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"teacher" poems
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem and he called it "chops" because that was the name of his dog and thats what it was all about his teacher gave him an A and a gold star and his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts. that was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo and he let them sing on the bus and his little sister was born with tiny nails and no hair and his mother and father kissed a lot and the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant and his father always tucked him in bed at night and was always there to do it once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem he called it "Autumn" because that was the name of the season and that's what it was all about and his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of the new paint and the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars and left butts on the pews and sometime they would burn holes that was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames and the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see santaclaus and the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot and his father never tucked him in bed at night and his father got mad when he cried for him to do it once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem and he called it "Innocence: A Question" because that was the question about his girl and thats what it was all about and his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her that was the year Father Tracy died and he forgot how the end of the Apostles's Creed went and he caught his sister making out on the back porch and his mother and father never kissed or even talked and the girl around the corner wore too much make up that made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because it was the thing to do and at 3 am he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly that's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem and he called it "Absolutely Nothing" because that's what it was really all about and he gave himself an A and a slash on each ****** wrist and he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen----
0
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
The Poem (The Perks of Being a Wallflower)
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem and he called it "chops" because that was the name of his dog and thats what it was all about his teacher gave him an A and a gold star and his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts. that was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo and he let them sing on the bus and his little sister was born with tiny nails and no hair and his mother and father kissed a lot and the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant and his father always tucked him in bed at night and was always there to do it once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem he called it "Autumn" because that was the name of the season and that's what it was all about and his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of the new paint and the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars and left butts on the pews and sometime they would burn holes that was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames and the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see santaclaus and the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot and his father never tucked him in bed at night and his father got mad when he cried for him to do it once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem and he called it "Innocence: A Question" because that was the question about his girl and thats what it was all about and his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look and his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her that was the year Father Tracy died and he forgot how the end of the Apostles's Creed went and he caught his sister making out on the back porch and his mother and father never kissed or even talked and the girl around the corner wore too much make up that made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because it was the thing to do and at 3 am he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly that's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem and he called it "Absolutely Nothing" because that's what it was really all about and he gave himself an A and a slash on each ****** wrist and he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen----
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74
Basketball stands for war or battle. That's why I think about the players' personalities, in my foxhole or squad. Danny and Ben are fast and smart. Dan especially can pass making him master and commander. To defeat them as we did is pst satisfying. Ben's five year old son disdains to answer my question Why are you you? But I'm not here to catalogue the men's personalities. I like them. But each of us has moved on many times, when ___________ suddenly died the games went on with hardly a mention and his name has since been forgotten. But even this, absolute mortality of not just our bodies but our names and souls is not what I came to talk about. Yesterday, between games, I asked Joe how Molly his daughter likes the high school. He mounted an impassioned defense of reading as the indispensable skill when I suggested math, the scientific method and history are essential too. Also between games Bob diffidently asked why my kids are bald. I was moved by the care he took to satisfy his curiosity, concerned the subject might be difficult. He's a political science teacher so I took the opportunity to ask What ails the republic? Of course I answered myself wanting mostly to hear myself talk about Iraq and how empire is self-correcting. For once I was amusing I thought, treating the subject with a light touch heretofore lacking. But none of this is what I came to say. A new guy, long quick and strong, a bulldozer under the boards with a good outside shot if needed got into a dispute with the other Bob who likes to tell people what to do sometimes, about an offensive foul Bob called which we almost never do. The new guy said If you can't take it don't play under the boards which is what I say when I'm ****** and don't give a **** Bob said You've been pushing and shoving me all day. I said He doesn't want to be pushed and shoved which got a wry smile out of Danny as I put the ball in play.
0
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
At Basketball
Basketball stands for war or battle. That's why I think about the players' personalities, in my foxhole or squad. Danny and Ben are fast and smart. Dan especially can pass making him master and commander. To defeat them as we did is pst satisfying. Ben's five year old son disdains to answer my question Why are you you? But I'm not here to catalogue the men's personalities. I like them. But each of us has moved on many times, when ___________ suddenly died the games went on with hardly a mention and his name has since been forgotten. But even this, absolute mortality of not just our bodies but our names and souls is not what I came to talk about. Yesterday, between games, I asked Joe how Molly his daughter likes the high school. He mounted an impassioned defense of reading as the indispensable skill when I suggested math, the scientific method and history are essential too. Also between games Bob diffidently asked why my kids are bald. I was moved by the care he took to satisfy his curiosity, concerned the subject might be difficult. He's a political science teacher so I took the opportunity to ask What ails the republic? Of course I answered myself wanting mostly to hear myself talk about Iraq and how empire is self-correcting. For once I was amusing I thought, treating the subject with a light touch heretofore lacking. But none of this is what I came to say. A new guy, long quick and strong, a bulldozer under the boards with a good outside shot if needed got into a dispute with the other Bob who likes to tell people what to do sometimes, about an offensive foul Bob called which we almost never do. The new guy said If you can't take it don't play under the boards which is what I say when I'm ****** and don't give a **** Bob said You've been pushing and shoving me all day. I said He doesn't want to be pushed and shoved which got a wry smile out of Danny as I put the ball in play.
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49
Giving joy, getting joy, never coy, Often pretty, always called a toy, She sells all that there is to deploy. And there is she who is demure; A teacher whose job is secure. Some say that all teachers are pure. And there is he who is a professor; He is his father’s successor; Just like his father’s predecessor. The first one we call a ***** She prostitutes her body more and more; But the other ones we adore. The professor prostitutes his knowledge. He also sells his precious time. And the teacher too makes the same pledge; Especially while she is in her prime. We all ********** something every day; Yet only the first one’s a ********** yay!
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Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
**********
What is the difference, Asked the educator, *Between being skillful, Such as a ********** And being educated, Such as a teacher?* Well, replied a prostitue, *One educates skillfully, The other skillfully educates.* Which is which? The educator responded. Depends, said the ********** On the pay and benefits.
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Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
The ********** and the Educator
I Don't Average Out I remember crying during lunch my senior year — my math teacher's eyebrows colliding, one plane folding into a fractal. He had sat there, nearly four years, watching me struggle through an unreal number of numbers — literally and figuratively — while again and again the test scores whispered: You are less than average. But behind the eyes of a determined man my insecurities never won. He refused to believe the numbers. He was searching for some unspoken meaning — and so was I. I almost found it the day of graduation. I almost found it between his eyebrows, creased like a point of pride — because I was the first of my family to hold something as light as a diploma instead of a heavy head, nodding under the weight of ****** The first to feel like a feather instead of a six-pack, a bad back, the slow grind of manual labor. I was flying. Then college tried to land me. Again I let an institution measure me. Test scores trying to tell me what I was worth — intelligence reduced to something too narrow to understand its own diversity. Less than average, they said. But I wasn't below the line — I was just outside it. An individual above their point of comparison. I could read a room like a text. I could build connection out of nothing. I could debate, move, make people feel something. Gold doesn't average out either. So I learned — it wasn't the diploma I should have chased. Not the thing I'd wave at my little brothers and sisters to show them how to live better, burn brighter, burn longer. Here I am. Red-faced and unafraid. Spoken word was always there — hiding between the creases of my teacher's brow, folded into the question I didn't know I was asking. The answer was never in his book. It was in his look. In his refusal to quit on me. I could have found it sooner if I'd known what I was searching for. I am not stupid. I haven't failed by choosing something the institution doesn't recognize. I am not defined by a score, a line, a rule, a rhyme. I don't average out — and that is not a weakness. Power isn't in a piece of paper. Power is in your words. In your chosen behavior. In the silence you finally break. The answer was never in his textbook — it was in his persistence. In the way he looked at me like the numbers were wrong. He just didn't have the words to say it. But I do.
0
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
I Don't Average Out
I Don't Average Out I remember crying during lunch my senior year — my math teacher's eyebrows colliding, one plane folding into a fractal. He had sat there, nearly four years, watching me struggle through an unreal number of numbers — literally and figuratively — while again and again the test scores whispered: You are less than average. But behind the eyes of a determined man my insecurities never won. He refused to believe the numbers. He was searching for some unspoken meaning — and so was I. I almost found it the day of graduation. I almost found it between his eyebrows, creased like a point of pride — because I was the first of my family to hold something as light as a diploma instead of a heavy head, nodding under the weight of ****** The first to feel like a feather instead of a six-pack, a bad back, the slow grind of manual labor. I was flying. Then college tried to land me. Again I let an institution measure me. Test scores trying to tell me what I was worth — intelligence reduced to something too narrow to understand its own diversity. Less than average, they said. But I wasn't below the line — I was just outside it. An individual above their point of comparison. I could read a room like a text. I could build connection out of nothing. I could debate, move, make people feel something. Gold doesn't average out either. So I learned — it wasn't the diploma I should have chased. Not the thing I'd wave at my little brothers and sisters to show them how to live better, burn brighter, burn longer. Here I am. Red-faced and unafraid. Spoken word was always there — hiding between the creases of my teacher's brow, folded into the question I didn't know I was asking. The answer was never in his book. It was in his look. In his refusal to quit on me. I could have found it sooner if I'd known what I was searching for. I am not stupid. I haven't failed by choosing something the institution doesn't recognize. I am not defined by a score, a line, a rule, a rhyme. I don't average out — and that is not a weakness. Power isn't in a piece of paper. Power is in your words. In your chosen behavior. In the silence you finally break. The answer was never in his textbook — it was in his persistence. In the way he looked at me like the numbers were wrong. He just didn't have the words to say it. But I do.
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80
They didn't know what Diversity was... The kids, that is. Since the kids didn't know it, the teacher coined it as "“black” visibility". She wasn't sure if she could make that call so she nodded her head, looking for approval. The interviewer asked in what direction did the teacher see Diversity As if Diversity was a one-way street. Let me just refresh your memory... "“black” visibility" As if decades of progress in the schools were undone, The kids voted on Performances and Projects for “black” History Month. How shocking!... Kids of every shape, size, ability and race studying a time in history... Sounds racist to me. They wanted a Gospel Choir that is clearly only for “black” students Because I'm the student Director for the Fordham University's Rhythm of Praise Gospel Chior for the fourth year running... Maybe I'm missing something... MAYBE I'm “black”... Maybe if I close my eyes really tight... Nope, I'm still “white”. Olive brown perhaps? Only in the summer. Anyway, I digress like Sophia Patrilo from the Goldren Girls Who was Italian by the way. Just advertising for Diversity. Let's debate about "Music Debates" for a moment. Maybe you call it Debates because Hip Hop is debatable, and by the way only for “black” students. When I could argue for days upon days About how Reggaeton didn't come from Salsa but I know **** well that Salsa came first. The kids wanted to Stomp the Yard and battle it out. I do believe rap battles take place around the world And one of the best rappers I know is an English teacher in Harlem Whose hair is redder than a leprechaun. Talent Shows that showcase every student's ability Whether it be singing, dancing, performing their poetry, But still apparently that's not Diversity. Neither is an International Day Where International ways are celebrated. And finally, a Diversity Day, That clearly means diversity is separated. "They wanted a lot of things" Yeah. They asked for a whole lot... of everything BUT diversity. That's right, because they don't know what it means The Kids, that is... Then tell me please: Define Diversity. Is it seeing a “black” horse with “white” stripes Or a “white” horse with “black” stripes? Why is it between “black” and “white”? Why not between “white”, “black” brown, yellow, orange, brick red... Let's get it out of our head That teachers can't learn anything from their students, Because it sounds to me, Like they had a pretty good start to the meaning of Diversity. And if it turns out they didn't, That's what teachers are there for: Make a **** lesson about it.
0
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 2:16 PM UTC
"What is Diversity?"
They didn't know what Diversity was... The kids, that is. Since the kids didn't know it, the teacher coined it as "“black” visibility". She wasn't sure if she could make that call so she nodded her head, looking for approval. The interviewer asked in what direction did the teacher see Diversity As if Diversity was a one-way street. Let me just refresh your memory... "“black” visibility" As if decades of progress in the schools were undone, The kids voted on Performances and Projects for “black” History Month. How shocking!... Kids of every shape, size, ability and race studying a time in history... Sounds racist to me. They wanted a Gospel Choir that is clearly only for “black” students Because I'm the student Director for the Fordham University's Rhythm of Praise Gospel Chior for the fourth year running... Maybe I'm missing something... MAYBE I'm “black”... Maybe if I close my eyes really tight... Nope, I'm still “white”. Olive brown perhaps? Only in the summer. Anyway, I digress like Sophia Patrilo from the Goldren Girls Who was Italian by the way. Just advertising for Diversity. Let's debate about "Music Debates" for a moment. Maybe you call it Debates because Hip Hop is debatable, and by the way only for “black” students. When I could argue for days upon days About how Reggaeton didn't come from Salsa but I know **** well that Salsa came first. The kids wanted to Stomp the Yard and battle it out. I do believe rap battles take place around the world And one of the best rappers I know is an English teacher in Harlem Whose hair is redder than a leprechaun. Talent Shows that showcase every student's ability Whether it be singing, dancing, performing their poetry, But still apparently that's not Diversity. Neither is an International Day Where International ways are celebrated. And finally, a Diversity Day, That clearly means diversity is separated. "They wanted a lot of things" Yeah. They asked for a whole lot... of everything BUT diversity. That's right, because they don't know what it means The Kids, that is... Then tell me please: Define Diversity. Is it seeing a “black” horse with “white” stripes Or a “white” horse with “black” stripes? Why is it between “black” and “white”? Why not between “white”, “black” brown, yellow, orange, brick red... Let's get it out of our head That teachers can't learn anything from their students, Because it sounds to me, Like they had a pretty good start to the meaning of Diversity. And if it turns out they didn't, That's what teachers are there for: Make a **** lesson about it.
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57
Ilion gray poet extraordinary is away learning the codes hidden in raindrops no reason for surprise; for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays, neither high enough, narrow blinding, to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities to do the right thing he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our poem-dreams; avant-garde he says, but I laugh, never felt more misunderstood and reply take care, be en garde! no matter for he is learning a new language, the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat once called Indian Territory and eager await his return so we may walk along the Brooklyn shoreline, beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge where Washington’s men escaped a British trap and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of NY showers that come up so sudden,  so roughened, but right now, the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature We will walk lost in the absorption of our different commonalities, holding the hands of his young son, and my Wendy, both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes that give us poems He calls me me friend, I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best, well recalling a late night message that bred a five year conversation ongoing not everything need be coded what you read here it is not coded, for the raindrops come clear and clean and the poems land on our tongues bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue 7/18/18 ^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
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Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 10:41 PM UTC
Ilion is learning the codes hidden in raindrops
Ilion gray poet extraordinary is away learning the codes hidden in raindrops no reason for surprise; for the mountains of Brooklyn, the Manhattan caverns of Sunhenge^, corridors of narrow focus for trapping the declining sun rays, neither high enough, narrow blinding, to keep a good man from doing good things that life provides as opportunities to do the right thing he muses that it took five years for the other poets to understand our poem-dreams; avant-garde he says, but I laugh, never felt more misunderstood and reply take care, be en garde! no matter for he is learning a new language, the codes hidden in raindrops in a land of wheat once called Indian Territory and eager await his return so we may walk along the Brooklyn shoreline, beginning from under the Brooklyn Bridge where Washington’s men escaped a British trap and he can decode for me the whispery thunderous noises of NY showers that come up so sudden,  so roughened, but right now, the seductive sun blinks in Manhattan windowed towers reflecting back on to our East River as golden blinks of nature We will walk lost in the absorption of our different commonalities, holding the hands of his young son, and my Wendy, both of them equal in possession of round saucer eyes that give us poems He calls me me friend, I call him brother, teacher, master, better than the best, well recalling a late night message that bred a five year conversation ongoing not everything need be coded what you read here it is not coded, for the raindrops come clear and clean and the poems land on our tongues bounce on the foreheads and eyes of the babes, all stored and saved for the future blessings spoken in a single tongue 7/18/18 ^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattanhenge
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44
by definition, lust is extreme ****** desire for someone by nature, lust is uncontrollable... I'm attracted to my thirty-seven year old male teacher and my eighteen year old male coworker and the quirky girl who sits behind me in history, what? by religion, lust is a sin, punishable by Hell, whatever that is. lust is unavoidable, but socially unacceptable to act upon.
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Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
lust
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen. she is sweet but sad. super sad. a good poet who wants to guide me. but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting, the pus of corruption behind the curtains, the Wizard-ess of Oz's special blackout curtains. seen how easy, how her illusions, my medium rare rejections, morph into her delusions, and her delusions devolve into her conspiracy theories. "SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!" my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game. my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly, how I do not want to be skinned alive. for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past the point of being fooled, the point of no return. and see no point, have no intention, of returning to either valley ***no more con the my mind into letting my body be-fused.^***   that ain't me babe.
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Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 2:54 PM UTC
an older woman wants to be my friend
See loudness but be silented hearing things not needed pencils and pens scribbling teacher constant speaking smell of freshness yet sight of trashness
0
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
TEAMWORK
When I grow up, I want to be a dentist Astronaut or mage apprentice. I want to be a dancer, an artist, a king. I'm hoping to stand on a stage and sing. When I grow up, I want to be a lawyer, Or have lead role in the play Tom Sawyer. I'll be a comedian, and make people laugh! Or the CEO with a thousand staff. I'll be a waitress, a teacher, a vet. Snow White's eighth dwarf that no one has met! I might be a chef, or a scientist. How about architect or alchemist? When I grow up, I'll be a song writer Or maybe your friendly, next-door firefighter. I'll be a technician or pharmacy worker, A fashion designer or New York stock broker. I'm gonna be everything, just you wait and see! But I think in the end I'm just gonna be me.
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May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 10:53 AM UTC
When I Grow Up
Oh my it is great... to have this headache... after trying to understand what numbers are real and fake I don't see how this will help me through my course of life Will I ever be trying to see what the angle of a chair is again? or will I ever need to use how to find a hypotenuse? I've thought and thought for a very long time and came up with a list of jobs that would ever need algebra Math teacher Crazy Math obsessor Architect Carpenter scientist (on occasion) contractor Someone who builds triangles kite maker someone who makes graphs salesman/women Too bad that isn't any of the jobs I ever want... Algebra... oh how my head burns and I'm sorry if you like it I don't mean to offend but Algebra just aint my jam I'd rather be painting or writing or singing I'd rather be strumming(my guitar) be sleeping or eating I'd rather go play soccer or basketball or ski Really I'd just rather be free free of the confusion I feel after class of the helplessness that I have towards math Oh how am I going to survive??? PS. I still have to live through geometry (I **** at shapes) pre calculous (I don't even know what that is) and calculous (Ugh *** I hope you enjoyed my "radical" poem!
0
Jan 19, 2011
Jan 19, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC
Algebra...
A drawing of a superhero Done by a fourth grader Who’s father died in a fire. He’s standing ten feet tall With the wind blowing in his hair, He’s got so many friends And feels no despair. All the happy people They say they love him And there’s nothing he can do But just keep going. But teacher asks a question And he doesn’t know, So all the children laugh At the broken Superhero
0
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Drawing of a Superhero
Heard a beeping sound Followed by A very old Frank Sinatra’s song My classmates’ heads turned Who’s phone? who’s phone? Less chaotic when the teacher glared Everybody put their heads down And checked their sophisticated mobile phones Once again... When the teacher wasn’t looking.. Mobile phones roamed in a dull classroom Updating facebook status, Uploading candid photos of a snoring friend Copy pasting assignment Text messaging and gossiping about their stern looking teacher In the name of advanced technology Mobile smartphones create the impossibles... Beyond the blackboard and the four walls of the classroom O o Frank Sinatra’s song again... And everybody started looking... The teacher grabbed her mobile phone Tried to switch it off.... When students could own smartphones.. Who needs NOKIA from the old time zone....? ~ Sharina~
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Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
My teacher’s cell phone
The gentle tone of her teaching, In wonderous melodies, orchestral knowledge from a sweet teacher, Education set by the awareness of harmonizing, delicate instruments, Wisdom and foresight, cast by no other judgement but of a conductor, Whomst hand leads to the ups and downs of the intensity, recognised Ensembling in the beauty of a sinfonietta, sounds flows uninterrupted Let the singing pendulum to your mistress's pleasure fall to the bottom, attached to the chipped illusionists mask of anticipation! To this dance the mascarade does not crack in the shadow of sound, A wise scholar would not sacrifice one topic relevant to learn to the passing time, to her students unfortune that is, cast in pure grief, A wise conductor does the same with musical notes, the story flows, With the moon high in the sky, time stands in her way, questioning her to dance with the devil amongst a distorted, whicked dark, But resillient to the end, tough and with no distraction taking her focus the director of this event finishes the creation of art, an orchestra A craftwoman of tempo and elegance always stands out after all, bringing the musical score to life. ~ Umi
0
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 6:28 PM UTC
Maestra
Happiness I wake up fresh and happy as can be Monday mornings are just simply nothing for me, A new day has been given to me Oh for what this day has in store for me I just can't wait and see, Class starts with the teacher telling a joke Recess and gotta sip on some of that coke At the math class the quiz was postponed At lunch my crush sat with me and I'm feeling like I'm ****** Just got home and mom bought some pizza And how i enjoyed grobbin' down on that meat Pepperoni, ham and bacon now that's just neat Oh how today was a good day Endin' everything at night Just chillin on my bed not a ****** in sight Oh how today was cute like some pup But it was all ruined when I heard wake up!!!
0
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
Happiness
Tomorrows Exam is Mathematics loaded my head with unknown tricks Doodling with numbers Yes, teacher calls us dumbers Too much problems, yet very lil, solutions The long mountains of graphs The Greek symbols alpha, beta omega equations and formulas Find height, depth use trigonometry My answer a picture of a tree infinite zeros in red Sets, Relations, Geometry, variables and algebra and Lines, Its like stepping into a field of mines All time me wondering why reciprocal of zero undefined? much of the time In exam, I stay undefined!
0
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
Tomorrows Exam is Mathematics
*Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem And he called it 'Chops' because that was the name of his dog And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo And he let them sing on the bus And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair And his mother and father kissed alot And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant And his father always tucked him in bed at night And was always there to do it Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem And he called it 'Autumn' because that was the name of the season And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars And left butts on the pews And sometimes they would burn holes That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed alot And his father never tucked him in bed at night And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it. Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem And he called it 'Innocence: A Question' because that was the question about his girl And that's what it was all about And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her That was the year Father Tracy died And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went And he caught his sister making out on the back porch And his mother and father never kissed or even talked And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do And at 3am he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly. That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing' Because that's what it was really all about And he gave himself an A and a slash on each ****** wrist And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen*
0
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
Absolutely Nothing by Osoanon Nimuss
*Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem And he called it 'Chops' because that was the name of his dog And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo And he let them sing on the bus And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair And his mother and father kissed alot And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X's and he had to ask his father what the X's meant And his father always tucked him in bed at night And was always there to do it Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem And he called it 'Autumn' because that was the name of the season And that's what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars And left butts on the pews And sometimes they would burn holes That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed alot And his father never tucked him in bed at night And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it. Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem And he called it 'Innocence: A Question' because that was the question about his girl And that's what it was all about And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her That was the year Father Tracy died And he forgot how the end of the Apostle's Creed went And he caught his sister making out on the back porch And his mother and father never kissed or even talked And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do And at 3am he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly. That's why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem And he called it 'Absolutely Nothing' Because that's what it was really all about And he gave himself an A and a slash on each ****** wrist And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn't think he could reach the kitchen*
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Napapagod na akong tumingin sa Facebook ko. Sa dingding ng mga masasayang larawan ng mga kaibigan, katrabaho Sa dingding ng mga opinyon na nagdudulot ng masalimuot na pagtatalo Sa dingding ng mga tagumpay na nakamit mo sa pagsusumikap mo Sa dingding ng mga narating **** lugar na sobra na ang layo Sa dingding ng mga video ng pagbigkas mo ng tula sa harap ng maraming tao Sa dingding ng mga sandaling iginapos mo para ipamukha sa akin na ang buhay ko ay pagkabaho. Salamat sa mga larawan ng masasayang sandali kasama ng iyong kabiyak ng inyong matamis na pagmamahalan, na sa sobrang tuwa gusto mo nang umiyak Nang matuloy kayo sa simbahan, oo na, marami na ang nagagalak Eto na ang puso ko, wag ka nang mahiya, tuhugin mo na ng itak. Salamat sa mga opinyon mo tungkol sa paborito **** kandidato Wala ka na atang ibang ginawa kung hindi halughugin ang Internet para sa bawat artikulo Para isulat sa dingding mo kadikit ng mga opinyon **** walang humihingi, kahit na sino Para kang teacher ko na may dalang nutri-bun na isinasaksak pilit sa akin kahit sukang-suka na ako. Salamat sa mga salita ng pasasalamat na binibigkas mo kung gaano kadaming biyaya ang ipinagkaloob ng Bathala sa iyo Sa bawat tagumpay na nakamtan mo sa napili **** trabaho Naitatanim ko tuloy sa aking isip, kung bakit ang layo mo gayong sabay lang tayo? Pasensya na, malamang sa inyo ay may natatamaan ako Wala akong planong durugin ang kahit na anong ugnayan ko sa inyo Gusto ko lang banlawan, langgasin ang nalalasong utak at puso ko na pinapatay ng Facebook sa tuwing titignan ko ang mga dingding ninyo. Kung gaanong ipinararamdam sa akin na sa paninindigan ako ay wala Na hindi ko kaya maglahad ng opinyon kasi walang papansin, walang maniniwala Dahil maraming beses na akong naging tapat noong ako ay nasa highschool pa Wala akong naging kaibigan. Narinig mo? Wala akong kwenta. Kung gaanong ipinararamdam sa akin na hindi na ako makakarating kahit saan pa. Kasi pinili kong manatili, kahit mainit, kumpara sa ibang bansa Dahil nanuot sa aking dila na hindi ko kayang makipag-usap sa kahit na sinong banyaga Kasi palpak ang Ingles ko. Narinig mo? Wala akong kwenta. Kung gaanong ipinararamdam sa akin na mamamatay akong mag-isa Na hindi ako magkakaroon ng pagkakataong lumigaya Dahil sa pinalagpas kong sandali, ay hindi na mauulit pa Dahil wala akong kwentang lalaki. Narinig mo? Wala akong kwenta. Sobrang baba na ng pagtingin ko sa sarili ko. Ang tanikalang gamit sana para makipagugnayan sa mga kakilala ay tila naging isang angkla na humihila sa mga paa ko pailalim sa karagatang puno ng mga pusong natalo Nabigo sa pag-ibig, sa buhay, at sa kahit na ano. Kaya lalayo na ako sa mga dingding ninyo. Hindi na ako papayag na manatiling tumatanggap na lang ng kahit na anong ipapaskil mo. Tatakas ako sa mga rehas na nilikha ng mga masasaya ninyong minuto Magtatayo ako ng sarili kong dingding. Bubuuin ko ang aking pagkatao mula sa pagkakapira-piraso.
0
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
Dingding
Napapagod na akong tumingin sa Facebook ko. Sa dingding ng mga masasayang larawan ng mga kaibigan, katrabaho Sa dingding ng mga opinyon na nagdudulot ng masalimuot na pagtatalo Sa dingding ng mga tagumpay na nakamit mo sa pagsusumikap mo Sa dingding ng mga narating **** lugar na sobra na ang layo Sa dingding ng mga video ng pagbigkas mo ng tula sa harap ng maraming tao Sa dingding ng mga sandaling iginapos mo para ipamukha sa akin na ang buhay ko ay pagkabaho. Salamat sa mga larawan ng masasayang sandali kasama ng iyong kabiyak ng inyong matamis na pagmamahalan, na sa sobrang tuwa gusto mo nang umiyak Nang matuloy kayo sa simbahan, oo na, marami na ang nagagalak Eto na ang puso ko, wag ka nang mahiya, tuhugin mo na ng itak. Salamat sa mga opinyon mo tungkol sa paborito **** kandidato Wala ka na atang ibang ginawa kung hindi halughugin ang Internet para sa bawat artikulo Para isulat sa dingding mo kadikit ng mga opinyon **** walang humihingi, kahit na sino Para kang teacher ko na may dalang nutri-bun na isinasaksak pilit sa akin kahit sukang-suka na ako. Salamat sa mga salita ng pasasalamat na binibigkas mo kung gaano kadaming biyaya ang ipinagkaloob ng Bathala sa iyo Sa bawat tagumpay na nakamtan mo sa napili **** trabaho Naitatanim ko tuloy sa aking isip, kung bakit ang layo mo gayong sabay lang tayo? Pasensya na, malamang sa inyo ay may natatamaan ako Wala akong planong durugin ang kahit na anong ugnayan ko sa inyo Gusto ko lang banlawan, langgasin ang nalalasong utak at puso ko na pinapatay ng Facebook sa tuwing titignan ko ang mga dingding ninyo. Kung gaanong ipinararamdam sa akin na sa paninindigan ako ay wala Na hindi ko kaya maglahad ng opinyon kasi walang papansin, walang maniniwala Dahil maraming beses na akong naging tapat noong ako ay nasa highschool pa Wala akong naging kaibigan. Narinig mo? Wala akong kwenta. Kung gaanong ipinararamdam sa akin na hindi na ako makakarating kahit saan pa. Kasi pinili kong manatili, kahit mainit, kumpara sa ibang bansa Dahil nanuot sa aking dila na hindi ko kayang makipag-usap sa kahit na sinong banyaga Kasi palpak ang Ingles ko. Narinig mo? Wala akong kwenta. Kung gaanong ipinararamdam sa akin na mamamatay akong mag-isa Na hindi ako magkakaroon ng pagkakataong lumigaya Dahil sa pinalagpas kong sandali, ay hindi na mauulit pa Dahil wala akong kwentang lalaki. Narinig mo? Wala akong kwenta. Sobrang baba na ng pagtingin ko sa sarili ko. Ang tanikalang gamit sana para makipagugnayan sa mga kakilala ay tila naging isang angkla na humihila sa mga paa ko pailalim sa karagatang puno ng mga pusong natalo Nabigo sa pag-ibig, sa buhay, at sa kahit na ano. Kaya lalayo na ako sa mga dingding ninyo. Hindi na ako papayag na manatiling tumatanggap na lang ng kahit na anong ipapaskil mo. Tatakas ako sa mga rehas na nilikha ng mga masasaya ninyong minuto Magtatayo ako ng sarili kong dingding. Bubuuin ko ang aking pagkatao mula sa pagkakapira-piraso.
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43
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
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Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC
unsent text messages (1/?)
Oh, they a strange brew. Almost like a union crew. One minute disagreeing. Then the next tight as can be. In house fighting that makes you question their love. Just to see them turn around and show it. Siblings, only they can explain it. Getting to the truth is hard as can be. Unless you have a young one. Who will tell on everyone? Siblings, only they understand that connection. Parents know their bond. That if attacked by others. They gather together to bare arms. And it's not with any guns. The world of a child is simply hard to explain. The way they wants to go outside and play in the rain. And avoid coats in the snow. And when questioned about , how things got broken? Then between them nobody really know. Siblings, we all been there before. Unless you're the only child. Then you just don't know. This love bond stays between some as they simply begins to grow older. Their motto , somethings parents don't need to know. Unless it's something vital. Then the protection goes out the door. Yes, there'll be fights. And lectures from parents. There's be wearing of clothes that belonged to others. Who hadn't had the chance to wear them before? And give you the option of taking them off freely. Before they assist you to the floor. Yes, siblings. They hard to explain. Counselors advice isn't asked or requested for. Not by parents that know about these things. Books wasn't going to be their teacher. Because books didn't raise them in anyway. That this new generational thing. Where judges and courts thinks social workers needs to be involved? The best instructions is in the book about the teaching of God. Where we see the same conflicts? Siblings, there's no one better to have than a sister or brother. Who had a mother or father to witness it all?
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Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 9:47 AM UTC
Siblings
Oh, they a strange brew. Almost like a union crew. One minute disagreeing. Then the next tight as can be. In house fighting that makes you question their love. Just to see them turn around and show it. Siblings, only they can explain it. Getting to the truth is hard as can be. Unless you have a young one. Who will tell on everyone? Siblings, only they understand that connection. Parents know their bond. That if attacked by others. They gather together to bare arms. And it's not with any guns. The world of a child is simply hard to explain. The way they wants to go outside and play in the rain. And avoid coats in the snow. And when questioned about , how things got broken? Then between them nobody really know. Siblings, we all been there before. Unless you're the only child. Then you just don't know. This love bond stays between some as they simply begins to grow older. Their motto , somethings parents don't need to know. Unless it's something vital. Then the protection goes out the door. Yes, there'll be fights. And lectures from parents. There's be wearing of clothes that belonged to others. Who hadn't had the chance to wear them before? And give you the option of taking them off freely. Before they assist you to the floor. Yes, siblings. They hard to explain. Counselors advice isn't asked or requested for. Not by parents that know about these things. Books wasn't going to be their teacher. Because books didn't raise them in anyway. That this new generational thing. Where judges and courts thinks social workers needs to be involved? The best instructions is in the book about the teaching of God. Where we see the same conflicts? Siblings, there's no one better to have than a sister or brother. Who had a mother or father to witness it all?
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45
In the chair he played, His muscles burned with his pain. It was always constant, The needless burning of his nerves. Fingers curled he played, There was enjoyment in the music. It erased the pain and the sadness , The that the many scars of his nerves gave him. Then he was gone 17 and gone in the last beat of the hearts we cried happy birthday But he wasn't the only one What of the one teacher? You helped him play through the pain, While you yourself suffered, How soon were you torn from us too? Its all to soon. You know their will be a final symphony, they wont let you go without the notes. draped on your shoulders like wings, Angels of the band. You both were pillars of strength, And we all remember and sing and play. For the good don't just die young, They are set free of their suffering. And we love you, Let the symphony play. I will cry for the man i barley knew, For he helped the one I loved.
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Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
Goodbye To Those Gone Too Soon
It’s interesting how the Shyer crowds manage To communicate with each other A silent eye conversation Of pure flirtation All the extroverts oblivious A trail of fingers across warm skin The teacher snaps at a popular pair playing footsie And the two continue their game The sneaky ******** Were never suspected, until! One turned up with a love bruise Gasp!
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Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 9:42 PM UTC
Well... (We've Got To Get By Somehow)
"As the temperature drops down, the molecules get closer till they form a solid shape." And that's how our chemistry teacher defined 'love' on a snowy day.
0
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
The Chemistry Lectures