"yearbooks" poems
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never go home again.
My room will sit unused,
A capsule frozen in time,
A snapshot of how I was.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my dog again.
She will sit at the front door
Waiting for me and wondering,
Why I never came home.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never graduate from high school.
My yearbooks will sit stacked
Stopped short of their goal,
Missing years that should have been.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my mom again.
She will sit distraught,
Planning a funeral
For a child taken from her.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my friends again.
They'll sit together, missing me.
One empty seat among them,
A constant reminder of their loss.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my little sister again.
She will sit through high school
Knowing I can't guide her through,
That she has to figure it out alone.
If I die in a school shooting
My school will be stained.
Pools of students lives will sit,
Blood tattoos on the brick structures,
Marks of death ground into it.
If I die in a school shooting
Everyone will wear black.
They'll send their thoughts and prayers
To a town marred by death,
Forever to be the home of a shooting.
If I die in a school shooting
Will the world change?
Or will I become one of hundreds
Of kids who have to die?
What will it take?
If things continue this way
Children will have to live in fear.
They'll look over their shoulders
Always worried and wondering,
If they'll die in a school shooting.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
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
The formulae for well being
is found in those memories,
a preparedness to unearth
yesterday's yearbooks;
which releases those far flung controls of analogue,
resurrecting belt driven
record players
to play Starbuck and Brothers Johnson
reviving '76,
mentally speeding on pristine motorways,
buzzing by on a chevy corvette
humming to the suggestive "Afternoon Delight"
vying with your Radio's antenna.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 7:05 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
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's been drilled in every poor man's head,
by a man only slightly less poor
"money cannot buy happiness."
But I disagree!
If you say that,
You have not watched your father scream at God at 7 in the morning,
questioning His existence,
as we get kicked out of
the second house that year.
I no longer find excitement
in new places.
You've never waited for the first of the month.
Every month.
In order to eat something other than spaghetti
and dollar store hot dogs.
You've never had your power shut off for an entire month
And watch as your family rips apart,
boiling water on the stove just to bathe.
Your parents owe everyone money.
You've never worked in order to buy your cleats, yearbooks, and school supplies.
Only to have your parents take that money, too.
You can send your vibes,
and tell me to think positive.
But the world is distorted!
Our lives are only better now because my family got jobs.
Before,
I watched a bulldozer
go through the house I grew up in,
as the bank sold our home
and built an auto-parts store over dirt
I used to ride my bike on.
The last pieces of my grandmother, crumbled.
My father stayed up every night
and slept through every holiday and birthday, since.
Is that happiness?
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 12:36 PM UTC
Sunshine, spice and spades.
Butterfly's, beards and bread.
Yellow, yearbooks and yodeling.
Paint, pizza and platinum.
Music, melons and magic.
Zoos, zippers and zillions.
Apples, analysis and art.
Waiting, wagons and wafflers.
Give me a beer with friends any day.
Life's more fun that way.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
Friends fake endearments written in yearbooks
Or until the reunion when age can’t pretend
Many attend only to feel better about themselves
One night to reminisce, pity accompanying regret.
May 14, 2019
May 14, 2019 at 12:22 AM UTC
My mother,
small thick and
sixty-two this year.
I know her advice on daily measures
resonates much deeper than I admit;
always seeming to pry at that
lone heart-string.
Sometimes, when I am home alone,
I go through her things;
her old photographs,
her high school yearbooks,
her letters;
and I read them.
I imagine her this way:
young, like me,
and in love,
married,
driving a babyblue
Volkswagen Beetle,
telling of how it was the
best car
she ever drove;
the American Dream.
I like to think
my mother
was a pin-up girl instead;
her peroxide hair
glowing in the sun;
the summer of 1971.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
Familiarity rings off of the glass walls surrounding me
trapping me in seductive comfort.
Security in memories chains me to the cherry and the spoon
then drowns me in the Mississippi
The faces in my yearbooks have all worn and faded
dispersed into the pulse of reality.
A new city beckons me and I look to the sky for guidance
and the sea for wisdom.
-trj
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 9:26 PM UTC
It all kind of
Blurs together,
The mishaps
And "what if"s.
The well-wishes
Of old friends
Etched carelessly
With bleeding ink.
Looking through
Yearbooks, trapped
Behind cartilage cages.
When you think
About it all too
Hard, your lungs
Do a flip-flop.
But when you don't
Think about it at all,
Your skull feels bare.
"Bittersweet"
Is the name
Of the game.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
Old ballet shoes,
Yearbooks with letters wedged into the cracks promising friendship until the end of time.
The yearbook signatures that promised to call or catch up,
and the signatures that actually should have ended with "good bye".
Children's books and children's clothing,
Tiny t-shirts and itty bitty shorts.
Ticket stubs and concert tickets,
ID cards and senior portraits.
Long lost poetry and crinkled letters
To boys I thought I'd love beyond the time I did.
Photographs of us in our youth
And some of us apart, outgrowing each other.
Homework from freshman year,
Art projects I thought deserved life beyond the magnets on the kitchen fridge.
Baby blankets and old rosaries
for when I thought Jesus could keep my faith in all that's good.
Books I haven't read in years
that still make me smile when I roll my fingers down the spine.
My grandpa's memorial announcement
and his old fishing hat.
The CD's we used to make dances to,
and perform for ourselves in my old costumes.
Friendship bracelets from girl's names I can't remember,
and friendships I lost
Numerous diaries with long entries about being older,
and how someday older will be better,
How age will bring me adventure, maturity, love, resolution, clarity, a sense of myself, happiness.
Here I am with more age, and these endless memories make me wish for the time when I could still fit into the little shorts and stick my tongue out in pictures.
The someday I wrote of is today
and I'm teary-eyed over what used to be.
I'm missing the old you and the old memories,
the old friends and the old ways of happiness.
I'm here, older now,
and I wish I knew if older was better.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 4:34 AM UTC
When I pointed out the harvest moon to him,
as it hung in the sky, blurred yellow edges
hiding behind a fog,
he laughed at me.
And as the car pulled forward, I saw the shining yellow shell
of the Shell Gas Station shine over the street.
This moon is nothing like your’s.
I find
that when people try to impress me
it all becomes the more unimpressive.
Your talent and true skill
should speak for itself,
jump off the page of your notebook
and indulge my sights with the vision
of your gift.
So when you try
to oh-so-casually remove your shirt
and change as you walk by me
sitting on your bed, reading a text
on my phone and now starting to wish
that I was home,
leave your shirt on—
show me your love.
Don’t tell me about your award from the state.
Let me find the plaque as I wander around the room,
waiting for you to come back from the stove.
Your wallet is thin, but the food is most delicious
when it’s served at your kitchen’s round table.
And as the smells creep into your bedroom
from down the hall,
I slide my fingers along the bookshelves,
pulling out yearbooks and quickly searching for your picture,
hoping to find it before you can notice
I’m not there.
That’s when I’ll find the plaque, resting on a corner of the shelve,
not even hung up.
I’ll bring it up at dinner later, ask what honorable thing you did, good sir.
And then you’ll tell me the story,
And it will be love
ly.
But rather, I’ll sit on the edge of the bed,
nestle my jacket around me tighter
and reach for the intoxication.
I must make myself drunk with something other than love tonight.
I must find the part of me that only knows moonlight, reach her,
touch her, and pull her closer to me. Embrace this new me.
I’ll breathe in her breaths and then press them onto your lips.
And I will forget that this is not love and this is not safe
but I left that harvest moon in another state.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
I went to visit my friend, Frank
I shouted his name and to no response...
this was the first time in six months
that I went to visit him....
he already depressed about losing his father
and having his wife leave him....
I tried to get his number, to call him
but... he simply disappeared
I got in touch with one of his co-workers
to get his address...
the first I notice when I visited was the unhinged doors
and the broken wine bottles
I went to the kitchen
the first thing I noticed there was the smell of spoiled milk
and the first thing I saw were the rat droppings
and roaches crawling in the bread pantry
I spotted the rusty knives, and smashed plates
the walls were filled with fungus and mold
the roof was the leaking and the doors
were torn off their hinges....
the garbage bags were ripped apart
rotten apple cores, half-eaten oranges
1/3 of a whole pizza and a rusty razor blade
laid bare...
I went upstairs,
they creaked and any second they were about to cave in
on the first door to the right was his room
spiderwebs cuddled with the doorknob
once inside, all I saw was stacked up **** magazines
dried up tissue, and a static TV.....
the pictures were smashed and there was hole in the wall
******* rusty needles and ****** filled his dresser
I walked out and went to the second on my left
there was the attic.... filled with yearbooks,
degrees, pictures, just so many memories left untouched...
I walked to the last door on my right
that was his bathroom...
I open the door, the first thing I noticed...
it was Frank's body hanging from the rafters
he was wearing a white wedding dress
with makeup smeared all over his face
roaches ate his eyes and his arms
were coated with dry blood...
the toilet was filled with feces
the shower curtains were ripped
and the sink ran brown water
there was no note.....
but the body spoke for itself...
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
A scrap of paper, photographs
Bills and letters torn in half
Busts and trophies, dust encrusted
History to the yearbooks trusted
Books and writings left unfinished
Home in which the life's diminished
Slight wood carvings, half a speech
Tales of hiking, latched on leech
Kids and wife left in tears
Remembering well my too-short years
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
(hi, you reading this. I would love some edits and help on how to make this better, thanks so much!)
The air feels like
the backseat
of an old car
that’s been sitting
in the sun
for too long,
and the white,
gunky sun lotion
is sticky and
slippery
on clammy,
red skin,
sweating under
the heat
of the sun.
The same sun
that spills lazily
over the horizon
each morning
to be mopped up
by sandy beach towels,
as the day closes to an end,
each day after another,
melding together
in a band of
memories,
then neatly tucked away,
under old yearbooks,
and faded
photographs,
only to be pulled out
months later
over clusters of sleeping bags
and a flashlight
that’s almost dead.
No longer important,
just another summer
gone by,
the next one
will be just the same.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
It's you.
You.
It's always been you.
From the very beginning
All the way back to when we were little kids without a clue.
Running aroud the school yard in our uniforms.
It started as a cute little kid crush
Then we grew and feelings did too.
Middle school came and you made my heart skip beats when you looked at me in the hallways.
Then I was really sad cause you went onto highschool and we grew apart and I thought
owell it wasn't meant to be
But here we are again all these years later and somehow we've found each other again
And as I look back through old yearbooks and I find your pictures circled or with hearts around them I realize it's always been
You
No matter what no matter how I always ******* come back to you because it's you.
It's always ******* been you.
You...
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
We turn our eyes, grasping with our vision
For the horizon
For the edge
Of a sphere
And we’re lying now
Beside the twilight and the motion
Beside the sea
Beside our fear
We couldn’t fathom
What we should believe in
Reciprocal force, reciprocal affection
Just bodies, Just planets
Just planes
Of existence… in our closets
Under boxes
Beneath yearbooks
On your bed
Weathered autumn
Leaves approaching
In this, our youth’s Winter
Exposing brittle branches
Containing remnants of those lives
Easily extracted from the core
Of my eyes
Then swallowed in the high-tide
Of horizon
Bringing us the future
Of life’s Summer
Enlightened in the morning
Past our fears
As we stand here in mutual Spring time
Grasping vision, with our eyes, of the sphere
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 10:41 PM UTC
i feel it in the wind that rattles my window when i can't sleep,
it is always calling out to someone who won't respond.
in the snow that falls and falls and falls and falls,
a fresh start for everything but me.
i feel it in the cars that look like little bugs from my airplane window,
all of them filled with people who are moving and changing and growing.
i am moving too, much faster than them and much higher up,
but i feel like i am at a standstill, stuck in hole and letting time move without me.
on new years, at midnight, taking shots of cider and throwing confetti and wanting to cry,
when my friends aren't enough, when i all i want is to feel his lips on mine but i never can.
i feel it in my folder of school work that i haven't opened yet,
in the thought of going back to take tests and to walk down halls by myself.
i feel it in the three and a half more years before i am free.
in thinking about the future and how many more days they expect me to live through.
in the words i keep repeating in my poems and in the words i don't know how to write.
i feel it in endings and beginnings and in my stupid hope that this year has to be better than the last one.
in the pages of my yearbooks and the texts on my phone and in the mirror every morning.
i feel it in the bottom of my coffee cup and on the underside of my pillow,
in the blanket that holds me when i am afraid nobody ever will. (and they wonder why i love staying in bed.)
(mpr)
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 3:17 AM UTC
I don't know what I'm doing.
Going back to my parent's house to look through
Childhood photos and high school yearbooks.
It's not working.
I can't stop spinning.
Everyone always says childhood is the best time of your life
Then high school,
Then your twenties.
Which time is the best?
A lot of it has already past.
I didn't do it right, did I?
Where am I?
Too many drugs, too little time.
What is happening?
****
****
****
My golden years where more like sterling silver.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
reading our texts, remembering that it takes you hours to text back
looking at your pictures, seeing how happy you are with every one else
reading my yearbooks and realizing that people change
wondering how i've changed
wondering why i don't change
considering telling you how i feel
considering telling her how i feel
considering deciding how i feel
thinking about how i feel
picturing us together
picturing us apart
picturing you
you
hoping that one day it'll be 3am and we'll be together
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 3:37 AM UTC
Every time I drink from that bottle you gave me,
I think of you
Every time I meet someone with your name,
I think of you
Every time I look at yearbooks,
I think of you
Every time I talk with my friends,
I think of you
Every time your best friend texts me,
I think of you
Every time I try to move on,
I still think of you
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 11:12 PM UTC
right now
i'm imagining
the feeling of sweat
and hairspray
and suspecting that the
church will be hot
the knees of friends
and family all
sticking to the edges of
the blue padded pews
i can practically
feel my clammy hands
and the robe hanging
from my shoulders
rosin on my fingers
i expect that i will
need rosin
and nail polish
to keep me
glued together
i hope
i won't cry
i kind of know
i won't cry
but i bought waterproof
mascara just in case
and i won't be able
to feel my toes because
they'll be numb
in my finest heels
all i want is to be
out of here
but it's still only
in my mind.
and as i'm sitting in bed
contemplating
*(you could call it
dwelling or
obsessing but i will
call it good
old-fashioned
contemplation)*
i'm thinking about
my graduation
and how i don't even
really care
about a kind of
paltry milestone
inside this year
compared
to the feeling of
the last day of class
that moment on stage
dancing in sneakers
my finest poems
late nights
mornings too early
yearbooks
and every weekend
spent together
i'll miss
everything i had
and dread all
that i don't
but i sure can't wait
to get out
i just have to get
past graduation day.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 3:30 PM UTC