Mrs. Hempe 7th Grade Group 1
The mirror stomps on my roots,
And tears away my heart,
as I just look into it,
To see the me I don’t want to be.
The mirror leads me to the hatred I leave to my head.
To the “I don’t want to be you anymore,” thoughts.
When picking out all the wrong, and ignoring all the pretty,
becomes my everyday.
In the mirror, I see the girl I don’t want to be.
As I fill up with negative,
I look in the mirror,
once again,
but this time we’re by ourselves.
The negative is gone, so is the pitch black,
and the real me is finally back.
Just me in the mirror, it stands as I sit.
Still,
in the shallow of me in the mirror.
Maybe I am back, and the pitch black is gone,
but picking will always be carved in my mind.
or even in the mirror.
The little red man
dances around on his wax stage
wiggling, moving around, doing his
dance, just for us.
If you look at a little flame’s dance,
you see how good fire is (at dancing).
Drop the little dancing man on the grass,
let him run, let him dance.
Let him grow. Let is glow.
And now it seems the little red dancing man
isn’t so little anymore.
It’s a large wildfire dancing his heart out.
Such a small part of my brain
controlling the way I function
and sleep and draw and heart
spiraled, burnt and overwhelming
it controls my focus
triggers compulsions and impulses
laying on the floor or behind my eyes
I’m sinking, stomach dropping, and shaking
but it all takes place behind my face
tracing my fingers and reality sensing
I control the urge not to count and
tap my table in a compulsive way
like a soldier against an army
I plunge into the crowd of darkness.
Mrs. Hempe 7the Grade Group 2
The words on the page flow, but they’re
just pieces of writing, right?
They can’t teach, be wise, help, right?
Wrong.
The books sit, all of them having
a story of their own. The new
knowledge and stories created from one
person’s identity.
Books are supposed to heal, help, many
people skip over them, not seeing the
wisdom that the pages give to one’s
mind, if only they know,
Book can talk.
“I talk,
and talk,
I rhyme,
like a dime,
and pun
because it’s punny-
funny, right?
I’m a poem
I can be third person
or first person
but who knew I can be second person?
The name I’ve titled this conversation may confuse
but take this
I’m a poem that can personify
words I’ve spoken
but when I do this
I’m a personified poem
So…
A personified poem personifying its personified words
although these words can be personified
making them personified x4!
Goodbye.”
Summer breathes life to the world.
The warmth of the air makes
everyone want to go
Outside.
Summer makes Chicago alive.
The city is full of action
in the summer.
I love summer.