"schooler" poems
My Favorite Pokemon as a kid was always Squirtle,
I always named him Squirter,
Not knowing anything about how ****** it sounded with my 7 year old mind,
I was always in the backseat of the car saying things like, oh no Squirter died,
or yes my squirter learned hydro pump!
and my favorite, I’m gunna give my Squirter one rare candy.
I always caught girl Pokemon,
Mainly because the symbol for the Gender looked unique to me..
So I would never catch Mewtwo because it was never a girl.
Once I learned you can cheat in Pokemon,
I was getting ready for every gym leader like a high schooler preparing for Spanish Test.
Pokemon levels the same number as the grades of the Spanish Test.
As time goes by you can realize pokemon can be like friends, you can’t catch them all, especially when their falling.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 5:40 PM 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
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
The outside of the China teacup,
Chipped and cracked but still standing up,
Straight
Vines wrap round the China glass like hands wrap round my throat
Bottom bears coffee stains and teabag remains, like a sad girl who bears her scars
Brim has a special need for a lips touch
like a middle schooler has for lunch
Today,
It holds a special type of poison
The type of poison that hurts before you drink it
The type of poison that isn’t really poison poison
But the type of poison that you pour inside me
and the sad thing is
is that I love your poison
And I’ll drink your poison everyday until you stop giving me poison to drink
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 10:14 PM UTC
At night I like to rest my fingertips on the protruding hipbone that is still covered by a fleshy layer of cushion. Of fat.
Why do we shy away from that description so often?
Fat.
Those three letters haunted me more than anything for the past 7 years, and I would hear it all too often.
And when I didn't hear it, I'd see it in their eyes.
I was not like the rest of them.
No Abercrombie for this pudgy middle schooler, and no eating candy unless I wanted to be ridiculed and stereotyped.
But not until my senior year of high school did it finally get to me.
I stopped eating. One almond at most and nothing else.
Fat.
Fat.
Disgusting.
Shameful.
Ugly.
All synonymous in my head.
Now it's completely different.
I embrace my beautiful body.
Every curve, every scar, every red engrained stretch mark.
I wear them with pride.
I take off my shirt for my lovers without fear or shame.
My body is bigger than societies idealistic and impossible standards of beauty...
And thank
God
For
That.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 4:18 PM UTC
He walks up to me and says, “bro if you think about it, Israel is like racist”
Immediately the urge to pass my fist down his throat comes upon me
But, we’re at school, so I decided to bite my tongue instead of his
He continues to try and tell me everything that is wrong about my home, my home, my home
After his first words, my mind goes into a flashback to my home:
Serenity
Steel and rubber wheels, trudging along earth’s edge
The wail of a young infant, piercing the atmosphere like a pin drop in silence
The pop in my temples
Pressure on my skull
They both splice my silver-lined thoughts and urk my discomfort
The dry air strategically carves cracks onto the surface of my lips so that they are no longer an instrument of communication, but solely a burden on my comfort
All components of hell build walls around me
But serenity knocks at my door, I am finally home
“Dude are you listening to me?”
I awake from my coma, to the pure sound of ignorance
Here stands a boy trying to tell me my muse I use to live by is a lie
Here stands a white privileged boy who thinks he knows the answers to the world because he can read a ******* text book
I regained consciousness..
He says, “Anything to say, bro?”
I thought to myself, I can stand here for hours and try to explain
Who the hell are you to waste my time
I lost the switch somewhere during the conversation
The moment in which black changed to white was blurred
But I know one thing
I know one thing better than I know my own soul
I know that the world was serene when I touched ground at my home
I stood in front of him and started to begin laughing
Each chuckle was enough to make the world dance on stilts
It crawled up to every nook and down through each crevice of the room
The understanding he gained realizing I would not let his ignorance get to me
I stood there and laughed, I had no reason not to
To be alive was a reason to laugh
To survive the persecution of my people, was a reason to laugh
To survive the countless pennies being thrown at me, was a reason to laugh
To survive being told you’re a jew, you’re not good enough, was a reason to laugh
To survive being called a ***** ******* jew, was a reason to laugh
To survive being thrown to the ground and called a **** was a reason to laugh
To get back up and RISE, was a reason to smile.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
Hi Mom,
I've been trying to tell you and I already have, but you took it as a joke and when you ask questions , you've always had this tone of disapproval if I said yes. But mom, I'm a guy. Not a tomboy girl but like an actual guy that's just stuck in the wrong skin.
I don't want to be known as a girl. I never have because it's not who I am. I'm not your daughter, or Ali or anything that has to do with being a female. I'm pretty sure you could sense I wasn't ever a girl anyways. I've always wanted to be and act liek Sean and Dad. Not how you or Grandma would act. I want to be your other son, Jamie. That's who I am. That's who your youngest kid is Mom.
I feel super awkward whenever we go shopping for clothes because I don't belong in the girls section. I want to wear mens clothes mom, mens shoes and keep my super short hair. Because I'm me whenever I get the chance to wear mens clothes and be looked at as being a boy. And in public, when people mistake me for a guy, I actually really like it because that's who I actually am.
Mom, I'll be a high schooler next year and I want to be known as Jamie. A guy. School would be a lot easier and better for me if I was known as and reffered to as a guy. Plus, I wouldn't get second guessed all the time if I were a guy. And I know you'll probably say, "No. I'm not going to call you Jamie or male pronouns and you're not going to dress like a guy." but mom, this is who I am. And I'm going to be me, no matter what.
I love you a lot mom, and I would've told you sooner or later but now I can live as me and not have to worry about being a girl. I'm still your second kid too, I just go by a different name and gender now. And to be fair, you've never really had a daughter in the first place, just a son trapped in the wrong skin and clothes. I love you and am glad I can live my life as me.
Love, Jamie
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
If nothing is for certain,
then why is certainty the only emotion I feel with you?
Heart beats skipping like grade schooler's hopskotching on my ventricles
I was, I am, enamored that I, a once heartless being, could feel this way.
Uncertainty is the only thing certain to drown my thoughts
But if nothing is for certain,
how can I be sure that my thoughts are even real?
Who decides what is right or wrong, true or false, real or fake?
Because if nothing is for certain,
I say with great uncertainty that I indeed do like you.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
I stopped commenting on airy internet objects long ago
lest it be a needed praise of some starving artists’ work
or in response to a worded response of my own work
It’s just such a waste of time to tell a million view band
they “rock” or they ****
All I will incite is defenders or refuters of my claim
who are just as petty as me
As an immature high schooler, that’s just what I wanted
The modern version of my dead grandfathers
with their white shirts, blue jeans, and duck *** hair
Driving from the city to hick school dances
just to pick fights
I once typed lines of **** talk on Elvis videos from the 1970s
just to see what would happen
- Nothing much
My grandfathers are dead and no one’s left to defend The King
I’m not so tough, but I felt scrappy then just the same
Now, with my lowly little job
my first world laptop and my glasses
Sipping coffee and mellowed out
I read some comments to see what people feel
about an article on my generation
How we’re more corporate than ever
bamboozled by a guise of fake uniqueness
Sure, I agree with the critique in the article
if you can even call it an article
People get paid for three lines of an opinion,
sometimes a link, and then the real entertainment's in the comments
Where can I get in line for this ******* job?
Not the commentors, their labor’s free
I mean the three lines guy, it sounds too easy
“Don’t ya get it yet, son”
My grandad chuckles
“His job’s just corralling all those comments,
inciting easy debate,
and getting advertising clicks”
He shook his head
went up through the roof
and his twenty-year-old jeans
ended in a wispy swirl
But I couldn't help noticing
they were name brand
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
Dear "adults",
I hate it when you look down on those of us in high school,
As if there's some sort of unspoken rule
That the time we spend in such a place
Is supposed to be sublime.
"Stop complaining."
I'm sorry, I assumed that when you asked about my day
I wasn't supposed to mask what I say
And tell you that everything is swell.
To what extent will you dismiss my discontent
Toward the discipline with hardly any discipline nowadays?
"You'll miss it. Just wait until you get into the real world."
The "real world"?
Why, suddenly, is my world not real enough for you?
From all I've been through in my life,
High school has presented me with the most strife, and so
Since when is a bit of resentment
Unjustified?
The nerve you pride
Yourself in having, presuming
That there is any amount of artificiality in my reality
Is infuriatingly consuming.
How can you think we could make any sense
Of the difficulties surrounding anything but what we've experienced?
This I cannot comprehend.
But maybe you want us to pretend?
"How was school today?"
Oh, it was okay.
I only dealt with misunderstanding,
The pressure of classes being so demanding,
The difficulty of self consciousness
That is amplified each day by bullies' relentlessness.
I only endured mental exhaustion
From switching subjects each hour, without option.
I simply struggled with your expectation
That colleges should long to give me an invitation,
Even though I'm being forced to commit to
A life plan I've made based off the little I've been through.
School is a privilege, we know,
Yet, so is possessing a job.
So why, then, am I a snob,
When you're allowed to 'complain'?
I realize that life could be much worse for me,
And someday high school might seem like a breeze,
But until the day comes when I become aware
That the troubles of high school cannot compare,
Let me have my time to vent, please.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
You are the middle of August,
the product of a seasoned summer right before the cold returns.
You are the last chapter of everyone's favorite book:
a hesitant read for fear of an ending, yet all too inviting.
You are the sound of a soft rain's patter against the window
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
You are the familiar smell of a mother's home-cooked meal.
You are the purples and pinks in the sunset
and you are the reflection of colors on the water.
You are sleeping in until 3pm with nowhere to be.
You are the grin on a middle-schooler's face
when the girl at the dance says yes.
You are the first glass of water to a hangover.
You are the dream that disappointed minds
try to reenter when they awaken.
You are the feeling of freshly cut grass on bare feet.
You are the feel-better kiss
for every cut, scrape, bruise, or bump.
You are the excitement in a child’s eyes on Christmas morning.
You are the first ray of light to peak
from behind the clouds every morning.
You are the feeling of new socks.
You are looking at the moon
when you can swear he’s looking back.
You are the glow from the top of the lighthouse,
guiding sailors home from sea.
You are a memorable conversation with a stranger on the bus,
haunting and ending far too soon.
You are hiding out in a tree after dinner,
imagining belonging to the branches deriving from its core.
You are the joyful “God bless you”
proclaimed by a man on the corner asking for a dollar.
You are a hand to hold when sidewalks are slippery.
You are the warm voice emanating from the warm smile
on a frore wintry night.
You are the comfort of “goodnight”
from a lover’s lips just inches away.
You are the loyalty of a dog when his soldier returns home.
You are the fireflies in a mason jar,
flashing light through a dark room.
You are the best line in the song on repeat.
You are the laugh lines that years of smiles
sketched into the face of an old man.
You are every last bit of good and pure and magic in the world.
And you don’t even know it.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
high school *****
there is NO doubt about that.
there are bullies
there are jocks
there are band nerds
and then there is you.
it feels like everyone hates you,
at times.
but it does get better.
life goes on
and you will forget,
forget about
the bullies
the jocks
the band nerds,
and every other high school
*******
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
Grade-schooler Tito loved going to school
To learn division and multiplication.
He tried to ignore the violence around him
But lived each day with trepidation.
He cut through an El Salvadorian town
To get to his school—a daily trek.
He constantly encountered violent street gangs—
Each frightful day a reality check.
One day Tito failed to come home.
The next morning grimly revealed
The poor school child’s dismembered body
Lying in an abandoned field.
Lucas and Marco feared for their lives,
In their small town in El Salvador,
Where violence governed their daily existence
As ruthless street gangs carried out their war.
When the boys’ mother was gunned down before them,
Fearing they’d be next, the brothers thenceforth
Left their home and their few belongings
And started on a long journey north.
Traveling hundreds of miles with no money
To leave a place of chaos and disorder
Would be a daunting task, along with
The added uncertainty at our country’s border.
The gangs in Honduras recruit young children.
In Guatemala they do so as well.
Some kids as young as eight or nine
Serve as drug runners from what we hear tell.
Two of the Central American gangs
That helped to create this horrible mess
Were not homegrown entities at all
But got their start HERE in the U.S.
How sad it is to see children suffer!
How helpless one feels in solving the matter!
But merely doing lip service with no action
Means nothing; it’s worthless. It’s just idle chatter.
Who are these children, fleeing their homes—
Fleeing the lands where violence reigns?
Who are these kids whom the world has let down—
Whose hope for escape is all that remains?
- by Bob B
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 5:46 PM UTC
If I hear ...
Your daughter outside screeching
I know she didn't blackmail you with her tantrum
You showed her you can't get your way all the time
She's learning it doesn't work like that
If I see you ...
Taking your daughter by the scruff
Dragging her from a bad news party
I praise you, she has no idea whats she's doing right now
You are keeping her safe
If I hear you ...
Remind your son he forgot his manners
Rude to the lady at reception for waiting too long
She is trying to help you
You are showing him honey will get you more than lemons ever will
If I see you ...
While I'm driving
Fumbling across the road toddler in hand
Pre-schooler behind
On your way to the park
You know what they need
And I think you're just awesome
Being a great parent is hardwork,
Never apologise for trying
You are my Hero
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:36 PM UTC
Does a sociopath love?
does the child who pinches the girl sitting next to him in kindergarten?
The tongue tied middles schooler
hey.. uh.. um.. I was like... well.. just wondering... You wanna like maybe... dance or something
the text recipient writing four drafts of his response reading:
what are you doing this Friday night?
The jolt of lightning which rips through his body
a current sent from her through their clutched hands
or the girl who blushes when Prince tall, dark, handsome, and charming
looks her in the eye and smiles
we all stand on the edge of the cliff
waiting to be pushed
praying that they are there when we hit the ground
with a hug, a coffee, and a thick blanket
we all want somebody to love us in the ways we could never love ourselves
so we might be complete
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
I never saw you when you were alive
Not really alive anyways
With flushed cheeks and smiling eyes
But I think how you must've done well
As I watch your daughter stroke your hair
Like its the finest silk she'll ever know..
It seems I never got to hear your voice
Not your real voice anyways
I spoke to you like thunder
Hovered over the hospital bed
And you pattered back like an on and off rain
Uncertain of where it might land
Libby,
That's what everyone calls you
Well Libby,
I so wish we could've met under different conditions
I imagine you're wishing for much more
But this is it
Here you are
Sitting at the stoplight
And green isn't coming
I never did see fear in your eyes
But it could've been buried
As you looked to your family
And saw how fear had furrowed into them
Like watching your parents walk away
On the first pre-school drop off
(We all wanted to cling)
But it's your turn to be dropped off now
And the territory is unfamiliar
Once, you bathed and diapered children
Who now do the same for you
Just know, Libby, you are still dignified
And though we don't think this future will come until it's breathing down our neck
We wouldn't talk about this future without sarcasm
It is a future a majority of us will endure
It's funny how
We tread lightly on the word death as though it is hot coals beneath our feet
As though death could be separate from life
Or you and I could escape it
Libby, I'm sorry to tell you
There is no yin without the yang
The tables don't stop turning
Till the world does
But you live on
In the ritual pre-schooler drop off's
Of the generations you created
And even the ones who never got to see you alive
Will carry a part of your heart inside
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
these anchors on my feet
are all that are holding me
they are too heavy to move
each time i try
they slip out of my hands.
too heavy and too slippery.
these weights are holding me back
making me stay when all i want
is to spread my wings and fly.
but my feet are anchored.
my wings are tied together.
i'm stuck.
these steel ***** hold me here.
each time i try to leap forward
i'm pulled back and slammed back down.
how much longer must i be a prisoner
a prisoner of my own life?
how much longer must i be pulled back
and thrown back into the same cell
before i realize i must be patient?
i'm a prisoner in my own life
and yet i can't free myself!
my feet are held to this earth
by the titanium blocks
of a high schooler's reality
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 12:07 PM UTC
When will it get better Leona?
You say "It'll all get better in time", however
I wait for that day.
I wait for the day that I'll be able
to smile without a ounce of anger
behind it.
Without an ounce of anger towards you. I am
realizing now I am learning to forget.
I do deserve to smile. I do deserve someone who
wants to dance with me. Or share a cup of coffee with me.
I deserve someone who will move around the country with me.
Who will raise my children with me. Not someone who uses excuses
instead of the honest truth. Not someone who acts the way you do.
Like an immature high schooler.
Sometimes I wonder how long I can get by being alone. Being my own rock to lean on.
I am sick of looking for him. He'll can come find me for a change.
I don't deserve to be with someone who makes me happy. No.
I deserve to BE someone who is happy.
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
whenever somebody reminds me of you, i consider how our roles
were like margo and quentin from paper towns. you loved mystery
novels so much, i'm sure you became one yourself. at one point, i
wholeheartedly believed you were this unattainable celestial being
completely confined in your paper skin. then i realized something,
do you remember that day you called me your best friend as a joke
and the same day, you talked so much **** about me? it made me
realize you were right. you are a part of the ****** people living in
their **** houses burning **** to stay warm, since you like to talk
**** what was i expecting? of course, you're a high schooler. to
think that before my 21st birthday, i was quentin in the way i
admired you from afar, idealizing you as a god and dismissing
everybody else as animals. i preferred to let our paths cross in
my dreams. there were many times our strings crossed, separated,
and then came back together. although i don't have the drive to
chase you across border lines, i would skateboard miles after miles
of desert terrain just to have that opportunity to see you. realizing
it now, being friends with you was a ******* trap. to portray myself
as someone you would prefer to be friends with was difficult, since
you didn't really seem to like anybody all that much anyway. our roles
were strictly platonic, but the days stretched out seemed almost phantasmagoric. our strings that were knotted together so tightly broke
through and through, and none of us would have expected that i'd be
wanting to drive across border lines to stretch the distance out between
me and you, kind of like the way you stretched me out. as i'm slowly
undiscovering you, little by little, i'm realizing the way you think about
a person isn't the way they actually are. people are different when you
smell them and see them up close. now i'm addressing everyone that i
previously ignored because of you, and dismissing you as an animal. i
would rather live in my paper house than have to live with your ****
- kra
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 9:05 AM UTC
It really is philosophical
This bench by the bus stop
It's wooden planks fading to gray
Solitary in all its nostalgic glory
Ageless and
Uncomfortable in a familiar way
And I knew it wouldn't last,
I knew you couldn't stay.
But I do.
Because I share a room
With an emotional Middle Schooler
Almost as emotional as I
am, figuring out how to bloom
In a world that discards
Real flowers
Because the fake ones look nicer, last longer
But they don't remind me
of dreamy afternoons
on the bench with Yellow roses in my lap
- which you did not buy me - not that
it matters
cause we would argue
for as long as we needed
to determine happiness and colors
(and discuss how to pacify our mothers)
Because they say "Real flowers are not perfect"
I think
That's what makes them worth it
And I remember...
a stormy night
when it poured inside
and I went out into the dark
to escape the light, with you
as we shivered on the bench and
cleaned out the basements of our souls,
organized the attics of our minds.
And now I sit on the bench, with you
And we wonder
At the agony of believing that
Real flowers might be valued
If dreams were worth chasing
And love didn't cost quite so much.
Cause I can't afford
To hope for
Real flowers
But I can't bear
Not to.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
He's a small middle schooler,
who loves violent video games
with explositions and railroad trains.
Whenever he sees a train explodes
he threw out his hands and goes insane.
Dashes around the room and screams,
until his whole heart contains.
Some people say he needs help,
but I ignore them and kept quiet because
when I look at him, he reminds me of myself.
I see him in the hallways carrying tons of stuff,
as he walks in a slow and steady pace,
while everybody stampedes
towards the hall like its a big race.
Sometimes he stumbles and falls;
because in his eyes, everybody is tall.
Some people say he needs help,
but I ignore them and kept quiet
because when I look at him,
he reminds me of myself.
What about this kid that makes him tick?
He screams like his head is piled with bricks.
Everyday, the boy gets stressed out at school,
he's like a hot molten rock that never cools.
Sometimes, in his worse days he would whine,
just like how I was when I was nine.
Some people say he needs help,
only this time I volunteered
because he can't do this all by himself .
Now I know what I must do for him
because dealing with autism isn't easy,
it was hard for me to deal with it, believe me.
It was me who saw through him than nobody else
because everytime I look at him,
he reminds me of myself
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
Look at our daughters
They now show no ill in laying with men old as their fathers
Look at our sons
Nothing is holding them back from scamming the green people with their bad brain and laptops
Look at our mothers, fathers, the young men and alike; women,
They now have no time for their own children,
Everyone is too busy searching for just one thing,
And that is known as MONEY!
Why will a lady lay with a dog?
Or why’ll she prefer to be known in the environ as a hog?
Is it not just for one thing?
They choose to sell their body?
Why will a schooler choose to become a drop-out with no good passion?
But he’s trying to boycott hardships and hardwork
He’ll just join the bad gang
And will receive money off stealing from the innocent man
He’ll swerve off money from the fleeceable parents
And to all their good, he’ll put an end
He’s not ********
He just wants the wealth; in anyway it comes and at whatsoever cost, he cares less!
Blame it on the money,
What is ours is now owning us,
And we still show no remorse,
As even today, some of your sons and daughters are still singing this MONEY SONG!
©Emmiasky Ojex
Nov 6, 2018
Nov 6, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
We were your friends
We followed you,
listening,
wiping your tears
when the petty cruelties of teachers
were too much for you to bear
We knew of your loves,
what loves a middle-schooler can have,
of course,
and we relished your stories,
your knowledge
But you were afraid
afraid of our
looks,
words,
personalities,
and for your reputation
You cast us aside,
the used tissue
you showed me once
after blowing your nose in it
that fourth grade day
I had to hold my sister
as she cried
And I hate you
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 11:58 PM UTC
I want to create art for the rest of my life but I don’t want to paint flowers I don’t want to draw ocean waves I don’t want to photograph the sunset
I want the art of the oppressed and the needy and the weak and the tiresome, I want their words to break down walls and I want to be an outlet for better days, for the moments that create lifetimes and the stills that hang on walls in your robust mansions that are cleaned by the very people who live in the cities hanging as part of your decor, the cities of workers and lovers and people who depend on one another
I want screaming and crying and the capture of a second of time that will not be erased by your mahogany dinner dates where you talk about the politics of war from the perspective of someone who has never fought a day in their life in the war that a going on right here and right now
I want change and I want to write a piece that years down the road high schoolers annotate like the way I annotated Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail and I want it to ring in those high schooler’s minds until they realize what it is that is bothering them,
what is bothering them is the need for action the need for expression the need for art that is not currently in existence but is instead hanging in an uncomfortable state like an elephant in the room but guess what,
that elephant has a bigger heart than you and guess what,
good things come to those who wait and better days come to those who pray like a little boy who was robbed of his innocence when he saw a shooting in the light of day but was still given a warm meal and a place to stay
bitter cold and bitter winds flow through the blocks of city streets like snakes weaving with a hissing in their teeth but we are the magicians
we are the ones with the power to create something from nothing and you’ll never know what hit you, you’ll spend your whole life trying to figure out our trick because you are not on the inside
you don’t know the method behind the madness, and for the first time
you will be the one in the dark.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
Freeman on the land is worth two in the hand
believe you me its hard to understand
how to make one mend with the other
without the other feeling smothered
at birth we emerge with one last surge
swooped away tagged and weighed
registered like some foriegn cargo ship
certified then denied selling freedom lies
conditioned the schooler with the golden ruler
we sinned with social security pins
at 14 did we see what we should have seen
or just a false sense of security
did we willingly voluntarily and intentionally
enter into these one sided contracts naively
ignorance had a different meaning
relying on employer seeking to empower by
continuesly consuming and devouring
returning to the land as a flesh n blood being
living modestly circled and truely free again
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 8:40 PM UTC