"yearbook" poems
I knew a kid in highschool
Rather to say I knew him would be an overstatement,
He was a friend of a friend at most,
The boy that sat directly in front of me in my economics class
Second seat from the right, second to last from the back
The corner of the classroom between the whiteboard wall and the windows
I remember that scene like a diagram,
I couldn’t tell you anything I learned from the class but,
I knew a kid in highschool
He was best friends with my childhood best friend
He wasn’t quiet, wasn’t loud- he was a normal highschool boy
I remember the last words I said to him
Well not quite, I remember the vague idea
Something along the lines of it only gets worse
He was talking about the theoretic project where we role played
Each kid acting out as if they were in the real world
He said he was overwhelmed by the amount of work
I told him it only gets worse
I knew a kid in highschool
He killed himself during the weekend
The Monday they announced in I was sick
I was sick
His obituary isn’t up on the internet anymore
Neither is his facebook, he is nothing but a yearbook page
The page to a book I couldn’t afford
He is a memory on bookshelves filled with dust
I knew a kid in highschool but I had to ask a friend to confirm his existence
That I didn’t just make up a daydreamed suicide
I’m so tired of wondering what’s left of us when we die
I spend most of my life running from evidence of my existence
No photos, no yearbooks, nothing with me or my name
I knew a kid in highschool
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 4:28 AM UTC
Flipping threw my old yearbook
I see girls who were once gorgeous
tooken my the devils hand
pregnant and life beaten now
horrendous
I remember seeing them
with there cheerleading outfits on
As I sat in a corner by myself
I here them laughing and chatting
about going to tonys house after school
I remember tony strong handsome captain of the highschool world
I saw him two weeks ago
With his hands covering his face
And a shot next to him
3 empty beers infront
He really let himself go I remember thinking
fat and forgotten about
still clinging to that highschool dream
I remember him saying I was a loser as he flipped my lunch tray
and humiliated me by reading my little notebook of writes
I remember saying to him
one day ill have the last laugh
one day ill see you down and out
and you'll ask me for a handout
going back to the bar I sit down
A couple stools down to see if he recognised me
He finished his 3 beers as I finished my long island ice tee
he said to the bar tender I gotta ***
be right back
I followed him to the restroom
and we were a ****** apart
I looked over and seen his small patheic *****
as I looked at my *****
I laughed
and I laughed
and I laughed
looked over at tony
and said see sir
I did get the last laugh
and I left
I hope he knows me now
I hope he knows me now
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
you,
you are pathetic.
you think the world is a playground
and that i'm your toy.
YOU THINK I'M YOUR TOY
BUT I KNOW I'M NOT.
I AM A PERSON
A GOOD PERSON
A NICE PERSON
A PRETTY PERSON
I DON'T NEED YOU TO TELL ME
THAT I'M 'HOT'
ONLY TO MAKE ME HAPPY
AND BELIEVE YOUR IDIOT LIES
"she kind of looks okay without glasses,
less makeup, and straight hair."
EXCUSE YOU? I LOOK GREAT WITH GLASSES,
MAKEUP AND CURLY HAIR.
BECAUSE I KNOW THAT I AM
BETTER THAN YOU
AND I AM NOT YOUR TOY.
I WILL NEVER BE YOUR TOY AGAIN
AND I WILL BURN THE PHOTOGRAPHS
OF YOU IN THE SCHOOL YEARBOOK
BECAUSE YOU DON'T DESERVE
TO BE REMEMBERED BY ME.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:03 PM UTC
men and their egos (I turned twenty this summer) are
inseparable
insufferable
begrudgingly
they admit “guess you were right”
believing that will make them heroes,
by full on confessing they are ********
I turned twenty in the summer
my tan legs in cutoffs (it’s summer) drives them to madness,
accused, you are pitiless, for their dreams of you involve ransom
still, you
search and quiet plead like Abraham, to the heated air,
while listening to Whitney Houston and Ed Sheeran,
(on your earbuds just so nobody knows your weakness)
for just that one good man in the township of
***** and Gomorrah
my mother bitter sneers good luck with that,
forgetting I am now twenty years
so old, so advanced,
that my hopes and aspirations are no longer those
the ones in my high school yearbook
my poetry fills pages,
a human urban renewal,
laying out a city of hope
recalling that ***** and Gemorrah were destroyed
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 11:49 AM UTC
Target on the faces of my friends
The headlines detail more school shootings
One-sided consequences of uneducated masses
I’m an ******* but you made me this way
Gain knowledge of the whole truth
Before the mind sets in stone
Outside the main entrance
Count them off
One by one
My end
Our end
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 25, 2011 at 6:16 AM UTC
I.
This year I've done nothing remarkable,
because that wasn't on my syllabus.
But,
I did learn how to make conversation
with an empty locker,
because you weren't one of the students
who'd had gone off on Exchange.
II.
This year I've done nothing worth remembering,
because my timetable had no place for memories.
But,
I did learn how to inject meaning
into moments were there were none,
because you weren't one of the poems
in my last English paper.
III.
This year I've done nothing for my soul,
because I'm just a candidate number.
But,
I did learn how to learn how my examiners
think. Past papers are the future,
and you aren't one of those questions
that I'll get full marks for again.
IV.
And this year,
time will pass itself,
killing everything
but my memories,
but my final grades.
V.
And this year,
time will have passed itself,
having killed everything.
Even my memories.
Even my final grades.
VI.
As everything
becomes everything again,
the year next;
with another you,
with another syllabus.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 12:43 PM UTC
summer nights—cold soul
drunken anecdote
the flow of ink so delicate
to massacre the old for the new
winter morning—warm hands
littered streets
the sound of your vowels and consonants
just the right consistency
chiseled gravestones—life in your eyes
sound of footsteps
the burn of your last words to me
inverted and sweet
the universe owes us no due;
the six minutes i treasured you—
Paradise, 2018
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
We sat in the overlook above the Serpent Mound
in the heat of that garish July afternoon,
sunlight scorching our pallid skin,
like rays through a magnifying glass,
till we could endure no more and
sought the shroud of skyscraper elms ---
halfway houses of leaf, bark and cellulose.
Minutes before we'd signed our names in the visitors book,
like giddy high-schoolers autographing a yearbook,
recording our wayward lover's sojourn
to a site the Hopewell worshipped in celebration of existence.
For what purpose do we worship this ground?
I wondered as we walked beside the curving icon,
that undulated in rolled earthen coils down the slope,
sine-waves loosed from a colossal oscilloscope.
Are these coils symbolic of our future's meandering relationship?
Her exploring hand upon my ****
drew me from thought to evaluation of this unexpected caress.
But for the heat, I'd have shown her what idle foreplay begets!
*Great Serpent, this was not Eden's carnal karma
acted out in a second Genesis!* ---
though a symbolic egg spews from your mouth.
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
Hardly thought of yet fondly remembered
moments redacted from memory
adoration and anguish become friendship and folly
A shameless return to missed opportunity
words welling up
the grave of guilt
Torn out but never removed
the heart’s debt to doubt
no pang more painful
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 5:31 PM UTC
Film developer cacophonies, and journalistic hoarding
My friends wanted to record our last year –
Accurately – not succinctly
Abstractly – and yet, directly, bluntly
Vividly – in photography, quote notebooks, Dictaphone diatribes
That’s hilarious – scribble it down.
Can you repeat your brilliance?
If you could paraphrase that – well…what would you say?
Take another one. She wasn’t smiling.
I don’t want to smile.
My friend sidles up beside me – beaming grin
Sticking her fingers into my mouth
Pulling opposite and up
And her fingers tasted like
The musty pages of books without pictures.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
Please follow the link
https://bogpan.wordpress.com/2015/06/23/world-poetry-yearbook-2014/
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 4:12 AM UTC
driven by the medium of exchange.
dare remember from where it is you came.
dance in the smoke that once brought moths to flame.
incandescent, and full of shame.
buried in books to keep you insane.
hoping happy people do the same.
must you keep her emotions tame
wrong way in a one way lane.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC
I. Summer pictures litter her walls
Glitter infestations
Second grade yearbook
And a signed portrait of that one indie celebrity.
What’s his name?
Jimi Hendrix?
Or Rob the Bone Crusher?
Was it that guy from New England?
With the Iced Tea, and the apartment?
You know that really, really big condo.
II. in 1995 you were all hot and heavy
******* and bumping in the clubs
Sinking your teeth into whatever
Or whoever you could find
Like ****** and some of that crystal ****
You said you liked the way it felt
When it ran down your veins
III. I remember the nights you cried
You said you’d feel this way forever
And I said well…probably.
IV. 7 AM, you’re still out clubbing.
Out on the streets like a little hoodlum
Looking for your fix in the alleys
Of a suburb of your suburb of Minneapolis.
Anything you can shoot, smoke, snort or swallow
You’re down.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
Did they live the life projected
In their high school yearbook?
Did they take the wife selected
Why not take a look?
Geeks and Dweebs and Superstars
Smile back from ancient pages
Going back to high school now
To read the writings from the sages
Voted "The Most something"
Gave one a certain goal to reach
But, the weekend after graduation
These titles were lost on some lone beach
Did Mr. "Most Likely to Succeed"
Ever make his millions
Or is he working at the daily grind
Like so many other billions?
Most Likely to Become a Mom
That's a title that's too cheesy
What exactly did it mean?
Is this girl just one who's easy?
Most Likely to become Prime Minister
Not a chance in hell 'round here
Debating was not a skill
That we were taught I fear
Did the person picked "Most Likely to....
Have a leg up on the rest
Were they picked for popularity
Or were they really just the best
Our "Most Likely to win a Nobel Prize"
because his Chemistry marks were great
Is now working as a bartender
At a bar that's open late
"Most Likely to be a famous rock star"
Now, there's a title to hang on to
Ours, works in geology
So, they didn't miss by far
Look back and laugh at what you see
This book is just a snap
Of people from your life you knew
Some who fell into the trap
A title of "Most Likely To..."
Shouldn't determine who you'll be
For if it does, then you must
be someone who didn't learn to see
We had a girl get shot to death
She never got a yearbook name
But, she was killed robbing a bank years back
And now that's her claim to fame
Doctors, Lawyers, warehousemen
They were all there in our school
Some were picked "Most Likely to.."
Most were not, and that's cool
If you know a "Most Likely To..."
And they became what they were told
Close the book, and leave it shut
You're the one who struck gold
You made a choice to move along
And make a life, to make you ..YOU
And you didn't need a high school tag
To say..."Most Likely To....."
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
What makes you think that we have the money for a yearbook?
Nobody can pay 30
then how do you expect us to pay seventy
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
1.
Let's install some fail-safes
You have to convince yourself that this is really what you want
If you aren't gay, pretend you are
If you are gay, pretend you're not
I guarantee you will not fall in love
2.
Pick the sweetest person
Someone your parents will approve of
Someone who is so perfect for you that you just don't understand why you're sitting alone right now
If you're not voted cutest couple for the yearbook, you can't possibly be in love, right?
Too many people are watching
3.
Try to love them
Try to give yourself a textbook relationship
Go on dinner dates
And watch scary movies so you can cuddle up together
Argue about why you should definitely pay "because it's romantic"
Blow out the candle when she's not looking
4.
Stop taking off work on Friday nights
It was never going to work, anyway, so why bother getting attached?
When you realize that they love you,
And you are still sitting there alone, that's when your heart breaks
When you realize you can walk away and be unchanged
Because how could you possibly walk away from two entire years with another human being and not feel something
Your heart's going to break anyway, just because it didn't.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
Why does it feel like when you sign a yearbook
You're admitting that you might never
See it's owner again after you part?
It feels as if you're goodbye
Rather than see ya next time
It almost feels like for every word written
There is a tear to match it
As you pour your feelings
And memories onto the page
You are silently whispering
Possibly the last words they'll ever hear from you
The yearbook stands as your final goodbye
Even if its not the very last moment you see them
It stands as something they can show their kids when messing about old times
That can look back upon in old age
That can reminisce with when lonely
And say
These are the people I knew
These are the people said goodbye to all that time ago
The yearbook is a symbol ending
That is to be celebrated as well as mourned
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 8:17 PM UTC
a good way to cry is to read your old yearbooks alone at night
to see that in fifth grade your whole class signed their names
sixth grade was a competition to see who had the most inside jokes
in seventh grade your friends wrote you long notes and your crush took up a whole page
"you make coming to school every day actually enjoyable" and he signed it with love
in eighth grade most of the pages are blank
you got a hot boy to sign (twice) but your crush didn't have time until the promotion ceremony
he wrote that you forgot about him
he signed it with a dash and he added his last name
the only person who took up space in your eighth grade yearbook was your spanish teacher
who you promised to visit but never did
a boy you have known forever was moving away
you will never see him again but he had nothing to say about you
your oldest best friend told you she was saving her usual "novel" for senior year
but you don't plan on being friends by then
a good way to cry is to flip through the pages and count the people who you used to call your friends
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
It says you were active 12 minutes ago
Even though you've been dead for twelve years
It was probably your cousin, you took over your page a few days after your passing
She turned it into a sort of yearbook, just for you
I wish you could see it
I always get my hopes up when I see that little green do appear on the screen
But it's never you
It hasn't been you in so long
It feels like just yesterday, you were by my side
Smiling and laughing and braiding your sister's hair
She hasn't worn a braid since you left
She says that nobody else can do it half as well as you did
We all miss you darling
I wish you'd come back
Even though I know you can't
You're still alive in my dreams though
And you'll always have your place in my heart
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
It was the summer of missed promises
And I tried so hard to make it up to you that year
But everything was different.
We couldn’t get back in the same rhythm
Because I’d hate to force it.
It was the summer of forgotten love letters
Because we never knew how to sign off.
They always ended up in empty desk drawers with “for sale” signs on them
Because we wanted them to be anonymous.
It was the summer of bonfires
And nostalgia
For a time when the only thing that made sense was your laugh and your hand in mine;
For a time when I had no idea what I really wanted,
Because all anybody’s given me was a broken heart.
It was the summer I dared to look in my high school yearbook;
Crisscrossed with scribbled writing
In everybody’s haste attempt to sum up the four years I hated most.
I read them with tears in my eyes
And I’m sorry for that-
I’m usually not like that; regretting everything that didn’t happen between us
It was summer of drunken nights
In small attempts to erase you from my mind
It was the summer I realized
I may never see you again.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 1:41 AM UTC
Hello, old friend,
whose semi-permanent smile
laces my vision like toxic ranks of pearly whites.
Hello, old friend,
whose sparkling eyes blaze
like the funeral pyre of my pride and prejudice.
Hello, old friend,
whose apparent ineptitude melts like happiness
as your name burns in black on that page.
You signed my yearbook like a death certificate,
wrote an affectionate note in the shape of nothing
worth knowing.
The lines bleed, multiply, crackle and shine
in the dull light of this most tiring expanse of computers.
Their brains function better than mine.
Hello, old friend,
whose pen now swirls across the work you were assigned,
work you pursue less like a lion
and more like a cougar,
if you get my message.
(There’s no taking the jungle out of you, Amazon.)
Hello, old friend.
Keep snapping pictures with your iPhone,
like it’s New Years and you just kissed DiCaprio in Times Square,
wearing a dress with all the greens of envy
splattered across the fabric.
Hello, old friend.
Keep telling me you hate it when I act like this,
when your eyes turn to four points and your skin to letters
from colleges begging like a forgotten lover
for you to take them and make them home.
The home you’re leaving for next month.
Hello, old friend.
Today is now solemn in so many new ways.
You achieved higher than the skyscrapers in the photograph
next to your eight-line submission.
Hello, old friend.
No.
Revision time.
Revision like the backspace key and the scribbled lines
over inadequate things I wrote
to try and climb your Olympian pedestal.
Revision like the eraser on the pen,
revision like the keys thumping as though this machine
had a heart,
as though mine wasn’t broken
because I’m never good enough for anybody.
I write my best poetry when I’m angry.
Ironic that poetry made me angry.
I can taste the paradox spinning like the clock hands
that tick, tick, tick until the day when you sit in a car
on top of a thousand suitcases
and a few well-wishes from your confederates in college.
I can taste it like a toxin.
And now,
now you’re going
and there’s only time to say:
good-bye, old friend.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC