Forgotten
You may not
have heard my name spoken aloud before, but you know I’m always there.
In every
orchestral arrangement, quartet piece, even solo.
You hear me,
yet you are surprised at my very existence.
I let them
make jokes about me, their mockery and cruel laughter crashing over me, day
after day.
I let Violin
bask in constant praise and attention, for she always receives the melody.
She, of
course, deserves the most credit.
You can see
the picture painted right before your eyes as she sings her song.
She is the
best and most elegant. She leads the orchestra.
I step out
of the picture to let Cello have his time in the light, for he is in the back
as much as I and deserves respect.
His deep,
mysterious voice echoes off the walls of the concert hall. He, too, is just as
capable of imagery as Violin.
Cello keeps
the beat going while contributing to the melody.
Bass is
different.
He has a highly important job to fulfill-to
help us stay in line.
He is the
beat we fall back on when we stumble.
And then
there’s me.
I’m pushed
out of the way.
Forgotten.
Forgotten.
I always
give up the spotlight, rather I’m forced to, because I’m simply the one who
plays the background.
My job is to support my brothers and sisters, the column that holds the temple up.
My job is to support my brothers and sisters, the column that holds the temple up.
Alas, never
the solo, never the melody.
Nothing
special.
Nice to meet
you, I’m a viola.
by Emma S., Grade 9
Copy Machine
There are no uniforms at this school,
But that is a lie.
Because girls are quite cruel, and in order to be cool,
You have some things you need to buy:
1.
Black leggings with long socks
2.
T-shirts from old sports teams
3.
Grey slip-on vans or Birkenstocks
4.
A flat iron to burn your hair until
it steams
5.
Make sure your mascara is caked
6.
And your personality is faked
If you don’t follow these rules,
Then you’ll be called a fool.
God forbid you are different or
unique,
And if you are, they will quickly
bespeak.
It happens every day,
In some sort of way.
It even happened today,
To a girl in my class.
She wasn’t like the rest.
These other girls picked up on it
fast,
And made fun of the way she dressed.
In front of everyone.
The poor girl was stunned,
For being herself, she was bullied,
And will never again be herself
fully.
Ever since that day,
I am sad to say,
She never dresses the same way,
And just like that, we have another
clone.
Their real personalities never
shown.
Almost all girls are the same,
To which we cannot tame.
It is all just someone’s ploy,
Your differences, they want to
destroy.
Like a candle,
Your flame can easily be blown out.
To most, their words are too much to
handle.
Then, without a doubt,
You too will fit the mold,
Until you grow old,
Because of what they told,
And never again will you be bold.
Their opinion, you will always hold.
Because when you were fourteen,
Their words were like a guillotine.
Will somebody please turn off
This horrible copy machine?
by Kayla S., Grade 9
** The following poem is inspired by an article from Psychology Today and meant in jest. The poet has specified that he wants you to know that he is not actually aspiring to be a dictator**
How I am Turning Into a Dictator via Instagram
Before we begin
Credit should be given
where due:
These requirements
come from Psychology Today and Mark Van Vugt, Ph.D.
Also hit me up @Morose
42.
1 Expand your power base through nepotism and corruption
I have told my parents
and brother to follow me in exchange for favors.
2 Instigate a monopoly on the use of force to curb public
protest
People who disagree
with me on Instagram are met with immediate and merciless yelling.
3 Curry favor by providing public goods efficiently and
generously
I post spicy memes on
my Instagram, which are seen as funny and valuable.
4 Create and defeat a common enemy
This one not so much,
but I make fun of Trump a bit;
And that is sort of a
common enemy, though not created.
5 Accumulate power by manipulating the hearts and minds of your
citizens
I express vehement,
well-worded opinions which people are naturally drawn to support.
6 Create an ideology to justify an exalted position
I have invented
“Morosism.”
This is an ideology
wherein I am the sole deity and to disagree with myself is a sin.
The dark part of this
is that I am not the only person who fits all of these requirements.
by Eli M., Grade 9
I Remember
My dad,
All the
memories I hold near
And I am
so glad--
But I also
fear
But what
do I fear?
Keep hope,
keep hope,
The time
is near
I cannot
cope
Setting up
the ice rink,
Mowing the
grass,
My heart
starts to sink,
Helping me
with class
Thoughts
of my dad flood my head,
Working
hours and hours
The
newspaper he read;
I quickly glance
over at the flowers
“You call
that music?” he would say,
He
splashed around in the small Intex pool,
Would tell
stories of Santa’s sleigh:
But
watching this was cruel
He slowly
inhales,
The
monitor beeps
His body
is frail,
My brother
weeps
The look
of confusion
Is evident
on his wrinkly face…
This must
be an illusion,
The
hospital is his home base
My tears
start to roll,
And he
keeps glaring
My heart
has a hole;
I keep
staring
“Dad, it’s
me” I softly say
I think, will the sun ever rise?
Dad, come
on… answer, I pray--
“Who are
you” he softly replies.
by Delaney P., Grade 9
No comments:
Post a Comment