#homework

54 posts
  • shubham_20 42w

    ©shubham_20

  • ra_n_si 56w

    കോപ്പികളെഴുതിയത് ഓർക്കുന്നില്ലേ

    രണ്ടു വരിയുള്ളതും നാലു വരിയുള്ളതും

    ഞാൻ അതിനോടെല്ലാം യുദ്ധം പ്രഖ്യാപിക്കുന്നു

    ഒരു നാലര വയസ്സുകാരന്റെ തോന്ന്യാക്ഷരങ്ങളെ

    അടുക്കി ഒതുക്കി നിർത്തിച്ചതിന്
    ©ra_n_si

  • arunpandiansiva 95w

    Work From Home Days

    School days Home Work - Office days Work from Home



    ©arunpandiansiva

  • green_berry 97w

    The Talkin Dead

    Life still in progress,
    Feeling like 007,
    No time to die ,
    Even not to rest,
    The walking dead ,
    I'm playin at season 2,
    What is it,
    None of my friends knew,
    Waiting for the sunday ,
    To get relief from homework,
    Or to hang out with the zombies,
    With the dreadful lurk
    ©uttkarsh_15

  • moirahathena196 102w

    Me wanting to escape from a large pile of homework.
    ©moirahathena196

  • creative_chanchal 107w

    #सपने

    सपने खुलीं आँखो से देखने या सोते हुए नीन्द में देखने से सपने पूरे नहीं होते है ।
    बहुत मेहनत करनी पड़ती है और वही मेहनत रूपी रंग इन्द्रधनुष भी बनती है।।
    ©creative_chanchal

  • ammarrifqi 112w

    Life

    Life's always unfair
    No matter how you see it
    Don't stop, and move on
    ©ammarrifqi

  • lunaeclipsed 114w

    #poem #poetry #homework
    I don't feel like typing out all the explanations, but these are 15 different lines, each meant to show what changes a line structure can make to a poem.

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    Homework

    The sticky-slick petals crumpled in my hand
    Turn to textured shreds, twisting in twilight’s timid touch,
    Gifting luminescence
    To leaves, ripped from routes, stems, and homes. Still, they live a moment more
    Before letting themselves stop, for one, desperate moment, and returning to dirt.
    We smile, subconsciously killing our world
    With jet engines
    And forgotten plastic buckets, suffocating that on which they rest,
    Poisons, like purple concoctions mixed with communion,
    Medicines, yellow herbs, untouched by religion,
    Spill no blood, need no blood, but are not blood like wine becomes
    When shared in one chalice, before cracker crumbs and ___ down-cast eyes ___ land on the floor.
    We wear pins: some saints, others angels, all are silver;
    They ignore our faults as we forget how to
    Pray
    Kneeplanted, lippedwords, thenbecame forwentheartbeats doneby unawareofferings.

    ©lunaeclipsed

  • lunaeclipsed 115w

    Pirates Can Work Office Jobs

    Lost girls
    Are filled with auspiciousness and
    Chaste, taken by
    One who sadly knew their worth,
    Not that of

    Treasure
    Inside their chest, stacked and compact,
    Filling each toe
    And pressing against their lid,
    And still spills

    Through their
    Mouth, and providing the shimmer
    In their eyes and
    Tears; the pirate noted these,
    But lusted

    For the
    Chest instead, willing to spill the
    Treasure for one
    Taste of the container’s frame,
    Because pirates

    Pillage
    And take, from strangers and family
    Alike, willing
    To lose everything for the
    Forbidden,

    But most
    Manage to add the forbidden
    To their mundane
    Without notice, without the
    Consequence.

    ©lunaeclipsed

  • lunaeclipsed 118w

    Work in Progress

    Crack, ding, tap, crack, ding, rattle, thud. The pattern barely resonated inside Clara’s mind: it was the soundtrack of week nights, soothing, more rhythmic than any music could hope to be, but when the fence rattled, Clara’s coach stared at her, pressing the two softballs in her hands together.
    “You sure you’re alright?”
    “Positive.” Clara loaded her bat over her left shoulder, but her coach kept tapping the green leather creating a dull thud to a silent beat.
    “You don’t have to lie to me, Claire.”
    Clara refused to look at her coach's probing green eyes, darker than the softballs, lighter than her sister’s eyes.
    “You’re gonna throw out your back if you keep swinging like that.” the coach said looking at the softballs, “pull off the power a bit: relaxing will do more good than taking your anger out.”
    “Alright.” Clara said, they both knew nothing would change.
    Crack, ding, tap, crack, ding, thud, tap, crack, rattle, thud, dink.
    “What, T?” Clara’s coach said, looking over Clara’s shoulder at Tara.
    “I have a test tomorrow. Can I leave?”
    “Do your laps and you’re good.”
    “Already did.”
    “Well do two more for leaving early.”
    Tara sighed
    “Three T.”
    “Yes coach” Tara said reluctantly
    “Go with her, Claire. Cool off a bit.”
    Clara let her bat fall onto her shoulder and slipped through the gap in the netting, placing her bat on top of her sister’s bat bag and jogging to catch up with Tara.
    “You okay?”
    “Why does everyone keep asking that?”
    “Because we know you’re not.”
    “I’m fucking fine, alright?”

    ©lunaeclipsed

  • lunaeclipsed 118w

    Only E

    Even eden ends, ever extend eves between elms when feet bleed? Stern, they egg, never enter, the sweet men, never. Creeds never end, we end.

    ©lunaeclipsed

  • liathekitten 118w

    School Stress

    Pushing aside assignments
    Looking away from deadlines
    Procrastinating every day
    Taking way too many breaks
    Less effort on homework

    College-pop-ups in my face
    Giving me a migraine
    Not giving in to the stress
    School is causing me

    I don't care if my grades decrease
    I dont care if you call my mother
    I dont care if you take my phone
    Because I have another
    ©liathekitten

  • lunaeclipsed 121w

    Excerpt from a lyric essay

    Many religious beliefs came from a time where human brains had yet to be fully completed: often the higher-conscience voice that spoke against our impulses seemed to be external, as it was to our cognitive pathways. These voices would speak of morals and mortals would make books full of the spoken holy text that no others could hear. Slowly, the human brain learned the voice to be its own, but for generations after the solidifying of the psyche, some still possessed disconnected thoughts, adding to old religions as prophets and chosen disciples of whichever God reigned over their people.
    Humans hate not knowing. Perhaps it is a stubborn draw to consistency, or perhaps the fear of never learning, but however it happened, it shaped our societies. That is why many polythiestic religions came first: everything was ruled by one figure who resembled an attractive member of the sex it was determined to be; with many gods, you know who can help you, no matter how bizarre the circumstance may be, and if you receive no help, it was the desire of that god to spite you: you have angered them somehow and now must suffer, justice inforced by the devine.

    ©lunaeclipsed

  • lunaeclipsed 121w

    Start of a lyric essay

    Believing in the unknown is taught to be childish. To be an adult is to be certain of the non-existence until viewing in person, discounting others who were able to meet the creature or being face-to-face, because we believed campfire ghost stories and were scared in our tents because of that. Then of course, one could admit to uncertainty: a less than desirable trait as it means no motive and no hill, upon which you can look down on others who do not stand with you.
    I grew up with Christianity, believing it is better to be safe and accept the reality of God rather than deny it and be wrong: Pascal’s wager, though I did not know my teachings were called this until many years later. However, I also grew up seeing creatures in doorways and within treelines that did not exist to my parents, thus should not be believed by me, though I had more proof of the bipeds, chalked up to childhood imagination, than I ever had proof of a God created by dueling voices in brains.

    ©lunaeclipsed

  • lunaeclipsed 121w

    PINECONE WARS

    Growing up, I was in a group called 4-H. The main purpose of these organizations is to give opportunities for kids to do activities they may not otherwise be able to do for various reasons, like being homeschooled, living in an isolated area, or struggling with the financial aspects of a certain hobby. I never spent a day in public school so when I aged out of recreational sports, I, along with my two siblings, joined a 4-H group in our county.
    I absolutely hated the group for many reasons, but I did enjoy one particular activity until it was banned by the president of the group because her son got hurt: when the teenagers were bored of watching the younger children rip apart the church in which we met, we would slowly file outside to a small field between the church and a busy street, and we would mess around in the fresh air, picking dandelions, playing touch-football, and some would simply walk around the perimeter, talking with one or two friends, but eventually, someone would pick up a pinecone from one of the numerous pine-trees in the field, and the war would begin.
    An ambush would rain upon those still content with the worn out activities, pinecones would strike like tiny footballs and leave sticky residue on our clothes and skin. Some would become traitors to their side, throwing as many as they could at the backs of the betrayed, and others would pick up sticks, wielding them as swords and charging the foes’ hiding places, forcing them into a barrage of breaking pinecones. However, as all things eventually do, the means were escalated by desperate soldiers trying to win the war.
    It always started as a tiny pebble or stick that was stuck to the pinecone, then a retaliatory throw of the forbidden object, but eventually, we started throwing pebbles, then tiny rocks, then bigger and bigger until the stones were the size of eyeballs, but we were invincible children, until we were proven wrong: the son of the president of the group threw a jagged stone at my childhood friend, but he caught it with only a minor prick to his hand, but when he threw the rock back, it sliced the shin of the president’s son. He ran in crying, swearing himself an innocent victim, and my friend was banned, along with the pinecone fights, indefinitely for the injury.
    Eventually, many kids became bored of the sanctioned activities that had little risk of bodily harm. Others, like myself, simply outgrew the group. Now, the 4-H group is barely clinging to relevance, only offering Lego robotics related activities for the few remaining participants. The end of the war marked the decline of the group, but the few fond memories I brought with me when I left was enough for me to smile each time I notice a pinecone or two, almost begging to be thrown at an unsuspecting friend.

    ©lunaeclipsed

  • lunaeclipsed 121w

    Homework

    Autumn winds
    Carry summer weather,
    Heating up roadkill
    And friday night vomit.
    Someone is screaming,
    Another plays music,
    Both with joints
    Of the cheapest weed,
    Sitting on rotting porches
    Their landlord refuses to fix.
    Somewhere, perhaps the church
    That resembles the sixties
    View of today’s architecture,
    A person is baking,
    Probable cookies
    To bribe noses
    Into exploring.

    Approach the walls,
    Accumulating modern design
    That tries to enter,
    Statues, like victims
    Of Medusa,
    Warning all of what lies inside,
    But none listen
    Until they suffer
    The same fate.

    A wheelbarrow
    Rests on its handles,
    Too large for mortals
    To correct,
    As if we are not supposed
    To align it
    To be lower than ourselves.
    No container
    Is held by the frame,
    As if afraid
    To trap the air
    It wished to feel.

    Glass doors
    Without signs of hinges,
    Stand as cellophane guardians
    Which are guarded,
    But with gold squares,
    They will pivot
    Any way you wish,
    Allowing you access
    Or escape
    From the relics
    Of the dead.

    Amidst the smell of varnish
    And jarringly pastel
    Beside the royal
    Purple walls,
    I stand in the presence
    Of a decaying world;
    The men before me
    March towards a citadel,
    Ignoring the vulchers,
    Resting on trees
    (if one could call the rotting logs such a thing)
    Waiting for the feast
    The god of greed
    Is soon to provide.

    Return,
    A voice within commands,
    Return to the living,
    Return to the painting
    Of an invisible man,
    Captured by his words,
    No matter how slightly.
    He is revealed
    By standing behind
    The image of himself
    He created,
    Like a self-portrait
    Made by shadings
    And negatives.

    So many figures inside
    Find themselves
    Acting as statues,
    Distracted by missions
    Given by couriers
    Who refuse to enter
    The glass rooms,
    As if they have escaped
    The dead inside
    By promising
    To bring sacrifices
    Before the pedestals
    And well-kept frames
    Of those who gave their servants
    A reason to live.

    A small group rests
    Outside the glass prison:
    The survivors,
    Unsure of how many were lost,
    But we are free--
    No--
    We are the destined
    To become disciples--
    Or druids-- leading lambs
    To a clear slaughterhouse
    With walls painted by the dead,
    But we escaped,
    Though, now, we will never be free.

    Return,
    The voice commands again,
    Return with the living
    Return by spring’s reign
    Or I will come to you instead.
    We leave the world
    Of hanging dead,
    Destined to return,
    Only allowed to decide
    Whether we come
    As a courier
    Or a warning
    That others will ignore.

    ©lunaeclipsed

  • lunaeclipsed 122w

    A piece I wrote for homework I kinda like. #prose #emotion #homework #panic #attack

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    Emotions

    Feel the elephants, taste your mouth turn to the Sahara, twitch your neck though it cramps, then tell me this is fake. Show me how to breathe, because I have forgotten for minutes, only getting air when punched in the stomach.

    ©lunaeclipsed

  • flaire 130w

    Gravity or Energy

    Who know's?
    Could this be the journey?
    Gravity pulls hard
    With force towards you.
    The more it pulls
    The more I move
    Into you
    Who knows?
    It's a mystery
    What's real?
    What's not?
    Who can say?
    ©flaire

  • _pooja_0123 133w

    "Acrostic poem"
    It is a type of poetry where the first, last or other letters in a line spell out a particular word or phrase. The most common and simple form of an acrostic poem is where the first letters of each line spell out the word or phrase.

    #homework #acrostic #pod @mirakee @mirakeeworld

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    HOMEWORK

    H ard to do and sometimes
    O verwhelming,
    M y teacher gives us homework
    E very single day!
    W riting for hours
    O r
    R eading for hours.
    K ids need a break!
    ©_pooja_0123

  • divya_bajpai 140w

    Assignment

    In this world full of gifting diamonds want someone who'll create my assignments...
    ©behind_the_backspace_