"trainings" poems
When clocks strike twelve and trainings end
— lurk not, they say, in school at night.
Age-old stories tell of how there’re
things that throng in fluorescent light.
In toilets silence screeches loud,
for when school’s empty, they arise:
Ghosts of pregnant girls lie wailing,
with cleaner-uncle poltergeists.
For now I sit on chilling white,
resounding prayers in my mind;
my heart racing with dire wish
a friend of Casper’s I won’t find —
Then eeeeeeek!
Is that a door creaking?
Perhaps it stemmed from my own mind,
Hinges sing as they fly open!
Thou who entered, oh be my kind!
A thud thud thud as shoes traverse
across the glinting marble floor;
and louder,
louder as they get
much nearer to my sacred door!
THEN SILENCE
or so I wish!
But a loud knock takes my breath away.
The unlatched bolt lies there lazing
HOW’D I FORGET TO LOCK TODAY?
A hand thrusts in so hard and swift,
door’s open ‘fore I can react!
I’m facing now a girl my age,
She bawls at me with little tact —
Eyes bloodshot and tummy bloated,
“YOU DISGUSTING PIG! HOW DARE YE?!”
I dash out of the girls’ toilet
before she tries to castrate me.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Nothing ever comes close to my love for coffee. Not even my love for shoes, music, and photography combined.
I love my coffee during those hectic stretches of time when games and school exams and deadlines are held in the same weeks.
I love my coffee during the all-nighters and sleepless nights to keep up with everything going on.
I love my coffee during those sleepy and low energy moments after the early morning trainings.
I love my coffee during the days I am running late in my first period classes because I may have overslept.
I love my coffee during the hangover mornings after those wild drinking parties.
I love my coffee during the random and spontaneous hangouts at cafés.
I love my coffee during the long roadtrips with family or teammates.
I love my coffee early in the morning and late at night. I love my coffee at any time of the day.
I love my coffee for its sweet and intoxicating aroma. Just a sniff and it already feels like I am at home.
I love my coffee served hot that it reaches deep into the soul. I love my coffee served cool that it refreshes and chills the soul.
I love my coffee for the energy it brings me. I love my coffee for making my heart beat faster.
All of that swiftly changed when I met her. In just a short moment of time of exchanging the most basic informations between us.
I do not love her but she gets me through those hectic stretches of time.
I do not love her but she helps me keep up with everything and keeps me up at night.
I do not love her but she shares her energy with me after the early morning trainings.
I do not love her but she patiently waits for me for my first period classes whenever I oversleep.
I do not love her but she takes care of me during and after those wild drinking parties.
I do not love her but she keeps up with all my spontaneity.
I do not love her but she loves long drives and adventures herself.
I do not love her but she is always there for me no matter what, when, and where.
I do not love her but she really smells so nice every time. I do not love her but she feels like home.
I do not love her but she knows me so well including my deepest, darkest secrets. I do not love her but I always find myself looking forward to chilling out with her.
I do not love her but she really inspires me. I do not love her but she makes my heart beat faster.
Nothing ever came close to my love for coffee. Until I met her.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 5:03 AM UTC
They once asked
If we looked forward
To trainings
Well I know
I do
On top of the
Cold regularity
That calms
On top of the countless
Hours endured
Under the sun
Like statues
There is one thing
I look forward
To
That is meeting
The lot of
You
Twice
A week
Two blessings
In five days
Of chaos
The seventh batch
The remaining five
Somehow
During those two
Or three
Hours of training
You guys somehow
Manage to take
All
That weight
Away
Introducing me
To new sound worlds
Teaching me
How to dance
Or just watching
And listening
To your amusing
Conversations
On all sorts of things
So
Open
Carefree
Not
Judgmental
No comparisons
And always
Each time
Each session
You'll never fail
To pull out
A genuine
Smile
Or
Laugh
From deep inside
This Abyss
One that cannot
Be contained
Or restrained
Or just simply
Watching the
Plain
Innocence
With all your kiddish
Knick-knacks
Just for a little while
It banishes
All that
Complexity
And through
All the gruelling camps
All the scoldings
All the punishments
The yelling
The pain
The standing
We still stuck through
You guys
May not know
How much it means
To me
To have such a platoon
Keeping me going
Through the tough times
When I really want
To give up
And give in
But just seeing
The five of us
Huddled together
In the smallest
Circle
Making small laughs
Small jokes
The complaints
The whining
It somehow makes things
Feel
Right
Pulling up that
Swinging end
Of the graph
Into a positive
Curve
At the end
Of the day
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
In between school semesters.
In between trainings.
In between jobs.
In between deployments.
In between miles.
In between phone calls.
In between letters.
In between waves.
In between breaths.
In between dreams.
Why are we always so far apart?
Baby I'll meet you in the in-betweens,
But I'll love you during it all.
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC
Anyone could be a prodigy at a young age
Anyone could already learn different languages
Anyone could play different instruments
For these things are learned through teaching and studying
But nothing beats a writer
A writer had gone through experiences
Ups and downs in a roller coaster
Not through too much trainings
But with pure feelings
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
depression and anxiety? my students get a break.
the teacher with disorders, though, gets more than she can take.
frustration's running high, 'cause i've got thousands of demands;
but criticize the system, and i'll get a reprimand.
“meet them where they’re learning,” but standardize the tests.
“every child is different,” but graded like the rest.
“no child left behind,” in a class of thirty-three.
we’re “racing to the top;” if we lose, it’s all on me.
differentiation; meeting high and low.
always being proper... everywhere i go.
scheduled 'til 3:30; stay at work 'til eight.
try to teach with love; i'm often met with hate.
meetings, staffings, lesson plans,
trainings, weekends, lending hands
both to kids and to the staff
time for leisure? that’s a laugh
some kids cheat; some don't care.
read a book? "that's not fair!"
my one plea: follow rules.
“i don’t care. it’s just school.”
we are people just like you
we’ve got stress and feelings too
only so much we can take
‘till our minds begin to break
more excuses, several lies
so much stress i start to cry
“suicidal! fix me now!”
don’t have training; don’t know how
fifty things i have to do
never go to sleep ‘til 2
overwhelmed and breathing fast
i can’t handle—i won’t last—
i cannot relax
the panic attacks
my sanity’s gone
the class must go on
they’ve never heard
these unsaid words
my eyes are clouds
they’re all so loud
patience gone
raging on:
“maybe this
isn’t bliss”
dead brain
joy drained
must run
i’m done
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC