line
across the parking lot in front of some
school that no one bothered to name?
Our exhaustion-mumbled whispers
skipping across lips dropping to the street
that tapered ladders on gargantuan gadflies as the summer heat
etched the tear lines into mud tracks against
our ruddied faces.
Cohorts torn into flip stands
layered toward standing political sores --
tell me how to cross my t’s and fill in scantron circles before
the suits step over brown-bag lunches
to stretch the yawning yellow tape over the students’ lockers.
We were strung up the flag pole, almost posted as decapitated heads for the public.
The political analysts call this “The biggest school closing in decades.”
Under teeming hammer-strikes :
glasses shred to paper-splinters
before a young boy’s diploma
crying white chalk bricks
from university’s doors instead on to
prison yard orange jumpsuits.
Can we call this a school improvement project
or can we call this the Same Salem Witch Hunt
As unwashed teachers and students alike deck the sidewalks like
Either Christmas decorations on Michigan Avenue or
Inmates on the gallows platform
I’m completely unable to read the television marquee that told the neighborhood that City Hall was too stuffed with paperwork to defend the mothers and invisible fathers.
I’m completely unable to write out of respect for these children’s already-carved in stone pathway to the gutter, graveyard, and/or prisons.
In the first wink of dawn
We will all scatter
To our respective positions
Carved out in concrete before the
barricades fall
to flood the street.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
you pushed yourself onto me after school in a hallway
your breathe smelled like like ****
you stroked my hair and asked if i was single while calling me baby girl but I didn't have the power to lie and say no instead a lifeless yes was forced out of my mouth
you an eighteen year old stranger taking advantage of me a fifteen year old. I was only 15 when I was ruined by you. A fifteen year old girl already struggling, a girl who only wanted to go home and cry when you pushed yourself onto me kissing my head, my neck I was paralyzed you pushed me up against those lockers as I pushed back my tears.
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 12:07 AM UTC
The funny thing about life
Is how we all have different perceptions and opinions
On the same topics
But ha,
Nowadays we've all got to be nonconformists
Rebellion is tricky thing to master
To go against society is pretty much impossible
When the rest of society goes against itself
So those who rebel against the normal
Are so numerous that rebellion has become normal
conformity so to speak,
Has been lost in the eyes of adolescence
And blinded by the ideas
That being yourself
Is mainstream
But be different
But that's too average
light in the prism of teenage life
Is bent to show illusions and be deceptive
To tell us its accepted to be a unaccepted
Lets head back to the time where preppy cheerleaders and brain-dead football jocks
Ruled the hallways
And il-pubescent band geeks were shoved into lockers
Like in the movies
Where only real society is existent
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 10:15 PM UTC
We meet by the lockers
at break
I'm still amazed
that this school
has Cheerleaders
that basketball
not rounders & netball
is the sport played
that we study
the Cold War
' Of Mice & Men'
& the War in Vietnam
that we have 'Hitzenfrei' days
that our German teacher
always forgives our mistakes
that boys & girls
hang out together
that we put on musicals
I've never heard of
That we celebrate the fall of the Wall
that we take school trips
to Concentration Camps
that there's no uniform
that the teachers
rarely explain anything
that the word ' rubber'
doesn't mean ' eraser'
here but something else
that there are stereotypes
like 'nerd' & ' prom queen'
that we welcome grafitti
that we believe in Love
above any kind of Study
that we have the freedom
to pick & choose our failiures
without being sent
to the Principal's office
that we read Kerouac
Carl Sandburg & Ginsberg
that nearly everyone
has lived in at least
two or three
different countries
that we rarely fight
that my crush
plays trumpet
in a ska band
that we go
to the nearby Lakes
on weekends
& the English language cinema
on Tuesdays
that we celebrate Halloween
bit by bit I nearly forget
my All Girls school days
in soggy Britain
where I had no friends
where we sang hymns
every single morning
where we didn't practice
the Love we preached
where our future
was crumbling old Oxbridge
where we had a coat of arms
where we had houses
named after the merchant ships
of our Founder from the 1600ds
where we didn't dream
of becoming Presidents
or Astronauts but Academics
forever lost in musty books
the flower of our youth, wasted
*Hitzenfrei days were days in summer when we were let off school because it was too hot.
Wall - Berlin Wall
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
It is true indeed that you do not know me
As I do not know you
But when I first saw you
My mind's senses were altered
Odd, as you've done nothing wrong to my knowledge
But it's as if I foresee a rude awakening in your eyes
Your spiritual stench draws me near as you walk towards that girl
A beautiful girl she is indeed
Then why must you suddenly attack her?
The words fired from your mouth
Invisibly pierce through her chest
Your friends begin to laugh
You feel proud
Cause' your a man
You make fun of women without second thoughts
Because you don't care what other people think
That is what being a man is all about right?
Making innocent girls cry
As they flee to a dark spot where they bleed from the wrists
I bet you feel like a manly man, don't you?
You're a sick son of a ***** that's what you are
In fear your words may hurt another, I continue to follow you around
There, those two boys at there lockers, you close in on your prey
Although you restrain from using your words
I learned shortly after, because you wanted to use your actions
How are those boys mothers going to feel
When their little boy comes home with a black eye
Oh but wait!
A manly man doesn't care what others think!
They even disrespect their own mothers!
Why manly man?
Why must have you hurt those boys
Because they were homosexual?
I have news manly man
Love, knows no gender
I've had enough
I'm fed up with you manly man!
Your heart is as cold as the night!
And your only goal is to show others that too!
Not if I can stop it, manly man
You just wait and see
I'll make sure you never walk again
Or even better
I'll make sure you'll never use your body again
I'll make it a package deal and take out your voice too!
No more words, no more limbs, I'll leave you crippled and mangled
But I'm sure you'll be fine
I mean, after all, you are a manly man
Right?
But I'll let you live, you know why?
Because I'm a real man
And I stick up for others, and I respect my mother
I respect girls, boys, blacks, whites
But never someone like you
© Luca Abate
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 10:28 PM UTC
Amerikeisha tapping out the drumbeat with her see through plastic mechanical pencil
Me sidewinding my way through highschool
Dizzy Gillespie's trumpet waking the souls that are buried in the lockers,
Chick Corea and I are returning to forever
The land where summer is the only season
And daisy dukes are greatly appreciated,
John Coltrane is helping me realize
How beautiful girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes are,
I've been dancing to Dave Brubeck since this morning
And I can't get Maria out of my head
I just picture Maria
As this girl
Feeling Pretty
Oh so pretty
I imagine if I saw her in the street
I wouldn't double take
But Take Five
Charlie Parker playing saxophone like
It's as easy as brushing his teeth,
Nat King Cole
Serenading Hispanic women with his soothing tone
Robert Glasper experimenting with his music
Burning you brain like mentholated cough drops
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
Bullying such a terrible thing
Target the small and fragile
It will only cause a minor sting
This pain shall only last a small while
Hound that little boy with glasses
"Nerd, Geek, Four eyes"
Shove him into lockers as he passes
Torment him until he cries
What about the red haired girl
"Ginger, Ranga, Carrot Top"
Pound her down until she curls
Push them to their limit, don't stop
Now the question I shall ask
What did you gain
Other than your shallow mask
Trying to hide your own shame
You don't understand what you cause
Those kids you tormented
Only find safety and joy in self recluse
They now believe they are demented
That girl you called Ginger
Has bled out over the floor
Its "You" who caused her to injure
This young girl is now dead to the core
That boy you called four eyes
He now hangs from the ceiling
Sleeping away in the night skies
These kids no longer have feeling
What do you say for yourself
Nothing, nothing at all
Bullying is your disgusting wealth
But one day realise you shall fall
One day people shall stand
Fight against this vile behavior
Together we will band
And this shall be our savior
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 9:11 AM UTC
the lockers rife with clowns and the frittering of time as the ***** boys got ready to work their ***** minds down at the ***** factory and boast about ***** things too often degrading and unkind.
I tried to stay out of it
until one officious co-worker
had the gall to ask,
“what’s your preference in women?”
whereby, my response was,
“I see my women like flavors;
white women are too bland,
black women are too flavorful and
Indian women are a bit over-seasoned.
you need the right amount of spice.
Latina women got it but they cheat
so, I’d have to go with Asian women.
they’re perfection is unmatched.”
laughter emerged and rumbled
down the grey factory walls
where the metal tin roof had rattled,
the ***** air pervaded with rust and tears
and a mouthful of peanuts were spat onto a grimy floor
they laughed and kept on laughing
until their bellies burst
never have they heard such
a response like that before
and I just went back to work,
treading in the depths of my own conviction,
not really seeing why I wasn’t
being taken so
seriously.
Jun 6, 2025
Jun 6, 2025 at 11:07 AM UTC