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Class Poem
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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 Ninja | Year Posted 2013
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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 | Year Posted 2010
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2013
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2013
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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....
FAT
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
repeating,
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?
no
is daddy raping her?
no
is she doing drugs?
not alot
is anyone beating her?
pass...
did anyone molest her?
pass....
oxcarbezapine, trazadone, citalipran, clinazapam, colonipan,
valium, lithium, more.......
and thats what they gave her,
more...
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,
FAT!!!!!!
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
FAT!
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 | Year Posted 2013
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2014
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2014
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2013
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2015
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Class Poem
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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.
Copyright © VAL BROOKLYN Rogers BLK PANTHER | Year Posted 2014
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Class Poem
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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
perform.
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2014
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2015
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2013
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Class Poem
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The low suffer most the blow of the law
And no better do they fare with its flow:
From injustice to injustice it carries them
But none ever calls this a flaw.
For like that, perhaps, she can’t help to be,
Born of the mighty as she is.
Once, though, every eternity the cords of
patience snap:
Justice is demanded and swiftly she comes.
It's time for revolution, the clash unto ash
between the classes.
By saw and seesaw there'll be newness abroad:
The old system teeters as its sinews are severed
And from cakes of blood springs another;
That long denied by law is now seized by claw,
And from star to tar the mighty tumble
As their thrones are lowered for dwarfs to
mount.
Upwards go the erstwhile low
To be class dwarfs no more
But the mighty of the land.
Amidst this newness, though, an old song
soon intrudes:
In voices faint and mournful we hear it sung
By those from star to lowly tar fallen.
In fields and taverns, at work and at play,
It dwells on lips bright and sullen;
But up above behind stately walls where
stands the palace
None but the children dare sing it—
The song they once heard old papa sing,
Which loosened his lips like a wicked brew
But now binds them shut like a glue.
When from frolics they break
In their playfields green
And in palace parlors
At once warm chants from their breasts erupt
Which with glee and charm they long sustain
Till every soul feel their lips beguiled
To render accompaniment in a whistled melody.
Then swirls the music about every ear, and all can
hear the palace ring:
“The low suffer most the blow of the law
And no better do they fare with its flow:
From injustice to injustice it carries them
But none ever calls this a flaw.
For like that, perhaps, she can’t help to be,
Born of the mighty as she is.”
Copyright © Agona Apell | Year Posted 2016
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Class Poem
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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.
Refrain
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.
Refrain
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.
Refrain
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?
Refrain
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.
Refrain
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 | Year Posted 2010
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Class Poem
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No one lives in a democracy opening word lie
Let's be frank for a moment we are all slaves
unto a taxpaying system none the less true
Graded by our salary in class distinction fact
poor lawless order is the ruling bodies ignorance
that takes under the table deals which turn tricks
Hidden from view by corruption shady characters
our role models to carry into the future light
Power generates a hungry source unyielding
That lusts with the endless need for more
constantly envying others happiness
chaos will follow unmoral government bodies
They who should be prosecuted where justice dwells
under high treason against the state and her children
I believe in truth and honestly not falsehoods
Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2016
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2014
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Class Poem
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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.
GOD BLESS YOU ALL.- ROBERT
Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2009
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Class Poem
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Where is hope, where is faith? You are all alone,
No more tears, stop crying, be strong and pray.
Look within your soul, you will find enduring spirit.
Don’t panic, take control of your inner self,
Pay less attention on your feelings.
Listen to your heart; paint the picture of your future on your mind.
Find the strength to defeat your fears in life.
Don’t make loud noises, stop talking and listen to your inner self.
Don’t worry about things you cannot change, move on from your past
Listen you possessed Great Spirit,
You are far more powerful than you will ever know
Stop asking question and be the answer to your own worries in life
Copyright © Busani Zuma | Year Posted 2016
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Class Poem
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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…
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Copyright © Shivam Murari | Year Posted 2013
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Class Poem
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Numbers on
White board…names written hori-
zontally
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-
IOUSLY?
Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2013
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Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2013
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Details |
Class Poem
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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 | Year Posted 2013
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Details |
Class Poem
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A corrupt judge
Presides over
Certain injustice
Copyright © Patricia L Graham | Year Posted 2014
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