Hanging Worries (pt. 1)

For this workshop, the 7th graders of Taft wrote based off of Audre Lorde’s “Hanging Fire.” The poem perfectly represents the mentality I had in 7th grade, where worrying about death has equal value to worrying about dry skin. This poem has a great refrain that I think helps the students see poetic structure very simply.

Mrs. Asvos
7th Grade, 2nd Period

“My Hair”
Penelope O.

I wake up knowing there is no repair
of the squirrel that lives atop of my hair.
We fight We fight
All day and night
for control of the mess.
I can suppress
that my hair


Bees are life
Much bees
Too bees
Cause bees

No spiders
Much spider
Too spiders
Much bees

“The Dark”
Dylan L.

The dark use to scare me
Hopeful I am never alone
Lose my fingers good, now I can’t count my troubles
and if I die there is still cheetos in heaven.

Hannah B.

Waking up in the morning.
Think about he never ending thoughts.
Will I get food poisoning
Maybe my toothbrush has deadly germs
Using sanitizer will give me super bugs
Stop thinking so deep, it’s annoying.

Getting into the car
Will I get into a car wreck?
Will an earthquake happen?
What if someone attacks us?
Stop thinking so deep, it’s annoying.

Going to school, it’s hard
Will I pass? Fail?
Is this conversation annoying you?
Am I doing this correctly?
I don’t remember your name.
Will we all pass and do ok?
Stop thinking so deep, it’s annoying.

Mrs. Asvos
7th Grade, 3rd Period

“Being Home Alone”
Maggie C.

Hearing noises while home alone, no soul to be seen
Or is there
Crack Crack
What’s on those stairs
Crack Crack
What can be there
Crack Crack
Nothing is seen
Crack Crack
This is not a dream
As I peek from under my door
A four legged creature leans down
confused on the floor
Oh! It’s my dog, thankfully, perhaps something
else, but it was not seen by me

Olivia D.

I know it’s addicting
I know I can’t start.
For I know I might like it.
Then where would I be
Spending my money a pack
a day. I’ll be broke
I’ll be dead.

Mohammad A.

I’m only four, and my greatest fear is Santa.
He’s fat and ugly and bribes kids to be good.
He’s a devil I tell you. But nobody understood.
He comes and night. Breaks into your house.
Steals cookies and milk and leaves you gifts.
Nothing suspicious there, right. I tell
you Santa is a devil, but sadly nobody
believes. One day, one day, I tell you
you will understand.

Bella W.

Clicking teeth and rolling eyes
Wooden heads and dangling feet
Grey cloth suits and evil grins
A haunting fear I can’t defeat
Small noses and shiny hair
A moving, talking, creepy scare



“Writing poetry makes me feel like I can see myself, like I can see my reflection, but not in a mirror, in the world. I write and I know I can be reflected.”
-Oscar S.

“Writing poetry makes me feel free.”
-Buenda D.

“Writing poetry is like your best friend.”
-Jessica M.