Category Archives: Writing

on our side [but are you really] (a poem)

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It’s a teacher problem
It’s an adult problem
It’s a student problem

Last I checked, a problem is a problem
and problems need solutions.
Not blame,
not shame,
not to pass the buck to someone else
or pass on it in a few days anyways

because a problem without an answer
stays a problem
until you’re willing to listen,
create a vision,
make an actual decision.

but let’s be honest –
even if we told you,
the vicious circle will continue
because here we are now
being yelled at for our thoughts
but – oops, I forgot
you’re on our side, right?

Vulnerable: Perception #1 (A Poem)

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Teacher, wife, foster mom,
maker of decisions –
I feel like a baseball player
playing all the positions.

These conditions allow others 
to see my spectrum of emotions:
the joy, the tears,
the massive implosions
where I lose my cool;
they think less of me
because they see the cracks
exposed, set free.

I’m a firecracker most days
waiting to explode,
like a cup full of water
but too full – overflowed.

There’s so many days, 
students, family, it’s too much.
They see me be vulnerable
and then forever perceive me as such.

Here’s What I Would “Appreciate” -a poem-

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We all want more money,
but that’s not the point,
it’s the way we always feel
like we’re being exploited.

See, you want to “appreciate”
the teachers who stay –
too bad the way you do it
is making more of us run away.

A week to celebrate
those who educate our future,
a number of which people
dwindle fewer and fewer.

Five days of cute themes
and the snacks that they feature
planned by, you guessed it,
a committee of teachers.

Yes, we appreciate ourselves
because who else will?
I guess they probably think
our wishes, they can’t fulfill.

Like smaller class sizes,
less skipping in the halls,
or for someone to show up
when it’s so bad we call.

Support when a student
tells me, “Shut the fuck up!”
Any kind of response
before a fight starts to erupt.

Stop shilling new products
that suck and don’t last;
we don’t want a script to teach,
this is literally our craft.

No more duty: morning,
after school, or lunch,
on top of the meetings,
it’s all way too much!

Just listen to us,
we have good suggestions!
We’re in the trenches everyday,
giving us the best perceptions.

What I would appreciate
is a modicum of support,
and to feel that EVERYDAY
it’s being reinforced.

ripped away -a poem-

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ripped from your fingers
when you’d finally gotten the grasp,
snatched from your hands
that’s it – that’s a wrap.
you got one chance,
you should’ve tried harder –
oh, you felt your life was falling apart? Er —-

too bad, no second chances.
the decision’s been made,
your input be damned.
it’s all a game that’s being played
where we forget that our players
can be human too.
they struggle with emotions,
some more than others do.

we give it our all,
but is it ever enough?
or do we keep ripping opportunities
when the going gets rough?

you think you know me
better than I do –
but how do I prove you wrong when
after all I’ve been through,
everything I’ve tried
isn’t good enough for you.

You ripped this from my fingers,
stomped on it with your shoe.
Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

To My Therapist -a poem-

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So my therapist caught me off guard yesterday. She’s moving up in the world and is transitioning to a new job. Next week is our last session together. I have a lot of feelings about it.

I came to you a broken mess –
a puzzle whose pieces
fell to the floor,
but I couldn’t find the way
to pick them up myself.

I cried out for help,
and you answered the call,
ready to take on everything I threw at you.

While I’m not perfectly put together just yet,
I see where the pieces will go,
and even though I’m sad our time is done,
I’m glad you practice what you preach:
you keep yourself number one.

I know it’s your job,
but I owe a lot to you.
I truly thought this year was
impossible to get through –
but look at me now,
stick kicking,
still fighting,
so close to finally feeling renewed.

Thank you for the last eight months.
I’ve learned so much about myself.
I know now there are better days ahead,
not just for me, but for you as well.

The Worst Thing About Masks -a poem-

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The worst thing about masks
when you’re astute, aware,
intuitive to emotions
others are experiencing –

your eyes.

Eyes are a window to the soul, they say.
You give yourself away when your
Eyes don’t tell the same story as your words.
Squint, wink, blink, raise eyebrows.

So when I tell you how I’ve been feeling lately,
you hide your worry from your voice,
under your mask,
but I see it in your eyes.
I know you want to ask,
I know you want to cry,
you care, you’re concerned –
how could I ever think I wanted to die?
You stay strong,
but I feel your emotion inside
all because of your soft, sad eyes.

The mask makes them pop,
I can’t help but notice.
I feel worse knowing you’re worried;
you have enough on your plate
and now – oh wait – here’s one more thing.

Your eyes gave away
what you tried to hide.
The worst thing about masks
is your eyes are magnified.
I can see right through them,
you’re terrified –
I’m sorry I’ve become a burden.

Check -a poem-

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On the outside
she looks like she’s barely trying.

On the inside
she feels like she’s slowly dying.

When would someone see
the signs of a broken girl
who’s running out of time?

Her mind – a hive
of soul-killing ideas
that she’s
unworthy,
unlovable,
unwanted,
undeniably unnecessary to anyone.

Check on your friends
who smile through pain.
Check on your friends
who work hard to maintain
some semblance that everything’s always okay
come rain, come sun, come cloudy day –

for the face they wear is but a mask
glue-filled cracks
waiting for someone to finally ask
“be honest, please, are you okay?”
so they can admit
“it’s all a display;
i’m so damn tired of being awake,
desperately looking to finally escape.”

Check on your friends before it’s too late.

Outlet -a poem-

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The car-
a space to scream:
freedom to express emotions
weighing me down every damn day.

Therapy-
a paid person to talk to:
a judgement free safe space,
faced with a fresh perspective.

Social media-
A chance to forget:
forced you to find something positive;
we share a glimpse to create a narrative.

Journal-
a place to write:
journals don’t judge, paper doesn’t poke
until you break, desperate for happiness.

Words.
We all need a place
where we can use our words
to freely feel our feelings.
In this society where we’re expected
to fake it til we make it,
what happens when you can’t?

Max capacity,
living unhappily
until we deal with it drastically:

a temporary problem
solved with a permanent solution.