"preschool" poems
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden
The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may
The ring of your parents' doorbell
The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back
The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story
The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night
The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades
The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to
Nostalgia
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 7:12 AM UTC
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
I am assured by my loving mother as a child
I believe her because the beauty in everything flow’rs and flourishes
when you’re young
The world is yours to take, everyone is yours to meet, everything is yours to do;
and I believe her.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
My first friend at school proclaims,
and I believe them.
We’ve tackled ***** training and preschool, now onto the playground and phonics!
We run and run together, taking the world like we’ve
whispered once before;
and I believe them.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
The middle school test scores announce,
and I believe them.
Primary school is in the past and I’m ready for responsibility!
I put on makeup to feel pretty, care about my grades more than the teachers believe and flash my smile to the boys who spit “compliments” at my feet;
and I believe them.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
but.. I don’t believe them anymore.
I’ve gained just enough confidence to smile at everyone in the halls in case they are having a bad day.
Suddenly my youthful euphoric vision is graffitied with hateful words and violence.
I run and constantly chase the innocence of the world,
being surrounded by darkness.
My self esteem has hit an all time low. Why is the world this way?
My friends and I chase what we used to believe and end up in deep holes;
and I don’t believe them anymore.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
And it doesn’t matter.
I have lost all hope of finding that beauty.
My heart is an aching mess of “I love you”’s
But all I hear is “you are meaningless”
Slowly these phrases of deep hate sear into my soul
I hear them every day and every night
You are meaningless
You are not worthy
You could not possibly be good enough
Until I wake up one dismal morning to realize that I have been defined by the ones around me.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
..and enough!
Because even my friends who say I’m worth something turn around and sneer at others like they can’t too be loved.
Because while the world screams “I hate people” I whisper
“but I don’t”.
But that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things
because we’ll find someone who loves us, right?
No.
Our words between just us mean nothing if we spin around and
spit in others’ faces.
And we know we hurt because we’ve been hurt but we don’t stop, none of us stop.
I dream of a world that screams a vulnerable
“I love you”
out into the world instead of a pulsing
“I hate you”
And a world that remembers that we are all worthy of love and not only the kind that makes you blush.
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
The phrase I’ve heard since I was in my mother’s gentle hold
can only mean so much when you think you’re crumpled.
Stashed away until you’re needed
always feeling so defeated
but the truth
not told enough
to our weakened souls
We are all worth more than the marigolds
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
I am a nerd:
* DnD
* Harry Potter
* Lord of the Rings
* WoW
* Anime
* Reading
* Video Games
* Comic book heroes
* Science
* Math
* Hunger games
* Steampunk
* Disney!!!
* Futurama
* Star Wars
* Doctor Who
* Breaking Bad
* Archer
* 90's Cartoons
* Invader Zim
I am a Metal head \m/
* Nightwish
* Sabaton
* Ozzy Osbourne
* Iron Maiden
* Epica
* Van Canto
* Dealian
* Hammerfall
* DragonForce
I love my life:
* My love
* My family
* My Job as a preschool teacher
* having fun
This is who I am and I don't care if any one thinks of me!
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
sometimes when i am trapped inside my own mind
and feel like i’m drowning in the taste of air,
suddenly i am eight years old years,
bobbing up and down in my wimpy life jacket
my legs unsupported
and there is still a chip on my shoulder
a mile wide.
sometimes i am still the five year old who balled her eyes out
when her parents accidentally forgot and were late
picking her up from preschool,
sometimes i am still sixteen years old and in love with you
sometimes i am a person i never thought i’d manage to grow into,
sometimes i am a person i’ve yet to become.
i am juxtaposition of a thousand different versions of myself.
i am equally the eight year old girl still afraid of the water
as i am the almost-adult you so naively believed to be fearless,
my self-assurance a really good halloween costume.
i am a newborn at the same time
as i am frail ninety year old grandmother.
i am brave and i am terrified
and i am naive and i am jaded
and i am clean and i am ruined;
i am a blank slate and i have been scribbled all over,
my skin is smooth and untouched
my skin has laughter lines and stretch marks.
i am the creator and i am the destroyer,
i am everything and
nothing at all.
i am the ocean
and i am the desert.
my lungs are failing as i’m breathing fine,
and i can see the end and the beginning in equal clarity.
sometimes i’m too old for my skin,
weary like i’ve lived a thousand lives already
and sometimes i am four years old with
my knees hugged to my chest.
sometimes we are two and sometimes we are twenty,
sometimes we were nine and sometimes we are ninety.
we are young and dumb and reckless at the same time
as we are old and wise and careful.
sometimes my father is still a gap-toothed five year old
and my mother is still a tired old woman
with shaking hands,
and my brother is still an angry teenager with a bad hair cut.
we are existing simultaneously
and growing up is just getting really good at pretending
that you’ve got your **** all figured out
when you still feel like a lonely middle-schooler
without a date to the mixer,
alone in the middle to gymnasium floor.
but that’s the thing, isn’t it?
when you are cut open, when you are bleeding,
when you have gaping holes in your nervous system
your flesh heals over
it scars, brand new.
we are bleeding and we we are healed,
we are ******* up
and we are doing just fine.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
In my backyard, the deep sauce
of sun-gold air swivels lazily,
stirred by the occasional bumblebee.
I’m entertained by the idea of anything beyond this.
No continents, no glitter-splashed ocean.
The softened world settles into itself,
transforming from its usual busyness.
Squash lounges in the garden and
preschool train operators maneuver Thomas
through his wooden kingdom.
They move trees and buildings around their set and we,
still fascinated with the cucumber in the garden,
don’t look up from skimming our fingers through grass,
changing our own soil kingdoms with the sweep of a hand.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
I was about five years old when you came into my life.
I still remember the night you drove home with us and I was too scared to fall asleep in the car because I didn't want you to hear me snoring.
My mom was a statue fanatic, all over our house were statues she bought from the different countries she would visit - I was terrified of them. I remember the way you would carry me to bed at night and you would take me around the whole house to say goodnight to each statue in our house, they didn't seem that scary when I was in your arms.
I still remember the way you would walk me to preschool, you didn't mind that the 15 minute walk would take us over an hour, you didn't mind that I would want to stop and look at every single flower, every single bird, that I would want to know about every single type of tree. You held my hand and patiently told me all you knew.
I still remember the way it felt to finally have something constant in my life. Having a mother who is always travelling is difficult, not living with my dad was difficult, out of everything that was going on in my life, out of everyone who was always leaving me you continued to stay.
I still remember you being there for my first date, my mom was travelling but you were there. I was so nervous. I have super curly hair and I wanted to make it straight like the pretty girls in the magazine, I thought I knew what I was doing but I tangled my hair and a huge brush got caught in it. The only option was to cut it out - oh how I cried, it was my first date and I would arrive bald. But you held my hand, cut my hair and made me feel pretty regardless of my now uneven curls.
I still remember when my first boyfriend broke up with me, naturally my mother wasn't there and so the person who watched me cry was you.
And then my second boyfriend broke up with me, and you were the one who came running into my room and gave me advice. You were the one who I cried to.
I loved you so much that I would choose my mother over you.
I loved you so much that I wanted you on my one hand, and my dad on the other hand, walking me down the isle at my wedding.
I loved you so much and then you broke me.
I won't go into the details for both your sake and mine - but it kills me to know that you do not see this.
It kills me to know that you don't even know who I am anymore.
It kills me to know that whatever I say or do you cannot see the damage that has been caused.
It kills me to know that you probably do not even care.
It kills me to know that you blame me for my mothers absence.
You blame me for the love that you two no longer share.
You blame me for the way in which my mother was forced to work like a dog in order to support our entire family.
It kills me.
At the end of the day I can't shed anymore tears over this.
I can't tell you how much I hurt.
I can't describe the pain it feels to have a parent no longer want to be a part of your life for no particular reason other than ego.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
He came,
He left,
She followed
Turquoise paintings of purple hues
Often bring about madness
4th degree burns turn blue
In sunlight
Breaking 4th wall
**** in hand
Third-leg stand
Exhaustion creeping over bones
Arthritis
Hepatitis
C
The vitamin
Makes a graduation
From the bowels of the high
Schooler
Rulers
Exact measurements
My ***** is this big
Preschool measuring
There are 3 cups of juice left over
How many ounces in a cup?
Pig pen
See men
Wafting around in filth
I.
Await for something post period
Pregnant pauses
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 5:13 PM UTC
I remember well my first day of preschool
When the teacher taught us the Golden Rule
And how we were all God’s little caterpillars.
I remember the love I bore my stuffed horse
And how tightly I hugged my stuffed dog with great force;
I would be the world’s best zookeeper.
I remember my parents’ copious gifts of books,
How they were more important than my friends’ good looks;
Their stories still represent my dear childhood.
I remember the first time I discovered music of my own
Through a 90s band CD I had as a loan.
I danced with my headphones like a dryad.
I know the exact date I noticed at last
How much of my life friends had seemingly surpassed
And I vowed that I could never again be happy.
The stories were never again a fully open door,
More like a ditch dug out in the floor
Behind which I could hide my face forever.
One day, songs became a desperate race
To see who could sing and play bass,
So I’ve dropped out like a sixteen-year-old kid.
Now, lying under the stars thinking of this and that
I actually cower from the once-beloved animals like cats
Because they have uncomfortable interest in worms.
I was better off a caterpillar.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 3:58 AM UTC
You wonder why my name is spaghetti,
It's sounds funny to you.
Not quite a long story,
But it's all very true.
Our tale begins,
When I was quite young,
Right when spring,
had just sprung.
Living with my aunt,
At the age of two,
She brought me to preschool,
In her liberal Subaru.
My parents left me,
If you were curious.
They went off to help illegal-aliens,
which made me quite furious.
Anyway, when I got to my class,
We did a bunch of useless work,
While the teacher sat fat on her ***
After reading some ****
called Cat in the Hat,
we all went for lunch,
to eat some crap.
All was going well,
In that brick-enclosed hell,
but all went wrong with a single song.
Some ****** turned on,
Some pop music,
We all got mad,
At that stupid *****
I had enough already,
Since my parents had left me,
And I was stuck with a woman,
Who voted for Hillary.
So I got out of my seat,
And walked right to the kid,
Took my lunch out of my bag,
And opened the lid.
Inside held the spaghetti,
That I was planning to eat.
I grasped it in my hand,
And planted my feet.
I grabbed the fag's neck,
shoved the spaghetti down his throat,
And before I knew it,
He started to choke.
Through his espohogus,
very far down,
The blood gushed out of his mouth,
And onto the ground.
The kid's eyes rolled back,
into his head,
until they were white,
I knew he was dead.
Even though it was over,
I continued to go,
And throw his body,
Out the nearest window.
My classmates watched in horror,
as the body fell down,
Into the road,
without making a sound.
Then in the street a dump truck went by,
Running over the body,
And my classmates started to cry.
They will never forget that wonderful day.
"He killed a kid with spaghetti!"
They all started to say.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 7:35 AM UTC
December 17th 1998 the doctors say "congratulations, it's a girl"
I do not know what I am
5 years old I am at preschool
I ask "why don't they wear dresses?" pointing to the boys I get an answer that boys don't wear dresses
I don't want to wear dresses, can I be a boy?
Elementary school the boys play football and tag at recess, the girls talk about the cute boys, their hair and their outfits.
I want to play football with the boys but I sit alone on the swings watching the boys.
I wish I were a boy
Middle school the girls are wearing bras and the boys are getting deeper voices. My voice doesn't get deeper but my chest grows, I try to push it back but it doesn't work. My sister want to put makeup on me and have me dress in girly clothes.
But I feel like a boy stuck as a girl
Highschool I learn the word transgender. I cry because I'm not alone. I find out about binders and order one. It comes it the mail, I put it on and put on my most masculine clothes. I already have short hair but I put on a beanie. I look like a boy. I feel like a boy.
I am a boy
The name my mother gave me is not mine. Phoenix sounds right for me. A new beginning, a new life. I will make a boy out of this body.
I'm 15 and scared to tell my family. Over the years in my head I know I am a boy but my body tells me differently. I tell my family that I am a boy. I'm scared and they don't say anything about it. Maybe they think if they don't say anything it will go away. But I am a boy
I tell my teachers and they call me he instead of she. I feel like me. Other students call me a girl but can't they see I am a boy
I go to a store and get called sir, they see me as a boy, I look in the mirror and finally see me.
A boy
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
At preschool last morning, when first class began
Our teacher Miss Fortune, has entered the den
And promptly asked us, the pure younglings
To write on the devil that make us do things
So teacher sat down, and we tykes got engaged
And committedly filled page after page
As we took up an oath, us the urchin, the youth
To speak the whole truth, and nothing but truth
So first rose the young boy Timothy Veet
And confessed all the text that he etched on the sheet
How last week he attended the birthday of Sheila
And got high on some hemp, and two shots of tequila
As he sat, quickly stood his companion wee Tom
And he told how he broke to the principal’s home
Where he gingerly snatched, like a cat burglar
A computer, some cash, and antique silverware
But who took the whole cake, was shy Rosaline
As she stood up and gestured to Billy, her kin
And with timid resolve, and an ear-to-ear grin
Said: “He is the devil that makes me do things…”
Miss Fortune, chalk white, and clearly distressed
Was rushed on a gurney, to the ER no less
Our innocence wither, like a flower well hidden
So why keep insisting on calling us children
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
Don't trust the girl with the blades in her hand
The cuts on her wrists
That you'll never understand
She's got stacks of bracelets
But don't be fooled
She'll cut you into pieces
And make you cry like you're in preschool
Don't trust the girl who tells you she's done
She'll rip out your feelings
One by one
She'll blow up
And display her wrath
You won't survive the aftermath
She's not planning on coming back
Don't get close or else you'll crack
She will always be hellbent
On killing herself
Leaving your heart with a dent
So don't trust the girl with the blades in her hand
Tell her why
And she'll understand.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
I do not wear dresses very often
so every dress I've ever owned
is still hanging
in order
in my closet.
The first,
whimsical and red
a crimson corduroy triangle
green ribbon
yellow flowers
it was for the first day of preschool
but it was also for every other day
whimsical and red
The second:
Nutcracker pink
for days in San fransisco
when the matching coat
was necessary.
I used to dance.
Nutcracker pink.
The third:
Barefoot lavender
not the color, the scent.
Blue and french
avec des fleures jaunes.
we caught fish with brie cheese
Barefoot lavendar.
The fourth:
Navy blue didn't match
but we sewed the straps anyway
i made the first mistake
you forgave me for that one
thank you
Navy blue didn't match
The Fifth:
White Surrender.
sprinkled with turquoise
I surrendered
I didn't have to
I didn't want to
I'm sorry.
I don't usually wear dresses
I hope you still realize that.
White Surrender.
Whimsical, Red
Nutcracker Pink,
Barefoot Lavender,
Navy Blue,
White,
surrender.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
She—an unrepeated motif—waxes precocious like her ancient self.
Never mind the counterfeit eccentrics,
strange enough to be noticed but not doomed.
Their only burden is imperfection.
She’d die for these people, but they don’t realize omniscience is boring.
In preschool, she learned people are mean for no reason.
There’s no sense in spiting the inevitable,
so she gave away her quarters at bake sale.
Her mother would say, “That money is yours.”
The girl would ask, adjusting her overalls,
“If it’s mine, can’t I decide what to do with it?”
In the future, when repeating this story to a potential motif,
she’d know he’s The One when he’d say,
“What do four-year-olds need to know about capitalism?
Thanks to Walt Disney, they want to conform
and follow their hearts at the same time.”
She’d get off on his grumpy, and then notice his ring.
If he had met her first, would he still have married his wife?
It’s not worth hoping for divorce. He’s built to mate for life.
Instead of turning twenty-six, she’ll choose a chair in purgatory—
trapped between what should be and what is.
As long as she’s sitting, she may as well start smoking.
It’s a fine day for oral fixation.
At least she doesn’t smoke Parliaments like the counterfeit eccentrics.
She’d wonder if in a past life she was a dusty vacuum cleaner,
covered in what she was meant to destroy.
It’s too easy to claim hypocrisy,
too easy to cry genius for discovering what works
when for so long, failure was the only place to go.
She hasn’t been happy since she was thirteen.
The day before her first existential crisis,
her mother said, “Stop being so melodramatic.
You must want to be depressed.” Her response:
“I’m not too young for a mid-life crisis. I just won’t live to see thirty.”
She owes her life to a fear of hell,
knows we all experience hell differently. Hers is a banquet.
The proceeds will go toward ending world hunger.
At the end of the night, the keynote speaker complains
that Alfredo sauce doesn’t reheat well, so the leftovers get thrown out.
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 10:17 AM UTC
She asks me “what do you think of me?”
I stop;
Reflect upon what just happened,
When a complexity of a girl
Asks a simple guy
What he thinks about her.
She asks me “what do you like about me?”
I’ll tell you what I hate;
I don’t hate your eyes,
Like round circles we used to make
With our dancing bodies
In preschool playgrounds.
I don’t,
Hate your lips;
They could be traced
From a million miles
And they curve so beautifully.
I don’t hate your smile,
The semi grins you keep
Before the flashes,
Before the posts;
I don’t hate your eyes,
Like bullets entering the soul
With an insertion of dopamine.
She asks me “do you really think I am worth your troubles?”
You are not.
You deserve my delight;
You deserve my green days and blooming flowers,
You deserve my watering mouth
Nourishing the vines underneath your tongue,
You deserve the sunrises in my playlists
And sunsets in the warmth of my jackets;
You are not worthy of my troubles
I am not worthy of my troubles.
She pushes me away,
The walls are too tight
And the stares,
They scrape on our throats.
The girl is lonely,
Her social circle spreads wide enough
To leave a gap;
Her friends walk next to her
And not on her side;
Her smiles-
Electronic cigarettes that look genuine,
But the smoke never rests
On the teeth,
Just a vapor that fades away.
She’s anchored to her reality
Her ships are not meant to sail
Just yet.
She asks me “what do you think of me?”
You’re a concept;
You’re a fusion of vivid elements
Wired with secret buttons
Hidden in your desires.
You’re an emotional rollercoaster
That we ride
You and I,
When I think of you
You’re just a white canvas
That whispers into my soul
The true meaning of art.
She asks me “is this your real answer?”
She ask me “is this your real answer?”
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
I was strong.
I was strong when my preschool teacher told me that I was never going to be an artist because I wasn't talented enough.
I was strong when I told my first crush that I liked him and he told me he would never like someone like me because I was fat and ugly.
I was strong as I was bullied severely for 6 years in elementary school.
I was strong when a kid wrapped swing chains around my neck and tried to choke me.
I was strong when I was told by the school counselor that no one would ever want to be my friend in middle school.
I was strong when on the first day of junior high I was pushed off of the risers and onto the floor by fellow classmates.
I was strong when my parents got a divorce.
I was strong when I had my first panic attack.
I was strong after I attempted suicide.
I was strong when I was officially diagnosed with anxiety and depression.
I was strong when my father kicked me out.
I was strong when my brother beat me in my car.
I was strong when I had to act as hospice care for one of my grandfathers.
I was strong when my grandfathers died.
I was strong when my dad's wife tried to convince me that I was worthless and unworthy of love.
I was strong when my entire family abandoned me fight over only my brother in a custody battle.
I was strong when I failed my first class ever and almost lost all of my scholarships.
I was strong when my mom told me "whatever" when she was mad and I talked about killing myself.
I was strong when I wanted to drop out of college and relapse into my suicidal thoughts.
If I can be strong through all of that, I can be strong again.
I am strong.
Even if I don't always feel that way.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 10:33 PM UTC
Before I saw you,
I thought that angels didn't exist.
Before I saw you,
I thought that hope was just a empty word, with a meaning that was ripped out of the dictionary in my mind.
Before I saw you,
I was lost, confused, wandering off the road that everyone at least, seemed to be on,
Seemed to know what a road was,
Even if they were on the "wrong one" as my preschool teacher used to call it but I think I was the only one who raised my hand in class and said-
"Teacher! That doesn't make sense!"
Before I saw you,
Music was just notes on paper,
Something for me to hum and string along on the viola.
Before I saw you, stories were just stories,
And not keys to worlds beyond my fairest imagination.
Before I saw you,
The key to the word "love" was locked
Thrown somewhere on a ***** train track that you fearlessly went on and saw and you brought the key back to me saying with a smile on your smudged face
"Here. I think this is yours."
Before I saw you,
I think I was just living life for the sake of living, just eating for the sake of surviving,
Just studying for the sake of pride,
Until I met you.
When I met you,
The world had color.
A fierce rouge for sunset and lipstick for women
a dark hue that wasn't exactly "black as night" as they called it
A gleaming, neon green that was the color of the hideous jumpsuit you wore for track just once
When I met you,
The word myself had a different meaning, and the broken dictionary that was in my mind fell apart.
When I met you,
I learned the meaning of catching all the Pokémon in the game Pokémon Emerald that I always borrowed, but never returned, but you didn't care, did you?
(Oh look the word Pokémon is in spell-check)
When I met you-
I learned how to write poems-
Mainly because you dragged me to that poetry writing class that you always went to.
When I met you,
I thought, beautiful
Infallible
Unbreakable
**Until the day when you left me
Here alone in the dark.**
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
I don't think I've ever heard my father
Tell my mother that she was beautiful.
I'm sure of it.
Never.
There wasn't any positive comments on her appearance.
"Fix yourself up a bit!"
"When are you going to lose some weight?"
"I don't like your hair that way."
When I was sixteen I wrote her a note for mother's day
Telling her that she was genuinely beautiful.
And she cried.
I can't think of any positive comments on my appearance
That either of them spoke to me,
That didn't revolve around losing weight.
And then was only when I was throwing up on a daily basis.
Pocketing lunch money,
And measuring out one cup of cheerios every day
That I eventually stopped eating,
And starting storing in gallon bags hidden under my bed.
"Are you losing weight, good for you?"
It wasn't even that I looked good.
Or that I looked beautiful.
Or even that I looked healthy.
Just good that there was becoming less of me.
And to keep at it.
And I'm sorry sometime I try to fight you when you say you like my stomach.
I was always told it was unsightly and needed to be smaller.
My little sister listens when they call her fat, that her *** is big, that she needs to lose weight.
Constantly.
Not other kids.
My parents.
She asked me why she didn't have a boyfriend.
She's 15.
She thinks she is fat and doesn't like the way she looks.
I try to corner her every once in a while
And tell her not to listen to our parents.
Tell her that she is beautiful.
That her hair is soft, and her eye brows are flawless, and her tummy is gorgeous.
There has to be someone there to do that for her.
Someone to counter the words of authority.
And tell her that she is gorgeous.
So she never has to meet Ana or Mia.
Because she was average to below average weight
When she was in preschool,
and I in elementary school,
And were put on weight watchers by our mother in the summers.
Maybe because she was never told that she was beautiful.
And it poisoned her.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
“A relationship with knowledge”
It was said in preschool classrooms,
Childish cafeterias and forgotten
Blissfully, on the monkey bars and jungle gyms
It was said to raging delinquents
Preached to a stuffy, shy girl
Busy pushing her glasses too close to her nose
Fidgeting around the corners of the library
It made its way towards teachers
And raucous PTA meetings
Each lobbyist far too adamant;
Ears drooped and beleaguered
A relationship with knowledge
Well
Who is this knowledge?
Does he play nice?
I think I met him, once
He smiled at me, dirtied- on the street
But I can’t really be sure
He seems to be awfully elusive
How silly, to make a relationship
With someone who never seems to show up
But maybe its not his fault
maybe we’ve ruined his fun
Watching us now, elbows dug into text
Bracing like bulls staring down cobbled streets
It seems an awfully aggressive stance
To take with company
It looks as if our teachers lied
We are trying to capture knowledge
Or I wouldn’t be the only one
To sit by the train tracks
Waiting for my friend to come along
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
my love is a four year-old
on chocolate milk and cake
running way too much, way too fast,
giving way too much, way too fast.
it has the scrapes and bruises to show for it.
i have tried to put it to bed early,
to sing it lullabies
and read to it stories,
hoping for peace.
but my love goes to preschool,
where they teach it to write poems
and sing nursery rhymes.
in art class,
it spends the hour making paper hearts,
giving each one away and not keeping one to itself.
in music class,
my love learns to sing along with other hearts.
on the report cards,
the teachers write that my love is impatient,
and it raises its hands too much,
wanting to give all the answers,
not afraid of being wrong.
the teachers tell me that math is not my love’s strong suit,
that it mixes up its numbers
and always shares more than what it has.
but they also tell me that my love
gives away all its snacks,
that it is an expert at holding hands,
at looking out for others and making friends.
the teachers tell me not to worry,
that a love like mine is gifted,
that when it is older it will change the world.
i tell them that i worry that my love is too much,
but they tell me that it is just enough.
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
EVERY TIME I SAY GOODBYE TO YOU I WANT YOU TO FEEL LOVED AND LETTING YOU GO MAKES ME WANT TO TELL YOU A MILLION THINGS TO MAKE FEEL LOVED SO EVEN IF I NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN NOBODY CAN EVER MAKE YOU FEEL UNLOVED.
WHEN YOU LAUGH STARS ARE BORN AND THEY COME INTO THIS WORLD ON THE SOUNDS OF SOMETHING MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN THEY ARE.
WHEN YOU SING I HEAR MY GRANDMOTHER WHISTLING WITH ALL HER WIND CHIMES AND THATS WHY I CRY WHEN I HEAR IT
WHEN YOU SAY " be nice to her" I SEE MY PRESCHOOL TEACHER THE TIME SHE TAUGHT ME MY FIRST LESSON IN FORGIVENESS
WHEN I SEE YOUR FACE I GET THE FEELING I GET WHEN I WAS 6 AND THE ICE CREAM MAN TURNED DOWN MY ROAD AND ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS RUN DIRECTLY TO HIM I JUST WANT TO RUN DIRECTLY TO YOU.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
Funny, how sometimes butterflies
skip over your skin without ever landing,
how basketballs spin
around the rim without swishing,
or how things never seem to work out.
I’ve been wishing
for moments of high tide, gravitational
moons that would draw me to you,
in the middle of May on Coney Island.
I want you to pull my pigtails like it’s preschool.
I want to bleed neon, shout pop tunes
to accompany my words that sound like
a poem we all had to learn
to recite from memory.
Funny, how we store meat behind our popsicles
in the freezer, how we tear up things
before we throw them away,
or how defeated we feel when we wake up
to zero new messages.
I’ve been reaching
for the plug in the drain,
sipping champagne,
hearing your name,
when all I really want is lunchboxes,
the kind your mom leaves notes in.
I want to beat you in four square,
color on my Converse, catch crayfish
in the creek behind your house.
Funny, how we tone down our souls
to fit the mold, or interview each other
based on pieces of paper when we are
alive, and breathing, and it’s funny
how we save money for next time,
plan for tomorrow before we’re done with today,
count our accomplishments before our scars.
Funny, how all we ever wanted
was to finally be exactly where we are.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
There will come a day
When all of the colors fade
to grey
When all of the flowers
In the garden start to wilt
When everyday is cloudy.
The headlines hold names
Of kids you grew up playing kickball with
Being killed by people who thought
That one more drink wouldn’t do any harm.
People who thought that a party
Was more important than
Everyone else on the road.
Now,
We have a four year old boy whose mama
Won’t see him graduate preschool
We have an eighteen year old girl whose daddy
Won’t see her graduate high school.
We have teachers
Who don’t know how to educate
To a classroom full of students
Who have so many questions.
But the legal limit isn’t taught in textbooks.
This isn’t whether or not you feel
That the law applies to you.
This is life or death.
This is Russian Roulette with a bottle.
This is driving blindfolded
With the music on too loud.
This is a four year old boy
Who still doesn’t understand
What Heaven is.
This is an eighteen year old girl
Who’s wearing her graduation dress
To her father’s funeral.
The dress that her father helped her pick out.
He said,
“You know, sweetheart, I always loved you in black.”
This is crying for someone
You never met.
This is military homecomings or
Babies smiling for the first time.
Except in reverse.
This is military homecomings in a box.
This is babies crying for a mother
Who cannot comfort them.
This is empty spaces in a poem
Where words should be.
This is “I just saw them yesterday.”
This is “I’m sorry for your loss.”
This is...
not knowing what the right thing to say is.
She still had clothes in the washing machine.
He had a T-Time for next Thursday.
We had a dinner reservation next Friday.
This is knowing that he will never have a birthday again.
This was not something I was expecting
I mean, who would?
Photographs can’t capture a lifetime.
They may be worth a thousand words,
But you my dear are worth so much more.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
After we felt each others skin
and kissed each others neck one last time,
we then started to talk about our childhood as we drifted to sleep.
I remember talking about preschool,
stories we were read to as children,
and then suddenly we both became quiet
and drifted to sleep.
I awoke with a small startle for two reasons.
The first from having slept in a place other than my own bed.
The second is that I was in the bed alone.
But soon after, I heard something sizzling on the stove.
I sleepily turned myself over
and squinted my eyes to see him making breakfast.
On the armchair, I noticed a small note
that wasn’t there the night before.
It was sweet.
Nothing has ever felt so good as falling asleep with you in my arms.
(I swooned.)
Ten minutes later as I continued to “sleep”,
he came over and laid right by me.
For the next four hours,
we laid there having tickle and kissing fights,
snuggled, talked, all those things,
and it was wonderful.
You know… he said to me.
*I don’t usually spend my whole day in bed,
but this is completely okay with me.*
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 1:04 AM UTC