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<div id = "nextPoem">[[Next Page|Title Page]]</div>
<div id = "cover"> Classification
By: Peter Hoppe</div><div id ="prevPoem">[[Cover Page|Cover]]</div><div id = "nextPoem">[[Table of Contents|Table of Contents]]</div>
<div id = "title"> Classification
By: Peter Hoppe
Published By: Paperback Ribs
</div>
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<div id ="prevPoem">[[Title Page|Title Page]]</div> <div id = "nextPoem">[[Introduction|Introduction]]</div>
<u>Table of Contents</u>
[[Class Struggle|Class Struggle]]
[[How To Play a Drum|How To Play a Drum]]
[[Locked Out|Locked Out]]
[[Checked Out|Checked Out]]
[[Assumptions|Assumptions]]
[[Dear Past Me|Dear Past Me]]
[[Undressed|Undressed]]
[[Dance All Night|Dance All Night]]
[[Imperfect Love|Imperfect Love]]
[[Wrap Up|Wrap Up]]
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<u>Class Struggle</u>
My people’s murmurs of mirth spread like debris
throughout the land after the ruler’s decree
of: “We will be watching a movie today
for class.” This declaration, without delay,
promised sustained relief from his tyranny
and professed an end to horrid agony!
But, alas, there's an extra clause that befalls
us, twisting us into Academia's thralls:
“Please fill out this worksheet during the movie.”
Hope was hung without recompense to prove he
was our lord. He tempted us with rejuvenation
only to pierce our hearts with tribulation.
Ergo, we proclaim our flight as one chorus:
“We shall not focus with this sheet before us!”
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<u>How To Play a Drum</u>
Place the drum in front of you. If its contact with the floor shatters the ears, the floor, or the dreams of those around you, you had the correct form. Next, hit the drum with a steady beat. You can use your hand to smack the drum’s surface, although there are other options: a mallet, a shoe, the lack of time or effort that prevents you from playing a real instrument, or a drumstick.
Your consistent playing will be completely ignored, for the xylophone will call out the correct answers before you can and the tuba will be there to support her when you miss a beat. When you will try to get back into rhythm, you will discover that the bassoon, that backstabbing bassoon, will steal your date by playing the same piece that you were going to woo her with (although, how were you going to play “I’m Yours” on a drum, I have no idea). Finally, when you face the music of your failure, you will keep banging on about how it is not your fault that you tune is sour, but the world playing around you.
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<div id ="prevPoem">[[Previous Poem|How To Play a Drum]]</div><div id = "nextPoem">[[Next Poem|Checked Out]]</div>
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<u>Locked Out</u>
A student stands off against the door,
eyeing its looming physique.
Two fellow pupils linger,
reading through the homework due.
The teacher, plagued by tardiness,
surprises no one that they’ve been afflicted
with an ailing amount of class time.
One by one, the pupil conference
swells to encompass the door.
Deodorant and perfume swelter
to conjure manly flowers in the air.
The volume of idle chatter builds
terrorizing the ears of those around.
Slams explode from doors nearby
to protect their rooms from the threat
of the growing roar of teen infighting.
One kid slices a path to approach the door.
She’s green in both age and this society.
She begins to investigate the frozen handle.
The metal being gives. The door creaks aside,
solving the assumption that no one tried to verify.
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Alegreya" rel="stylesheet"><div id ="prevPoem">[[Previous Poem|Locked Out]]</div><div id = "nextPoem">[[Next Poem|Assumptions]]</div>
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<u>Checked Out</u>
The clerk at my Target was lovely
I stared when she spoke to me bubbly:
<i>By chance are you single?</i>
I nodded and giggled.
<i>Makes sense, for you’re fuckingly ugly.</i>
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Alegreya" rel="stylesheet"><div id ="prevPoem">[[Previous Poem|Checked Out]]</div><div id = "nextPoem">[[Next Poem|Dear Past Me]]</div>
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<u>Assumptions</u>
The project’s captain is always donning glasses,
the red-eyed man, in contrast, just half-asses
his work. Miss Golden Curves is here presenting
as well. An F is what she is preventing.
If you avoid all fats, you will never gain
any weight. Plus, the sole method to maintain
the perfect size is to constantly diet,
although your tongue in response might riot.
In order for the household to survive
the man should work from eight to five.
The ones who should clean all the dishes
are domesticated and petite little ---
girls, wearing a necklace of pearls.
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<u>Dear Past Me</u>
When her tap of friendly talk,
which harbored a stream of joy
that flowed throughout your chest,
evaporated without any logic.
You should have sailed on.
Or when the teacher’s barren voice
absorbed all the eagerness
in the room, leaving the students
with sandy knowledge in their ears.
Desert that class immediately.
Every moment is an ingredient
to add to the recipe of your life.
Two cups of mangled stress,
a slice of outgrown passion,
and a sprinkle of triumphal gambles.
No one course can be chosen
that produces the best dish of life.
Yours will be yours alone.
So write it all down for all to see:
<i>Mistakes will happen to me!</i>
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Alegreya" rel="stylesheet"><div id ="prevPoem">[[Previous Poem|Dear Past Me]]</div><div id = "nextPoem">[[Next Poem|Dance All Night]]</div>
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<u>Undressed</u>
Across the room from me,
she models her desire.
A thick coat of longing
is painted upon her lips.
Fervor is sketched
to accentuate her eyes.
A thin cloth of yearning
is draped down her legs.
And a belt of craving
is tight around her waist.
However, what I model,
is nothing I desire.
Apprehension is taught,
pulling against my wrists.
A sludge of hesitance
is slathered on my mouth.
A band of timidness
is curled around my neck.
And cowardice is peaking
out from my coat of moxie.
It is times like this I wish
I could just be undressed.
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Alegreya" rel="stylesheet"><div id ="prevPoem">[[Previous Poem|Undressed]]</div><div id = "nextPoem">[[Next Poem|Imperfect Love]]</div>
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<u>Dance All Night</u>
The forms of the statics
have blurred long ago
for the fanatics lured
under the swarms of lights.
Another song of a spirit
gently coaxes them along,
smearing all the glares
of the folks drowned away.
Their firm limbs of doubt
are loosened by the booze
and the rhythms in this place,
becoming whips of grace.
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Alegreya" rel="stylesheet"><div id ="prevPoem">[[Previous Poem|Dance All Night]]</div><div id = "nextPoem">[[Next Poem|Wrap Up]]</div>
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<u>Imperfect Love</u>
Our friends kept on singing about how our love
was like hidden pearls. Innocence without defect.
Equipped with their confidence, we immediately dove
in. Sketching our traits out, our bond looked perfect
on paper. A masterpiece. A gentleman and a lass
whose laughs always painted a smile. We were <i>those</i>
two. Our duet was a chirpy soprano and a hearty bass.
The whole ballad was off key, though, if one listened close.
When alone, I heard our tune from my heart’s record,
spinning in the groove of friends, a clear alternate
to the tone of lovers that had been my friends’ accord.
I decided to change this discord before it could escalate.
And with “we should break up”, we changed in one minute
from suitors to pals, a switch, for my heart, quite minute.
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Alegreya" rel="stylesheet"><div id ="prevPoem">[[Previous Poem|Imperfect Love]]</div><div id = "nextPoem">[[Back Cover|About the Author]]</div>
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<u>Wrap Up</u>
…
What?
Do you want something?
This is the last poem I needed to write.
If I had a clever idea, I’ve used it already.
...
Do I need to spell it out for you?
I’m burned out!
I churned out
what we learned about.
I turned devout
but I yearned a route
To emerge out
of this concerned drought.
I’ve been smitten
by these poems I’ve written
while I was sittin’
in intermittent
times that are ridden
with rhymes hidden
like a hand in mitten.
It’s been a long semester
and this problem has festered
under the skin of a jester.
You need to be an investor
of time when the professor
is a constant requester
of work. Can’t be a rester!
I feel I’ve worked my candle
on both ends. Can I handle
this or will I dismantle
my career with a scandal
if my cheating is substantial?
The response from the panel
will be one quite conventional:
“Peter. You are now banned. Lol.”
Yeah, you got it now right?
That I’ve ran out of things to write poems about.
I have nothing left.
…
Wait…
...
God damn it...
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<</widget>><div id ="prevPoem">[[Table of Contents|Table of Contents]]</div> <div id = "nextPoem">[[First Poem|Class Struggle]]</div>
Why, hello there reader! My name is Peter Hoppe, as you probably figured out with the first two pages of this online chapbook having my name on both of them. The following is collection of ten poems that tackles situations where our minds expect one outcome and get another (a mental classification) and situations that are ingrained within the student life (a literal classification). If you wish to learn more about a certain poem, I have linked little talks between myself and myself explaining the ideas and creation arcs of the different poems I wrote.
If you also wish to hear an introduction between yours truly and the voice inside my head, feel free to <<playTitle 'click here'>>. I wanted to have some sort of print introduction here, just in case you were in a spot where you couldn’t listen to sound. I get you, we’ve all been in places like that. Lookin’ out for you.
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Peter Hoppe grew up in Grafton, Wisconsin with his home settled in between suburbia and a golf course. He is currently a Computer Science major at Carroll University, with a minor in creative writing and a emphasis in game design. His love of creating, mixed with his fear of breaking objects with his hands, pushed him towards discovering that it was hard for him to physically destroy paper and programs (although some friends tease him for always breaking their code). He has a soft spot for having his creations bring a smile onto the reader or player’s faces.
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