Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"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.
0
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC
generation Z
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.
Continue reading...
39
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
0
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
unsent text messages (1/?)
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.
0
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 2:45 PM UTC
All I Know I Learned From Anime
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.
0
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 7:56 PM UTC
Starbucks
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.
Continue reading...
79
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.
0
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
Fertility Rite at Brush Creek
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?
0
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 12:48 AM UTC
An Explanation?
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
0
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
Rubber Bullets
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
Continue reading...
61
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
0
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 1:51 PM UTC
Ghosting like middle schoolers
(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.
0
Apr 27, 2012
Apr 27, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
When I first saw you
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.
0
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
Less Than Average
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
0
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
To Ms. Nicols
*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* ...
0
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
Guess Who 45's
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.
0
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:52 AM UTC
"Keep Killing Blacks"
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.
0
Feb 2, 2025
Feb 2, 2025 at 11:36 PM UTC
tw: *****
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.
0
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
--Leave The Place Spotless--
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
0
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
Rubber Bullets
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
Continue reading...
61
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
0
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
Speak with Volume
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.
0
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
What I Hope For
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.
0
Apr 4, 2019
Apr 4, 2019 at 11:48 PM UTC
American Education (Slam Poem #3)
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.
Continue reading...
53
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
0
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 3:02 AM UTC
Prom Scenario
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.
0
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 5:37 AM UTC
Shoreline Skin
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.
0
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
mahogany
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.
Continue reading...
11
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.
0
Nov 20, 2022
Nov 20, 2022 at 11:18 AM UTC
corners
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.
Continue reading...
9