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For some poems, you’re punctual: You place your pencil on your notepad, You settle in your seat, You even read the syllabus, The poem introduces itself,
Like summer cockroaches they come out hot & defiant - scattering swiftly in all directions. Breaking free from decency
I see red rivers of blood not merely puddles You would think that this is a horror story But this a contiguous continuous struggle   America you are a bully
Present in class, under the antiseptic light of the lecture hall my words infect the air, and my fat brass opinion dissipates into discussion. The next hand raises
As I sit in my chair, typing away at my computer, I feel eyes, watching me. Not bad eyes. No harm is intended, I can tell. But someone, perhaps more than one person, watches me.
  Sunshine hurts my eyes.Why am I up this early?Oh yeah, I have class. Sunshine hurts my eyes.Why am I up this early?Oh yeah, I have class.  
The class is a Place to be. When i Look Outside. I See People drinking Hennessey. Whats this, they supposed to learn. This is to Show you what they really missed. And hiss.
Classes, assignments presentations in particular, they get us so stressed out. Let's stick with the presentations, for the moment and think about this: how prevalent the fear of public speaking is.
The idea rocketed around my head with determination Fireworks spitting flames into my imagination Join dance Join dance Join dance It bounced into my ta-ta-tapping toes and my beat-beating heart
Boredom slowly creeps upon me, Like a fog on top a hill. My eyes start glazing over, My brain is standing still. I’m trying to take notice,
Education   Boredom slowly creeps upon me, Like a fog on top a hill. My eyes start glazing over,
The sun beats down as if I’ve personally hurt it While I’m dressed in my varying shades of grey and navy blue Some faded from the sun and repeat wears that only the college poor can call trendy
To spill the anger burning inside, To caress the heart crying,  To impede the endless thinking of mine,  To prevent myself from dying.    To cherish the precious memories made, 
This is my home I don't call it my home by choice but simply by association I work a full time job and have classes every day I simply dream of laying down and resting if only for a moment
Those who are blind left in the dark the dumb without books the handicapped floored the young ignored   hundreds Of millions of heads twice the number of eyes all of empathy Sheds
Red high heels Upon the white marble. She speaks with class To the younger ones. They will learn her ways.
Just a few years ago I can see this change How drugs, sex and drinking took the reins
I know you are speaking, but I am not listening.
  The lesson sounds like one long "ohm",
  Love is a Sweater,
In my senior year, I took my final high school English class. Advanced compostion.  We were told in this packet in the mail a week before school started that we'd read a lot And write a lot.
My etiquette Class is unique,  Amongs many we have our own technique Its a combination of different tribes and we are been taught not to take bribes. We are taught by different teachers
We sit from 7-2 everyday waiting for it to end. Little do we know what will come of us then  We sit in classrooms praying for the bell But what will happen when we leave only the future may tell  
The girl who slept in class seemed to not care the words that were being spoken and the lines that were being taught but did you ever see  that girl outside of class?  
I turn on the shower head along with my thoughts Which are often not my thoughts at all My mind has been infiltrated by society's thoughts And everything it has taught Should I really be distraught about all this?
An eraser is the greatest weaponmankind could have made. It absorbs mistakes intorubber skin and gives comfort tothe pencil whom regrets its
We might only have one last time together To walk along the halls and hold the memories forever Our last moments at the lockers between classes
Chemistry, man. Maybe it should be ban. Nah, I love that class. Its the most badass. Secretly, I'm a fan.
It’s almost time, we’re nearly done Senior year, the final one Last year to cherish the friends we make It’s time for risks we want to take   Life is quickly passing by
Dear Synthetic Division, I don't detest. I don't understand you. It's not you. It's me or maybe the teacher who stands in front of the class ranting in a foreign language we call
People judge by class, And they do this without knowing.
When we all were in elementary school We were told “drugs are bad” We could recite all their effects We could tell you how they would kill We could tell you what would happen To your abused body
The class is packed With students, Work, Lessons.  
I’m sitting here, Playing with my pencil, Doodling on my paper; You’re rambling on about nonsense, The implicit derivative of some long equation. I think I heard you say cosine?
Technology is cool when you see it on TV, hear about it on the radio, but we just spent too much money for shit that we don't need.   The fancy calculators, the dumb
a new desk i need. cracks are breaking the old desk. chair and desk are same.  
Yes! I'm listening, I'm paying attention! But it might be a little easier if you spoke with some passion! Poor Jimmy to left is struggling to stay awake, And Kimmy stopped coming, instead of showing up late!
No more printed worksheets,  no more downloaded lessons, I want you to stand up and teach the class. Unglue your eyes from that computer of yours, and stop texting that person on your phone,
Grasping for air that my lungs desire  as i pull the tear drops back inside Camoflaging the dark clouds that hover above me When will you acknowledge the darkness  that surrounds my inner walls?
 You could hear her heels click as she walked.
Waves crash against the shore, A storm is on its way. I cling to my desk in a bitter hope That it will all pass over me.   But as they walk by, Their lightning strikes— Cold, hard stares
The bell rings and all is in a hurry Halls begin to crowd and students begin to worry For an invisible timer has started to tick And it was time to get to class quick My heart begins to rapidly beat
Blame it on me, the student. All because I can't see I can't see why you teach; All you do is preach. There's never a lesson.  In one ear and out the other, is my confession.
I sit in this class, Boredom running its fingers through my hair. Teacher is talking history, Delving into some guy's affair.   Then we move on to slavery, A topic I have learned of before.
You think the world revolves around you, as most college professors do.  Really? Hell, I have a lot more things on my mind than your class. Tutoring. Eating. Working. Surviving.
Slaying privateers with my blunderbuss, The queen's lap dogs surrendering without a fuss,-- Remember this for the test: PV=nRT-- I took their ship, not caring if I was brusk.   I can't seem to shake her.
Remember the joy, And remember the fun, All of the days we had in room 161.   How we laughed and joked together, And broke many of the rules, But how we couldn't have helped it
We all stroll in to class. The bell rings. "Settle down class."  You take roll.  "Here."  You tell us we're taking notes. We all sigh in your ear. Taking notes is a drag. 
Yes, I am fully aware that my cleavage is exposed. No, I do not care. Yes, I know that it is against school dress code. No, I do not care. You claim that it is distracting to the class to be “indecently exposed”
You stand up there, teaching us this crap How will it apply and when will I use that can’t I pick my own classes? Go to class when I want Whys the government control us, I wish I could change that  
                                   Math Class The hard uncomfortable seat that hurts my ass more than any other class, The shrill voice that lasts in my mind for hours, I dread walking through that door
Sitting in a class day to day No difference, same thing ... papers all seem the same Waiting for a chance to shine...but the professor doesn't know me Hidden behind numbers...some one please recognize me
I go to Calculus every day, Waiting to hear what the tacher might say. It doesn't matter what she tells us to say or do, Completed assignments are so few. We learn so fast it's hard to learn,
The room goes blank.
You say you teach me how to think to say the things you say are true when the things you say, don't come from you. I say, you teach me WHAT to think to say the things you say are true
I start with a question The teachers expression He queries My mind goes through the series My mind is like a closed session
Dark hair Frames her angular face Protruding cheekbones Paperwhite skin hiding lacy blue veins Dark eyes Follow me around the room Judging me Looking at me Wanting to be me
I walk into class every morning at 7:15 AM. Kids push and shove into me  and my scowl is covered by a red face. Why do you let kids hurt each other? Whether it be words or swords,
School is torture This I can not be more sure The teachers like vultures Misery they ensure When the bell rings They act like kings Barking out commands That every student withstands
Quick! Turn around! Catch this kid, Phone lit right up, fingers dancing across the screen.   Come on! Look! He's playing Candy Crush, But your back is turned.
Never Have I Ever Told My Teacher To Shut It. It would have been nice to place them on mute. Matter of fact, the school system could give them the boot.
No room Last resort Loud bang Pothole shakes the car Cracked asphalt Hot under the sun Late again Stop Find a spot Trudge to class Through green forested path
I'm here in class Last one in the back No one else can realize That I have a voice that cannot be denied You say that you don't hear me But really your just not listening
I'm on my way, I have twelve weeks. I count the days, Success I seek. As time passes I reminisce, picking classes, I enjoy this. I must be strong. To stand a chance,
I can show you a villanelle that I wrote. This is the only way of showing it. Yes, I did pay attention and take note
Uh. Uh. Agency. History. Word. Here we go: United States, United States Tryin' to show the world its pretty face But 'merica's history ain't always a pretty view Open Zinn and Russell and let's review
It is loud. I find it hard to move and sometimes it's hard to breathe. Claustrophobia, and a fear of the unknown. I'm just ten feet from the target now, and he stops me.
A moment’s glimpse is all I get each day Her quick darting silhouette does intrigue Ever wishing for a chance she will stay I wonder how she moves without fatigue Should I call out to her, oh no too late
Five, four, three, two more months until we spread our wings and fly. One chapter of our life ends as the next begins. The laughs, friends, tears, and enemies all become things in the past. We walk across the stage,
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