Long Homework Poems
Long Homework Poems. Below are the most popular long Homework by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Homework poems by poem length and keyword.
I couldn't do the math homework.
I'll never be any good at math.
In fact, I'll flunk all my subjects at school
I'll never be any good at anything
I'm a total failure.
Nobody likes me in my science class.
I'll never make any friends in the class.
In fact, nobody in the entire school likes me.
I'll never ever have a friend again.
I'm totally unlikeable.
I missed every shot I took in basketball today.
I always miss all of my shots.
In fact, I'll never make another shot as long as I live.
I have no athletic ability whatsoever.
I stink at sports.
I blew another job interview today.
I blow every interview I get.
Nobody will ever want to hire me.
I'll never get a job again.
I'm totally worthless.
What a difference a divorce makes:
Constant hubbub's given way to eerie silence,
Peels of laughter to a fluorescent light's buzz;
Ringing phones to muffled cries in my brains,
'Pacman streaming' to rusted mufflers screaming
On the highway outside by the drain.
What a difference a divorce makes:
Sunshine's moved out; clouds've moved in:
Lemonade and cookies replaced by memories
Drowned in tonic and gin.
No happy dogs at play; just stray dogs growling;
The company of neighbors now's a grey wolf howling.
What a difference a divorce makes:
"Can you help with my homework, Dad?"
To "Bartender, I need a drink bad," transformed.
"Dad, take us to the park, pretty please."
Now forlorn: "It's closing time, friend. It's best you leave...
I can be obsessive. For instance, last night I needed a command hook.
My mind couldn’t focus on “Principles of Biostatistics,” as fascinating as that book is, because I needed this $3 command hook to hang my keys by the door.
There’s a table by the door, I could easily put my keys there, but no. That’s where books go (am I too picky?). What’s funny is, I’d just been reading about ‘bias mitigation,' ya know, science is everywhere.
Still, I searched the boxes that I hadn’t unpacked
I looked around them too, did one fall in a crack?
Did I have one to begin with? I couldn’t keep track.
I texted Charles (across the hall), “do you have a command hook?”
“A what?” he replied. So I texted his wife, who went to look.
When she didn’t have one, I went back to my book.
The chapter was about ‘probability distributions as tools for managing uncertainty.’ How topical, here I was, uncertain about when I’d get that command hook. Never mind an indifferent God, science is obviously listening.
It was nearly midnight. I wondered, how late Door-Dash delivered?
Would they bring my hook or were there other services I should consider?
What about Amazon, Target or WalMart—could one of those be a winner?
In the end I had to do without—I gave up at 1am.
The miracle of capitalism had failed me—damn.
I could study with the hook off my mind. So, I set an Alexa reminder,
an alarm on my watch and alerts on my iPhone and MacBook finder,
then I wrote a pink post-it note, and put that on my epidemiology binder.
I have a standing, pre-dawn jog with Charles, and an idea forming.
If we passed an open convenience store, I could buy one in the morning!
.
.
Songs for this:
I Want You by Bob Dylan
I need you by Jon Batiste
In the middle of a quiet, Before the tiger’s roar;
At the level of the dawn, Before the wave returns to shore,
I chose one petal from, a many petaled flower
Stared into its nature for, What seemed to be an hour
Then let it fall and walked away,To let the earth devour
Gifted to the root, the stalk, the stem, the bud
It may become as I, a shoot grown from the mud.
One day with age of years, I’ll come again
To choose the petal I have known, To hold in hand as then,
Then move myself once more to find my home.
And as I think upon the petal, It remains with me
Where it has always been this while, for those who love to see;
Leaving and returning, Matching movements, of my own.
The time we give to each, Is but a loan.
The ebb and flow of all our understandings.
I know the petal, As the petal so knows me.
More than chance encounter this, Allowing us to see
The beauty of all others is carried in ourselves.
Always,
There is the beauty of the other in ourselves.
the last days of exams and school,
and beginning of hot summer,
licking fresh ice lollies to cool,
eat mangoes without number!
no more reading no more homework,
all of the day is mine to spend,
under shady banian we perch,
till the heat fades and the day ends.
at night we sleep in the open,
on the first floor verandah bed,
and search amongst stars good omen,
and have gran all our fortunes read!
three hot months of fun, play and joy,
in peak heat of May, June, July,
those idyll days spent as a boy,
are here to haunt and make me cry!
Written 10/09/2021
John Lawless sponsored
Rhyme checked in RZ
8 syllables each line
with abab rhyme sequence
I sit in the driveway
longer than I should.
Car off.
House dark.
Little silhouettes moving past the curtains.
And I just...
sit.
Because inside that door
is another shift.
and I haven’t even recovered
from the first one...
Work drained me today.
Not the kind of tired
that sleep fixes.
The kind that sits behind your eyes
and makes everything feel loud.
The kind where one more “Can you?”
might break you.
All day I gave.
Gave patience.
Gave effort.
Gave smiles that felt like overtime.
I swallowed frustration
like it was part of the uniform.
Nodded when I wanted to scream.
Stayed late because bills don’t care
if I’m exhausted.
And now…
Now my body feels like a phone on 2%.
No charger in sight.
But through the windshield
I see their shadows.
Tiny humans
who don’t know
how close I am
to tears.
Tiny humans
who only know
that when I walk in
the house feels safe.
So I sit here
and cry first.
Quiet.
Ugly.
Steering-wheel confession kind of cry.
Because sometimes it sucks.
It sucks doing it alone.
It sucks being the only adult in the room
every room.
It sucks never having someone say,
“I got dinner tonight. You rest.”
It sucks being strong
when what I want
is to be held.
I am frustrated.
At the dishes.
At the laundry.
At the math homework I barely understand.
At the way my back aches
like I’m carrying more than groceries.
Because I am.
I am carrying a whole future.
And nobody tells you
how heavy love can be
when it’s all yours to lift.
But here’s the truth...
I whisper to myself
before I open that door:
You are tired.
But you are not weak.
You are overwhelmed.
But you are not failing.
You are exhausted.
But you are showing up.
And that
is everything.
So I wipe my face...
Practice a smile
like armor.
Step out of the car.
Open the door.
And suddenly it’s
“Mom!”
Arms around my legs.
Sticky hands.
Stories about their day.
And the tired doesn’t disappear.
But it softens.
Because this...
this chaos,
this noise,
this second shift
Is proof
that even on my worst days
I am somebody’s whole world.
So yeah...
I cry in the car.
And then I walk inside
and build a life anyways.
That’s not weakness.
That’s resilience with mascara running.
And we do it
every single day.
The kitchen table
was the centerpoint of childhood,
a place of gathering,
an easel for artworks, battleground
for homework and Eden
for the creation of lifeforms
moulded from plasticine.
It was the Formica altar
on which daily meals were celebrated,
a patch of the real, ground zero
for tears and laughter
and a bench for my mother
to cut fabric into shapes
from paper patterns to sew
together into minor miracles.
The kitchen table was an arena
for games where monopoly fortunes
were won and lost on its real estate -
a surface slapped senseless
in games of “snap”, the pride
soaked soil of the Colosseum
where my Dad and I played chess.
It was a resting place for the hands
and elbows of four generations,
a soak for human pain and hurt
and wore without protest
the hot candle wax and cream
from countless birthday cakes.
It listened patiently as lives
unfolded in language.
The kitchen table was a poem
written not in words, but in wear
and tear and in the morse
of scuffs, scratches and stains
inscribed upon its surface.
I do not know its fate.
Sadly, like the pages
of most poetry,
it has been lost to time.
It deserved better.
Man, my crakhead uncle snorin’ in the hallway,
sound like he fightin’ a freight train at 2 a.m.
That’s nothing… my uncle stole my sneakers,
hung ‘em on the fire escape like they flags of defeat.
Pfft, sneakers? I take home extra lunches from school,
‘cause my stomach don’t know if dinner’s even showin’ up tonight.
Extra lunches? I been eatin’ peanut butter straight from the jar,
mama workin’ four jobs, ain’t nobody home to check if I’m alive.
Four jobs? Mine works… somewhere…
but locks the door on me, says I can’t be trusted alone.
I’m standin’ outside knockin’ like a ghost in my own house.
Ghost? Ha! My sister’s runnin’ off with every corner boy on the block,
leavin’ me lookin’ like a fool.
Lookin’ like a fool? I walk miles to school, rain or shine,
shoes so busted I leave puddle footprints like I’m makin’ art.
Art? I got homework eaten by the dog,
teacher said, “Well… at least he tried.”
Tried? I cried in the corner, then laughed so nobody knew.
See? That’s it. We cry, we eat cold cereal, get locked out,
but we still laughin’.
Even when life wildin’ on us like Friday night on the block.
Yeah… humour’s the only thing that don’t get stolen,
don’t get eaten, don’t get locked out.
Laughin’ keeps us alive.
The world can hit, knock, break, confuse…
but we still clown.
We still breathe.
Humour? That’s survival.
I was ten
And SHE was eleven
And the other was already gone long ago
But now we get happiness
Bad habits follow
Bad actions
Bad moods
Unprepared parents make
Untempered tantrums
The medicine is killing me
Why can’t I take control
Anger and Pain
Pain and Anger
A room filled with trash
But it's MY TRASH
MINE
Sometimes in healing
We cast our pain
On the people we love
Moms got medicine
She cries for yelling
I don't care
I don't care
Time to see the therapist
I HATE THIS
I hate this
It doesn’t even work
Why did you steal?
I don’t know
I don't even remember picking that up
School is tiring
I know what I a supposed to do
But nobody sees me anyway
That girl sees me.
I don't like it
She sees me and is rude
All the other kids get yelled at for moving
I left in the middle of class
Nobody noticed when I got back
Why do homework
It doesn't matter
Nobody looks at these grades
Why keep comics
If you can't read them
I don't understand why the packaging is important
I see that you are angry
I don't see how moving a book
From one corner to another
Is Stealing
But ok
Form:
As we grew older Smokey and I,
Our lives would change a bit.
As a teen, there was school and friends,
In the kitchen he'd quietly sit.
All alone he'd wait for me,
To finally end my day,
And come and spend some time with him,
And maybe gently play,
A little game of dangle the string,
Or scratch behind his ears.
I didn't know, how could I know,
He neared the end of his years.
At night I did my homework,
At kitchen table with him.
He lay across my books and watched,
And rubbed my head with his chin.
Then whe I was just eighteen,
I came home from a swimming date.
He staggerd 'cross the yard to me.
I almost was too late.
He laid him down right at my feet.
I took him in my arms.
He closed his eyes and then was gone,
And with him all the charms,
That he displayed throughout his years,
My buddy, playmate, friend.
He remained so all his life,
Faithful to the end.
There will just never be another Smokey.