"schoolers" poems
1995 saw the start of Generation Z,
the ‘iKids’ with a knack for this new-fangled technology,
Millennial 2.0,
caught in the limbo of the World Wide Web development and Rose Gold iPhones.
They say we’re adaptable,
but apparently we can’t make our own decisions about anything.
They say that we don’t care about anything
except for our tiny little screens,
but they forget who put them in our hands,
and they forget who they run to for help
when they forget how to troubleshoot.
They forget what kind of technology we need to keep sustaining life in the Information Age,
Caught in a crossfire because
Yeah, we’re 90s kids—but the 90s never really actually ended until 2006,
the only difference between two decades being
how much neon versus how much chrome,
and just how expensive accidentally opening the internet app on your mom’s blackberry phone was.
We’re nostalgic for all the things we can’t quite remember,
and half these high schoolers weren’t actually born until 2000 or 2001.
Most of us aren’t old enough to even remember 9/11, nothing outside of the news clips that our teachers show us in history class every single September.
I was born in the same year as the Columbine shootings.
The United States has not been at peace for a year of my life.
We are always fighting— fighting for everything.
Human equality,
posing arguments about micro aggressions and refugees, seeing the inhumanity in the past that we’re living.
None of us are older than 21,
under such hard scrutiny while Baby Boomers Wave 2 still run our country.
We inherited the Millenial’s exhaustion,
the generation before us spending our childhood fighting for all the things that we have never really believed in.
Fairytales.
Generation Z.
The ‘iKids’ who are going to one day be making leaps and bounds with technology,
the generation to nurse this dying planet back to health,
Millennials 2.0 who know how to learn from our forerunners’ mistakes,
who know how to adapt from Sidekicks to iPhone 6S Plus in less than a decade.
We’re the kids who have realized that fun is found in safe spaces rather than invading each other’s personal spaces.
They say we’re too sensitive,
but at the same time they claim that we’re desensitized.
And I thought we were the generation that couldn't make decisions.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
TO: icarus
i don’t feel anything when i look at you anymore
TO: icarus
but, sometimes, i miss your freckles like crazy
TO: icarus
okay so maybe i lied
TO: icarus
i keep trying not to
i keep failing
TO: icarus
but i guess it’s just that
you are like no one i’ve met
TO: icarus
and it’s dumb to call you my first love
when you didn’t even love me back,
but… man, you were my first love
TO: icarus
i love(d) you so bad.
TO: icarus
and if i see you on the sidewalk,
i cross the street because i’m so afraid of brushing by you
and falling all over again
TO: icarus
i don’t think i’d be strong to crawl back out this time
TO: icarus
how dumb i was to think i’d be enough for icarus
TO: icarus
i loved icarus and he dragged me into the sun with him
TO: icarus
i loved icarus and he let me drown in the ocean,
grasping for the feathers of his wings
TO: icarus
you made me want to understand gods,
but i only knew about monsters
TO: icarus
god, you didn’t deserve the immortality
that i gave you
TO: icarus
you didn't deserve a single thing
TO: icarus
so if i’m ever the kind of poet they write biographies about
and whose work high schoolers are forced to analyze,
some underpaid english teacher
is going to have to talk about you
as the mysterious and slightly vilified figure
prevalent in my work
TO: icarus
you're in between every line
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
All I know I have learned from anime.
I have learned that intelligent high schoolers and unbelievable power sources should be kept far apart,
That there is a harem out there for everyone,
That ***** are the ultimate source of power in the universe,
and that nothing in all the world can not be improved by the addition of giant robots.
I have discovered that studio gainax has a huge stockpile of LSD, and that I must discover its location.
I have learned that Makoto Shinkai loves the taste of your tears,
and that Satonshi Kon is the thing the boogie man checks under his bed for.
But most of I have learned that you should always take that swing,
That if you stand strong you can pierce the heavens,
That if you stand together with those who mean the most to you, you will never be defeated,
And that true love can span the galaxies, knows no boundaries, and never dies.
Otaku forever.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
I write in public,
to be seen,
I need these preppy girls,
and closeted high schoolers,
and trophy wives,
to see me,
at my laptop,
clicking away.
Because I'm "artistic",
and "deep".
I am sensitive and must
be very beautiful
on the inside,
just like the outside.
That's why I do it.
It's all about the glory.
If only the knew the truth,
the real writing,
the words that smack the
inside of your skull
at 3 AM
when you have to be at
your minimum wage job
at 7.
The lit you need to get out
before the pressure builds up
and your head explodes
in a rainbow of creativity
on the four walls of your
too small
efficiency apartment.
The dark nights that
make you doubt the sun
will appear again
O muse, you cannot be
stifled. I hear your voice
even in my
starched white shirt
and necktie noose,
making lattés
and serving time
until The End.
The End. Times wing'ed
seraphim, the bell
tolling, tolling,
constantly,
Am I doing the right
thing with my life?
Every soul ******* interaction
with the over-privileged,
self-righteous soccer moms,
screams injustice.
My place, here,
is not to work to write,
but write to work.
My place, here,
is to live authentically,
to my own self be true,
and true, to those voices,
who came before,
who had the courage
of their convictions,
and the pounding of
text on the interior
of their cranium,
to write.
Writing is raw,
and obscene, and
beautiful.
Standing naked,
exposed, raw,
ugly
in front of your peers.
wolves.
A vow of poverty
a release of material claims
and a gain of authenticity
Living truly and truly living,
This is why I write.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 7:56 PM UTC
We sat in the overlook above the Serpent Mound
in the heat of that garish July afternoon,
sunlight scorching our pallid skin,
like rays through a magnifying glass,
till we could endure no more and
sought the shroud of skyscraper elms ---
halfway houses of leaf, bark and cellulose.
Minutes before we'd signed our names in the visitors book,
like giddy high-schoolers autographing a yearbook,
recording our wayward lover's sojourn
to a site the Hopewell worshipped in celebration of existence.
For what purpose do we worship this ground?
I wondered as we walked beside the curving icon,
that undulated in rolled earthen coils down the slope,
sine-waves loosed from a colossal oscilloscope.
Are these coils symbolic of our future's meandering relationship?
Her exploring hand upon my ****
drew me from thought to evaluation of this unexpected caress.
But for the heat, I'd have shown her what idle foreplay begets!
*Great Serpent, this was not Eden's carnal karma
acted out in a second Genesis!* ---
though a symbolic egg spews from your mouth.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
I don't understand
Because it's just not fair
I work so hard all the time
And there is so much stress for me
Constantly studying
Staying up late to do homework
That high schoolers do
And yet they seem upset when I get a B
And brush off all my A+
My sister get's a C and a pat on the head
Now can someone explain that to me?
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.
The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.
Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.
What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******
“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”
Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.
A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.
“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.
All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.
The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.
A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.
“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
There is a fine *** line between self care and selfishness and you're waltzing on it like you waltzed with me but we’ve forgotten about that, haven’t we
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
(Children chasing, people screaming)
Good American fun
At a baseball game (pee-wee)
I sat on the top row of a twelve-seater
Bleacher, clustered between strangers
Declaring war on second graders.
To the right, a blank score board
Screamed the depression of a
Poor town's last winter, while
In contrast
The smell of concession stand
Popcorn enticed the eager middle
Schoolers with loose quarters.
All people were eager to lose their
Own frustrations in a children's game;
They would traumatize the left-hand hitters.
I looked left, to the other end of the field,
Opposite the obvious winners.
Beside the cluster of flowers where
I got stung by the yellow jacket,
Behind the fence where my brother
Kissed his first crush,
You stood there.
Your ***** blonde hair was ruffled
Wild. Your eyes, hungry.
All stared, frozen.
You stumbled forward.
(Children chasing, people screaming)
No more fun.
Nothing ruins a mid-Atlantic spring day like a zombie infestation.
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
You talk about corruption,
and you spit words of destruction.
But you won't offer redemption
or even protection,
for the youth of this nation,
the people of this generation.
Kids who know they could be better
fathers or mothers
than they have.
Who know they should be better
sisters or brothers,
they want it so bad.
They who know they need more
than a job a McDonald's or WalMart,
or some department store
because they're so smart.
High schoolers who dream
of college
but know they'll never get there
with any of their knowledge.
Who want to offer more to the world
than just a ******** remark,
but can't because they didn't get better marks
on their report card,
though they tried so hard.
But their GPAs never rised,
and they lied.
And that Grade Point Average?
It says "less than average."
But a college professor,
a "truth" confessor,
wouldn't accept "less than average"
unless it was written in binary code.
Well that's a load,
they're full of it.
For every kid who's ever taken a hit,
took a chance, but lost all of it.
Because "the nation's best" never learn,
they only care about what they earn
day after day.
It's sad,
because some of us can't afford to live that way.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
I forgot
You were always there
but I forgot
You were my mentor
and you helped me find
my voice
You celebrated
My weirdness
You celebrated
All weirdness
You were queen
Of all the misfit
high schoolers
You were our teacher
my mentor
my safety
my friend
And I forgot you
Until you were gone
But then I remembered
and wanted to thank you
but you were gone...
I'm so sorry...
and thank you
for everything
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
*Attacking the blaze with a 'Texaco Fire Truck'
Tonka Tractors with plastic Soldiers on guard
Hippie high schoolers heading for home with -
Creedence Clearwater Revival on their car radios
Running through Da Nang with a stick , drinking Tang
with my heroes , adjusting the rabbit ears for Captain
Kangaroo* ...
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Picking us off one by one....
Treyvon never got to have a son,
The federals laughing in our face,
They Think they won,
Two Arizona's but I only need one,
And ya had they life taken by just a gun,
For my fellow black people,
And for the hateful people painting the world with blood,
This wouldn't be a sequel,
Like ****
We still no longer equal,
Why y'all gotta be so evil,
Can't you just leave us in shambles,
But y'all just wanna know what's real,
So instead of protect and serve,
Y'all wanna just wanna judge and ****
Should I take a stand?
I will,
Are they plotting?,
Get folkes like us to squeal,
I mist of what's to come,
It maybe trouble our futures,
No young black kid should die like that,
Or be on the run,
Like their framing middle schoolers,
Ferguson was no exception,
Now the fed will learn they lesson,
We tired of loosing the ones we love,
Because of their descriptions,
We just wanna live,
To the fullest on fleek,
But if this ******** keep happening,
We will no longer be free,
And thats real.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
all night my sister
retches in the toilet
a bug crawls around my own stomach
nothing like hers
i sneak into the kitchen
drink madly from her cup
and swallow her half-chewed food.
god i hope i get it.
those 3 middle schoolers got salmonella
from the kebab place down the street
now
no one ever wants to go i understand
but i
stop by as often as i can.
god i hope i get it.
i only ever see her going into or out of the bathroom
eyes welled, teeth yellow, lunch bag empty
i reach inside my throat
i want to be
like her
but tears leak and ***** doesn't.
god i hope i get it.
last night i finally did. i
shoveled food into my mouth, unable to stop until
my vision blurred and when i
knelt down and watched
murky colors mix with the ceramic reflection
i just felt deceived
the bug was still within me
crawling, creeping, ceaseless torture
unwilling to ever leave.
god i hope i lose it.
Feb 2, 2025
Feb 2, 2025 at 11:36 PM UTC
The news came into town like the flu,
rubbing the sleep from the eyes of the people,
Clearing them to see the words in pixels of ink
spelling out what had happened.
Mothers dropped plates,
car brakes screeched,
the cats and dogs
stopped in the middle of their whims,
and the gums got to flappin'
in the hospital-sheened caskets on wheels
where forgotten old folks were left
to feel forgotten.
The collective energy of
all this dude’s friends and family
rose and pushed the clouds in a mushroom,
A rude intrusion into the heavens,
where little old ladies
and blindsided grammar schoolers
had convinced themselves
he was sitting, looking down
in somber remembrances,
happy thoughts,
shared joys,
and all that jazz.
They piled into cars
and trooped to the viewing,
to cry and behold a waxinine figure
with a painted smile.
Then they kicked dirt
into the hole in the ground
and left him to rot.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.
The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.
Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.
What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******
“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”
Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.
A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.
“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.
All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.
The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.
A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.
“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
Somebody once told me
no matter what you say -
if you believe it to be true -
speak it with volume
My junior year of high school
I interned for a week
teaching English to middle schoolers
they were working on the creative writing unit
classrooms covered in posters which read things like
no tears in the writer, no tears in the reader
and other good inspirational stuff
some of the kids wrote poems
others wrote short stories
others wrote I don’t know whats
but they all told a story which to them
was an essential truth of life
just waiting to be heard
and when they got up
to share in front of the class
from the shy girl in the soccer shoes
to the tall joker
they all spoke with volume
because some things
are impossible to ignore
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
I hope for a stable state of mind.
I hope for an eternal love.
I hope for people to understand and empathize with others.
I hope for the ones I love to succeed.
I hope for high schoolers to be more mature.
I hope for my family's security.
I hope for balance.
I hope for the little things to outweigh the grand.
I hope for everyone to appreciate the beauty of the world that surrounds them.
But most of all, I hope for people to have hope. To be optimistic. To want to live to see another day.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
It seems that the American education system values
A's on tests and higher rankings more than
The mental health of the students
who there would be no high rankings
Or A's on tests without.
Everyday I'm trying to lift myself up
Because I see myself as a
horrible, gross, ugly, aggressive,
worthless, useless, clingy, hell-bound person.
I know I am not a completely good person,
But I know that I don't want others to
Feel like I do.
No one should have to feel like
Everyday will come to nothing and
That friends won't miss you and
That people will get over you at some point and
That it wouldn't matter if you killed yourself
Because you don't make a difference.
I want to be there to lift others up
In areas where I can't lift myself and
Just let them know that
It's okay to not be okay, that
Someone loves you and
I will always be one of those people, that
I'll be there even if no one else is, that
If it's 2AM and you're suicidal that
You call me or some kind of hotline
And we'll get this sorted out together.
11% of adolescents will have developed depression
by the time they turn 18.
That is not okay.
Students are reported to Guidance
when something is amiss.
Guidance counselors are there to
help with scheduling and possibly developing
academic and social skills.
They are not knowledgeable about mental health,
and lots of times teens with depression
interact with people less and
as a result lack crucial social skills for
getting jobs that fit the academic goals that
we're told matter so much that
we think that sometimes the letter grades
on paper matter more than the student
who studied for hours to
earn that grade.
1 in 6 high schoolers have solemnly considered suicide
1 in 12 will attempt suicide, that number is increasing.
The education system needs to change
In how they handle mental health.
The world needs to change
How it handles mental health.
It's killing us.
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 11:48 PM UTC
I imagine the scenario
What I want to happen
To what actually will occur
Then it all just goes black
Replay, it's all back in my head
I see her smile, so gorgeous
She is crying tears of joy
As she runs into my open arms
Then it goes black once more
Prom, every high schoolers dream
It is now a nightmare and a dream
All at the exact same time
I want to spend it with her
But I no longer exist to her
As she has a new boyfriend
And I sit alone, thinking
The scenario in my head
Replays constantly, it won't stop
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
Cigarette smoke lapped at
my finger tips
late in the wee hours of the morning
when, without warning
you walked by at the front
of a small herd
of just ex-high schoolers.
The dark kept your face hidden
and I hope mine as well
because after you passed
an amigo pipped,
"Wasn't that your old girlfriend?"
I chain smoked the last three
hardly believing
that moment was the first
glance I'd had of you in a
year.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 5:37 AM 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
Last night, Lisa, Peter, Leeza and I were in her father’s 50th floor study watching New York City. It’s a corner room with glass walls from floor to ceiling. He likes to watch the city himself and has a small, 5 seat sectional couch facing the view.
The left wall window looks across Hell’s Kitchen to exactly where Sully Sullenberger crash landed flight 1549 in the Hudson river (it was 3:31 pm and no one was home). The right window overlooks Central Park and Upper Manhattan. Lincoln Center, almost dead center of the corner, looks like part of a toy train-set.
The view is a wheeling, ever changing and mesmerizing panorama. Well lit ships, barges and boats move glacially against the ink black Hudson. Jets in expressway-like holding patterns (Newark Liberty, and Teterboro airports left window - LaGuardia, right window) blink, like waving angels, helicopters buzz below like insects and the traffic, far, far below, forms a living chain of red and white lights which can erupt with nugatory hues of police blue at any moment.
While we watch, we’re playing a game of “Would you rather.” It’s a game of situational trade-offs, like “Would you rather listen to the same 10 songs forever or have to watch the same 5 movies forever? Of course, most people say the movies - because they last longer and there would be fewer repeats.
We take turns asking these critical questions - pausing, occasionally, to point out things below.
“Would you rather be in a crowded elevator with a bunch of noisy high school students or pinned in with a bunch of judgemental, middle aged men? The girls chose the students, even though high schoolers can be mean. Peter chose to be with the men.
“Would you rather find your true love or a suitcase with 5 million dollars?” We all chose love.
“Would you rather hike or camp?” Both were unpopular if they involved going to the bathroom outside - which creeps the girls out.
“Would you rather give up your computers or your pets (forever)?” THAT was a stressful one.
Nov 20, 2022
Nov 20, 2022 at 11:18 AM UTC