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Best Class Poems

Below are the all-time best Class poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of class poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Class Poems

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Third Class by Ward, Julia
First in the Greek class by Ward, Julia
Last in the Greek class by Ward, Julia
An Element of Class by T.M.M., Eve
A class of Success by Chalise, Deepak
You've Got Class by Lanier, Bo
changing class by hansen, jan oskar
Class in session by Harrell, Toquyen
Gym Class Sixth Period by Conrad, Devin

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The Best Class Poems

Details | Class Poem | |


written 25th Oct 2013

I don't know if human's will ever see
 every soul born, is right where it's meant to be
For the rich to become the richest
 there has to be a place for the poorest

The entire world is built up from the same level of dirt
 each soul is born without knowledge to cause hurt
Humanity teaches us what a human's life is worth, by money and glory
 I am to believe "all lives are priceless, every soul fit's to tell Earth's story

The luckiest to be born, is that of a poor man
 he learn's the treasures, of "everything he can
Those born into all riches, have no true understanding of "richness
 seeing us not as human's, but those living in poverty "as an illness

Love start's from the soul, and from there, it is taught to grow
 the rich find another kind of love, one only brought with dough
Love, trust, compassion and grace, defining the difference in richest and wealth
 t'is the beggar off the street, who climbs the toughest road to earn his wealth 

He is the most blessed man, he is rewarded with the most valuable key
 for his wealth, is humanly "uncountable, for only God know's the value of he...

Copyright © Denise Hopkins

More great poems below...

Details | Class Poem | |

over and over agin

sometimes i talk to myself, 
my mind is racing,
i dont know what to do...
so hard to explain.
depression isn't a stage
or a faze some kids go through
it shatters you...
i saw it all. 
she cried silent in her bed,
blood stains covered her favorite jeans,
her every shirt,
long sleeve ofcourse...
she suffered through it all with few people to call friend
and more to call enemy
even more to say where quite dissappointed....
her first name in school,
not started by a bully
or a mean rival,
but by her sister, 
and it echoed through her soul,
repeating in her mind... over and over again,
like the ripples of still water
when a pebble is dropped
flash frozen in time
over and over again...
It was the first name they gave her,
millions where created over the years,
some unique
some repeating again, just as the first had..
gothic they called her,
emo, fat, ugly....worse things.
but in her mind, things where worse.
everything was repeating,
over and over again,
finally she believed it. 
she asked for help, from everyone
tried to explain to parents she wasnt well,
got called a psycho for asking to see a theripist,
not from a teacher,
not from a class mate,
but from her own father, who wouldn't, couldn't,
believe there could possibly be a thing wrong....
finally, crying, she confessed her bloody secret to a teacher.
rather then giving her time,
she is sent back to class crying her eyes out, as if she wherent going through enough...
she is sent to the principals office a few minutes later, after breaking down in class...
the princlipal says she needs help,
sends her and her dad for a risk evaluation,
her dads crying as she shows him her cuts...
they walk into a hospital room, 
it smells of chemicals and hand sanitizer,
the lady at the desk gives her a smile.
then she goes into a room with a lady,
her cheeks are sunken in and shes wearing way too much makeup,
the girl is gaging on her perfume,
and she looks really intimidating....
her dark brown hair looks dead and flat
even though its a bit wavy, 
and she wears somewhat of a mocking frown.
asks her all these questions,
is mommy beating her?
is daddy raping her?
is she doing drugs?
not alot
is anyone beating her?
did anyone molest her? 
oxcarbezapine, trazadone, citalipran, clinazapam, colonipan,
valium, lithium, more.......
and thats what they gave her,
some numbed the pain
some brought it out
tearing through her organs,
she became an addict by the time she was fourteen....
over dose after over dose
some for pleasure
some for pain,
gashes on her legs getting deeper,
this time she didnt tell a soul,
not even those she had come to call friends....
wakeup she screamed in her head over and over again
as she dropped weight like it was nothing....
you cant controll it she argued as things became worse. 
at age fourteen she attempted suicide,
she didnt quite succeed.
the medication took away her aappitite....
she liked it
she hated her body
hated herself
felt out of controll
found a new way to cope
as she shoved tooth brush after toothbrush down her throat
to keep her body from nuitrients...
as she whent weeks and weeks spitting food into napkins and making excuses 
I ate at my friends house....
spoken as a whisper
heard like a sentance
echoing in her mind over and over again,
along with that word, all the words,
ugy, anoying, stupid, fake, worthless, nothing...
one bite she would say
rocking back and forth
craving nothing but food
her body racked with hunger pain
one bite and there she was again
over and over and over again
back to a toothbrush
this time she sees blood
she saw her ribs
she saw her bones,
it wasnt good enough,
she almost died, again....
choking on this deep dissappointment in herself,
gaging on everything they where pushing down her throat, 
their words, and their insults, their criticism.... their drugs
all shoved down her throat like candy
and just as she was was trained to do she swallowed despite the bad taste
or the hurt
or the fact that at the rate she was going she would be dead soon...
and you know why? 
because daddy yelled 
and couldnt accept what was happening
not because he wanted to hurt her
but because it hurt him,
and she let him believe,
because she could take the hurt if it meant he didnt have too.
because mommy didnt want to sit in her room all day
smoking weed
doing nothing,
practically having us raise ourselves,
she didnt mean to take anger, or frustration or hurt out on her daughter
she suffered everyday in her solitary confinement,
and from a young age she accepted her bedroom was the cage
 her mother had created for herself.
because sister didnt want to effect her the way she did
she was just frustrated
fed up with the way things where
scared, she needed someone to take her cruelty
and to help heal her pain...
because people in school
who where so cruel
had to have learned from somewhere
and she wasnt going to play into their games,
and they knew she was an easy target
because she would never attack someone so weak
and she accepted her suffering was a sacrafice
to help all these people....
to help her dad,
her mom,
her sister,
every person who was beaten abused or hurt
 and felt so weak at home they wanted to feel strong in the one safe place they had.
because depite the fact she had died inside,
and almost passed away on the out,
it was a saccrafice she was willing to make
so that no one else would have to feel that kind of pain,
and they all inflicted it and broke her down'untill there was nothing left but a shell
of somthing that could have been
and never had the chance
and why? 
because she would take it and wouldnt strike back,
because sometimes "just taking it"
isnt so much about the weakness not to do anything
but about the strangth not to hurt others the way they hurt you...

Copyright © cassie hellberg

Details | Class Poem | |

My African Sister

I am a white, middle class, American male; raised in a white, middle class American home.  I would not say that my upbringing included a lot of diversity.

I remember talking to my brother, Jimmy, just before he told my father he was gay.  Jimmy told me about the inner struggle he wrestled with in first admitting to himself that he was homosexual.  He said he thought it was wrong; it was sinful and something he must avoid being.  Once he realized that being homosexual was not a fault but an innate sexual preference, he decided that he would not live a life of lies.  He, therefore, decided to tell his family about his sexual inclination.  It took a lot of courage to tell my ex-marine father.

Afi is a beautiful, strong, black African woman; raised in a black, African home.  Afi will admit that she is not overly charitable and not likely to do volunteer work.  When she first came to the U.S., however, she was appalled with how our society treated its AIDS victims.  In Africa, Afi would tell us, AIDS patients were embraced and cared for, not shunned and outcaste like here in the U.S.

Jimmy was not a promiscuous man.  He only knew a few sexual partners in his too short life.  Jimmy was a very intelligent and artistically gifted man.  He was doing post–doctorate research in Iraklion, Greece when he first started showing symptoms of having AIDS.

When Afi volunteered to be an AIDS Buddy she made it clear that she did not want to be paired with someone who had full-blown AIDS.  The organization was so hard pressed to find someone with a profile to match Jimmy’s intellect and interests that they begged Afi to just meet him, just once.

Afi says that within an hour she was no longer on a volunteer mission; she and Jimmy 
would be friends regardless of a commitment to the Buddy system.  Jimmy and Afi 
remained best of friends for the two remaining years we were blessed with his presence.

It has been 15 years since Jimmy passed away.  I am still a white, middle class, American male; from a white, middle class American family – only now, we have a beautiful, strong, black, African sister in our family.

Copyright © Joe Flach

Details | Class Poem | |


We are sound.  Of mind and soul. 
We are sound of earth and gold
We are sound.

We are sound, of constant grind 
Fire and coal we are sound.

If GOD BE told, we are sound
Of strife and right  
We are sound, of toil and might 
Of fist  and fight 
We are sound

Of listless days and  raging nights 
We are sound.  

Of blood and mud 
We are sound

Of tattered shares and ragtag flair
We are sound.
Of guts and fury we are sound
Of grave yard fears, we are sound

This is the song of the renowned 
Pound the ground we are sound.


Details | Class Poem | |

The 80's

This is a decade that many wonderful things happened; 
I was born, the reign of hard rock began, 
Michael Jackson began to moonwalk, Cars became smoother 
on the road, Cold War reigned, and also a time that soul music 
massaged our souls and emotions.
This is a decade that never dies. People who were born 
and lived in the 80s still live, the music still exists in hard-drives, 
teenagers have immortalized the fashion sense, and
my yellowing birth certificate still lives on, with one piece.

Copyright © Teddy Kimathi

Details | Class Poem | |

Weird Carolyn

Weird Carolyn

The other cheerleaders didn’t like football
Basketball was much easier to follow
But I got bored watching them dribble the ball
My response was hard for others to swallow

Growing up I didn’t have too many toys
So I had to find my own entertainment
I became a master of animal noise
When I “croaked” on the bleachers strange looks were sent

My frog impersonations left them aghast
When I did my seagull, the team stopped playing
They stared at me oddly as though I’d passed gas
They couldn’t relate to talents displaying

This was the first thing that led to my nickname
But once in class I was asked to give a speech
The teacher was writing, so bold I became
Her attention I was trying to beseech

Being a contortionist since childhood days
Locked one leg and arm, looked like a flamingo
I perched on one foot for each eloquent phrase
The teacher looked up and called me a weirdo

The class agreed and “weird Carolyn” was born
Frequently called upon to put on a show
Much laughter I bestowed, accolades adorned
Never understood why I didn’t have a beau

*Entry for Francine’s “Tell us something we didn’t know” contest.  Okay, the secret's 
out and I'm ready for my punishment.  At high school reunions I'm still called upon to 

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Class Poem | |

A Touch Of Class

A Touch Of Class A touch of class, I wish I had, but what is that? To some people - it means to be rich. Others just say, they have class for reasons that only they know. If you got money - you got class. If you don't - you are considered trash, or so they say. Class" I think comes in different forms. Some people marry into class. Some people gain class and some people are born with class. To have class is to never brag about your exploits. Let other people do it for you. A touch of class is - like a touch of Mink. You see it, but you can't catch it. To have class is - to respect others and respect yourself. That is what I think is class...
Copyright: Written by Lucilla M. Carrillo

Copyright © Lucilla Carrillo

Details | Class Poem | |

Jan Allison

Jan Allison is a Brit.
She has an excellent wit.
Her poems are the very best.
They are much better than the rest.
Jan’s intellect is legit.

Copyright © Jerry Stevenson

Details | Class Poem | |

I'm not nosey but

I've never been one to nosey but
Looking through my net curtains
I just happened to have a pair of binoculars in my hand
I'm a curious kinda man
Ooh you wouldn't believe the things I've seen
Not being a gossip of course
It's so posh around here the mail is personally
Delivered by the Queen
And across my vast sprawling country estate
Someone's skinny dipping in my lake
I think I'll choose a masserati today
And wave at the peasants on my way.

There goes Dietrich on her penny farthing
Listening to some Hank Marvin
Toqyen is drunk again
Casarah is walking her lama
Tim has just worked out at the gym
And Jan is looking nice and Trim
Peter and Vera 
are in the garden
Singing Shakira
Poet destroyer is cutting the grass
Ooh she has a lovely fast
Mower that lass.

There goes Mary Jo on her pogo stick
She doesn't look too well hope she's not sick
Over there prince Harry is having a party again
A fancy dress
And he's dressed as hen
Well folks Think I'll get in my hot tub full of champagne
And wait until tomorrow
When I can spy again.

Peter Dome. copyright. 2014. Sept.

Copyright © Peter Dome

Details | Class Poem | |

trust the system

footsteps aimlessly
walking on their trails
beaten down and broken
shiny as the rails
the rails of the train
over used and rusted
crumbling ignored
the system that you trusted
the silence of conformity
the quiet crying song
of people lost in apathy
monotony so long
the old man remembered
the booming days of old
and tried to warn the youngster
with stories he had told
the young man in the t shirt
can hear no warning cries
television cataracts
covering his eyes
commoners injected
with complacent misdemeanors
fed intravenously
from mass media feeders
the heretics will scream
with no one to hear their call
the working slaves will perish
society will fall
in the pulpit yelling
mystifying lies
sweating like a demon
with fire in his eyes
passing round a dish
to collect the workers' wage
saving souls ain't easy
so he sets a stage
profiting from fear
preparing them for death
comfort is a business
says his liquor breath
on the front row fanning
the woman says amen
waiting for the bell
so she can live in sin
forgiveness is a blessing
that god will give to few
surely she'll be one
when her life is through
the child in the classroom
with the curious mind
will be beaten and conditioned
until she too is blind 
"trust in the system"
is the motto that they teach
"question nothing,
so higher you can reach"
the land of the free
the home of the brave
only for those of us
content with being slaves
some will stand on street corners
holding big white signs
telling of injustice
held beneath our sights
but those who throw the bombs
which burn society down
those will be the shakers
for true freedom to be found
but the sheep still continue
to justify their life
ignoring others torment
blind to their strife
perpetuating failure
selling bankers souls
to keep on consuming
to get the best remote control
to build themselves a shield
what kind of life is this
numbness is a virtue
and ignorance is bliss

Copyright © JoAnna Mitchell

Details | Class Poem | |

Humor is my inspiration

At awe by my mothers beautiful mind,
when it came to writing I always felt so blind.

Literature class advised us to write,
for the first time I did not feel bright.

Sneak a poem of my mothers i did,
boy did I feel like a little kid.

Praise my teacher gave me for such a lovely write,
my mind here and there like a kite.

Lucky me open house was here,
the poem posted on the class wall had me at fear.

Suggesting my parents to skip that class,
trying to avoid the coming sass.

She read it and thought to herself that it was idolized,
her eyes got big as she realized.

Quiet she kept as she knew how embarrassed I was,
of course it gave her a buzz.

It was cause of that day we look back,
and my mom gave me some slack.

She later taught me it's as simple as rhyming,
and with the emotions I have priming.

Copyright © Royal Trevino

Details | Class Poem | |

A Touch Of Class

A Touch Of Class A touch of class, I wish I had, but what is that? To some people - it means to be rich. Others just say that they have class, for reasons that only they know. If you have money - you got class. If you don't you are considered trash, or so they say. Class I think comes in different forms. Some people marry into class. Some people gain class and some people are born with class. To have class is to never brag about your exploits. Let others do it for you. A touch of class is like a touch of MINK. You see it but you can't catch it. To have class is to respect others and to respect yourself. That's what I think is CLASS...
02/03/2013 Written by Lucilla M. Carrillo

Copyright © Lucilla Carrillo

Details | Class Poem | |

To Whom It May Concern

I walk with a silence to my step,
as if in reality they never took place.
A shadow cast upon what has been done,
evidence misplaced.
Seconds merge into minutes, minutes which remain endless.
Days stand without weeks moments reign endless.
Does the mind play tricks, or do the thoughts stay mine.
Without word spoken, whispered from lips to allowing ears,
lies the moments experienced within the years.

Copyright © Gerald Moise

Details | Class Poem | |

Dancing set her spirit free

She was a shy girl
Few words spoken from her
When out in the world.
She was unsure of who she was
Living in her shell
Not unlike that of a prison cell.


But dancing set her spirit free
Gone was her fear
Whether in class or on stage
Gone was her cage
The beauty inside unfurled
A smart, happy, controlled girl emerged.

Afraid to say something wrong
Afraid to do something wrong
She did not wish to upset anyone
She was not so smart
So her mother said many times
Often cross with her she didn’t know why.


But dancing set her spirit free
Gone was her fear
Whether in class or on stage
Gone was her cage
The beauty inside unfurled
A smart, happy, controlled girl emerged.

When she was back in the world
Where shattered had been her trust
The shy, unsure girl returned
She wanted to be liked
She knew there was much to give inside
Few people knew the real person inside.


But dancing set her spirit free
Gone was her fear
Whether in class or on stage
Gone was her cage
The beauty inside her unfurled
A smart, happy, controlled girl emerged.

She had a smile that could light up a room
She was  kind and had compassion for others
She knew how to listen to others
Why didn’t she feel free
To express her mind
Why couldn’t she shine?


But dancing set her spirit free
Gone was her fear
Whether in class or on stage
Gone was her cage
The beauty inside her unfurled
A smart, happy, controlled girl emerged.

One day she left her home
And made her own
She made many friends
And her work was commended
Others listened to her words
She found she made a difference.


Dancing had set her spirit free
Gone was her fear
Whether in class or on stage
Gone was her cage
The beauty inside her unfurled
A smart, happy, controlled girl emerged.

By CarolineCécile
© April 6, 2006.

Copyright © Caroline Cécile Delacroix

Details | Class Poem | |

On Maydays Day

I turn to my girl highlighting Mayday is near A day of spectacle that the whole village views There's Jesters of folly and Knights without fear Witnessing lances and jokes, always going askew To view such we can venture along different ways We can stroll by the river listening to many sounds In awe as we walk amidst most wondrous displays That on any given day beautiful vistas abound Decisions, decisions, as we contemplate which way It's such a special day wondering what to wear Beauty personified will my Olive be on this day Knights or Royal Princes, all they can do is stare So tomorrow we've decided to be our chosen route Two hearts in decision, declaring what's their suit <*> Mayday morn now greets as I turn next to me She my guiding light as beautiful as the dawn Excitement illuminates for into her eyes I see Onto my back I lie, that feel she's now upon Into this day we go heading along the river Crystal clear translucent such serenity in it's flow Under greened canopies cooled shaded deliver Wafting leaved dress in delightful fanned throw We sense the clearings near for scents we sense Sporadic clusters in capture of welcoming eyes Mayday games have started, distant heard suspense Knights on horseback mounted, now in espy Now we're in amidst encapsulated we now are She's here to cheer, her Sir James, soon to spar <*> Balcony she now awaits, white steed he's now astride Blinkered pairings gallop towards intended foe To win this Mayday he, to fight for her his bride Eliminate his enemy, witness his crimson flow His lance in now connect, thrown metal disperses Petals of beauty hurled of rainbows selected Images of we, now thinking marital rehearses To know on this day, her intended she's elected Moments of their previous now in recent past Knowing they're now free in kaleidoscopic stream Spectrum of feelings now in view full cast In colourful extremes, fight for your dreams .

Copyright © James Fraser

Details | Class Poem | |

The World

Born in a world of sin
A world filled with evil from the very beginning,
Greediness and selfishness,
With the existence of poverty, unemployment, crime and disease
Caused by our own human nature,
An inevitable cycle that continues from the past to the present future
Due to the prevalence of social class segregation,
Whereby the lower, middle and upper class fights for social status elevation
In order to achieve upward social mobility,
These social classes will fight in pain and hostility,
An ideology of who is best suited to reach the top
With one class that is, (proletariat) continued to be oppress,
While the bourgeoisie continues to be the dominant class to reap success,
A society filled with greed and self-interest
Every person wants that recognition,
They will always battle each other to reject sorrow and oppression,
That’s the reason why the world will always remain in war, famine and terror
Due to human beings error,
A world divided in segments of continent,
With different nation or countries having differentiated political style of government, 
As well as structure, numerous types of culture and upcoming new subculture,
With every one wanting that one thing riches, prestige and fame,
A reward which symbolizes their name.

Demeter Edwards

Copyright © Demeter Edwards

Details | Class Poem | |

Wilderness is a Crowded street

Wilderness is a crowded street.

Silence stings the ears of the hearer,
Cacophony of sound, unheard.
Loneliness turns to solitude,
Converse without a word.

Wilderness is a crowded street.
A passer-by nobody sees.
Togetherness now disjointed,
Run! I feel their disease.

Money is their mind set
Full wallet yet they're poor.
A heart of gold inside me,
Theirs, an open sore!

Some own the World, yet are bankrupt,
Emotionally discharged black-holes.
Shiny shoes that point to nowhere,
Prices, still on their soles.

All the broken people,
Nobody tells me why.
Orphaned, divorced, mistaken,
I'll not lay down to die.

To roll over and just take it,
Is what they'd like us to do.
So let's all speak out, be counted,
Not be part, of the Zoo!

Copyright © Chris Matthews

Details | Class Poem | |

To My Super Souper Friends

Alot of you folks have been able to say what you feel this holyday season with exquisite 
wording and beautiful sentiments. I can't do that. Maybe if I tell you a story about a 
little kid who was raised and worked on a farm. A farm boy in a class of city kids is ridiculed 
for some reason and beat up alot cause that proves to city kids that they're strong when 
they beat up a farmer kid. So I did the best I could with my sense of humor, got beat up 
when challenged and avoided other confrontations by learning to run real fast! When they 
picked teams for basketball, I was odd kid out. Too little. I found it hard to fit in anywhere.
    One fine day our 7th grade teacher gave us a homework assignment to write a poem 
which we would read aloud in class the next day.The stipulation was that, on your honor, you 
could have no help whatsoever. A solo project.
   After chores that night, I did as she said and was surprised at how easy it was. The 
next day, when it was my turn, I timidly read aloud to the class the first poem I ever wrote.  
When I finished, I awaited the verdict . All was quiet. The teacher told me to sit down. I did. 
She then admonished me for cheating on my assignment and getting help. Of course I did 
not. I still vividly remember how it felt to have all my peers watching me as our teacher 
dismissed me for a cheater with a look of disdain on her face. I was speechless, devastated 
and embarrassed by what others thought.
   The experience pushed me deeper into myself than I had ever been.. It's amazing to me 
how these feelings are resurfacing en force as I write about it. I've written poetry on and off 
since then but never taken it seriously. It was just some force that reared itself once in a 
while until it was subdued by writing one.
    Now, in the autumn of my life, something very strange and wonderful is happening. I 
have been introduced to you, my poetry soup friends. The injustice done to my poetic soul is 
every day being identified by myself, rectified and healed by your loving support. I'm no 
longer throwing my poems away. You have given me in two months what has been missing 
since the 7th grade. You have given me courage, confidence, encouragement and the 
companionship to take up where I was left off. Because of all of you, I can grow again. I was 
at a stalemate in alot of things and then this. Coincidence? More like Christ incidence. Get it? 
YOU are my Christmas gift from Love come down! This is my card to you.  

Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne

Details | Class Poem | |

high yellow black chick

high yellow black chick
dark girls go, "you think you white"
I know who I am

Copyright © Lycia Harding

Details | Class Poem | |

sweats and sweet

Life has its side not fair at all
To till the earth and break rocks
To make our nest with claws of hulk
To try our best and fit the world
No time to rest but just to work
We know no guest who wants to knock
The fruits we heist we can’t seem to pluck
But leave the rest in the hands of luck

I once saw the side so fair to me
Opened so wide opportunities I meet
On beds of roses I pose to eat
My joy didn’t hide to share my tweets
I sure did ride on iron as feet
And were seemed hard with ease I hit
The hides are now mild to feet my teeth
If I hadn’t tried, I wouldn’t know how sweet

Copyright © victor nwakanma

Details | Class Poem | |

Waiting To Forgive You

Curves, black, red and pale Every letter written on your school bag All the words go stale. Weren’t those written by our friends on the last day With the colourless markers of age They are all there, stuck in my head Like stunning words from a different language. But the leaves shed off The peaceful blue sky turned grey The even red turned rough Where is the hope, where is the ray? I still have the memories of you and me Our friendship that looked all so true I still have bells in the back of my head Believe it or not, I’m waiting to forgive you. Those classes in which we sat together You taught me hi-fives And raps of Eminem, I gather. Remember the drama with your ex-girlfriend? And the trust that you never had on me? And when she left you for a new boyfriend “Warned you long ago, didn’t I, really? I still have the memories of you and me Endlessly insulting her, until apart, we grew. I still remember the 12th of December, when you said “Who’re you?” But believe it or not, I’m still waiting to forgive you. You trusted me at the last You came to me, only when you needed. So here’s this poem as the blast. Remember how you changed your seats Was I really that awkward, you adamant? You had better friends, I understand, So why did you do the drama of being the best confidant. I still have the memories of you and me And for all we shared as best friends, I just rue. Betrayal and insult, is all I ever got. But still, yes still, I’m waiting to forgive you…
If you like my poem(s), please follow me on twitter :-)

Copyright © Shivam Murari

Details | Class Poem | |

This is me

My knees were the things that 
kept me up and my skin is my 
cutting board my eyes are the 
rain clouds to the fire running 
down my arms and my heart is 
the fire place that keeps me 
burning so calm

Copyright © brittney lopez

Details | Class Poem | |

Bladder Problems in Class

Numbers on 
White board…names written hori-

Students ask
To go pee…right when class starts – 
THAT’S just wrong…

Bathroom line
Of students who have bladder
Problems – WOW!

People are
Not using lunchtime to do 
Their business 

No one knows
When to do their duties – SER-

Copyright © J. W. M. Earnings

Details | Class Poem | |

The Color Missing

The Color Missing
Red, black, and blue are the colors of our work pens. Red is the color of the blood we spill on other people’s mistakes.  Blue is the color of the songs we sing on tax forms or pay stubs- every page has a secret melody. Black is the color of the streets we fear most. Black is the color of our signature of approval. Black is the color of our death.

‘But what about the Green pens?’ I ask. They say ‘the ink is too hard to see.’

Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt

Details | Class Poem | |


You women
Know how to make 
The best of what you've got in you
You do it everyday in your life

Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza