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  •, Poem, Poems

    The Labels of Society


    By Caroline Whitney

    The rain outside is turning into hail,
    Pounding down on the cars and making scratches and bruises appear.
    Just like labels do to people.
    Am I a nerd? I mean I care about my grades.
    Am I a jock? I do like to play sports.
    Am I too preppy? I like to always try and find the positive in everything.
    Am I a Democrat? I’m more liberal on certain things than others.
    Am I a Republican? Do I stand too tall?
    Is he a misogynistic male? Most definitely!
    But I have to pick and choose my battles,
    I need to try and let it go.
    Because there will be a time…
    When I’ll need to fight a battle that’ll be a lot worse
    Than a boy who was raised in a home and taught that women were “inferior”

    Is he racist?
    Is she a drug addict!?
    Is he gay? Yeah, so?
    I heard someone say that he thinks that guy is going in the wrong direction
    Because he gives out hugs with too much affection.
    So? I’m assuming you’re homophobic and I have to respect your view
    But just because he doesn’t like girls doesn’t make him any less of a person than me or you.

    I could go on and on and so could others,
    But the world is what we choose to make of it
    Judgments and all.
    There will always be stereotypes,
    Always be labels,
    There will always be opinions —that others have—
    That I absolutely despise.
    But I need to learn to respect them
    Because they’re still a person…
    Even with our contrasting perspectives.
    Am I this? Am I that?
    Am I good? Am I bad?
    Did she do this? Did he do that?
    I don’t know? Maybe you should just ask…
    Instead of forming an opinion of someone
    Without all the facts.
    (A person with a mind, a heart, and a soul.)
    Call me this, call me that
    But you need to have concrete facts to support your extreme beliefs
    We all have our opinions—similar and different.
    I just want respect for mine and for others.

    No matter their hair color, eye color, race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, mannerisms, their likes,
    or their dislikes.
    And I’ll give you my respect in return
    Because if we don’t learn to listen to each other
    The world’s progress will become stagnant for the days to come.
    Please make your opinion of me and others
    On what we do and what we stand for.
    Not where he, she, or me grew up
    Or how he, she, or me looks
    In the end, there will still be people who create and read the labels.
    It’s up to us whether they stick
    Or change into something better.

    Labels can bring frustration and sadness,
    But they could also be seen as a challenge or a tunnel that can lead to our future success.
    Because If we can overcome the mean comments, the crude names, or derogatory terms…
    We’ll be able to feel that much more confident and accomplished….
    The labels of society—will not win.
    It’s you, me, us, and them,
    Do not let the negativity in.
    I know we’re not made of steel,
    But we should always try our best to stay positive, whether it be mentally, physically, or emotionally, and give our wounds time to heal…

    Time for us to grow.
    Let positivity prevail,
    Even when it’s raining hail.

  • Poem


    It only happens in passing moments

    When there is a pause to life’s hectic pace

    When my thoughts have slowed down,

    And my attention is brought

    To the environment around me,

    And the people around me,

    When I make the jolting and painful discovery

    That I have always been, and will always be, worthless.

    For I am not the student that stares from the yearbook pictures

    With a beaming smile or an awkward tug at the mouth

    While the titles say:

    “Student Gets Accepted to Prestigious Camp for Academic Excellence!”

    “Junior Creates A New PR For The School!”

    I am not the student that people talk about with an exclamatory voice:

    “Great Job! That’s just wonderful, honey!”

    “This is stellar! It’ll look great on your college applications!”

    I am not accustomed to seeing my parents’ smiles on their faces

    Or hearing them brag loudly about how gifted their child is

    What I am used to, are

    Long nights of panic, when my stomach is tied up in knots

    I’m used to seeing my name at the bottom of the list

    “S. Chambers-The least amount of points”

    I am well acquainted with,

    “How’d you do sweetheart?”

    “U-um, not as well as I wanted it to be”

    With an awkward smile

    I have become accustomed to being in my head

    With the voice of the girl, who sounds oddly like me, loudly banging in my ears

    “Do you really think you’re all that?”

    “You don’t deserve anything good!”

    And with a softer tone, she whispers.

    “So why do you even try?”

    “You know you’re useless!”

    And I respond, my own voice sounding grotesque, but also melodic,

    “Because it is who I am.”

    Because after the heavy pants of anxiety

    And the tears that prickle my eyes

    I know that I am worthless

    But I am me and there is no reason

    That I shouldn’t be proud of that

  • Poem, Poems, Writing

    You Taught me to be a Writer; a Poem for my Mother

    You taught me to be a writer

    Since this is Women’s History Month, and mothers can play such a huge role in their daughters’ lives, I wanted to share a poem I wrote dedicated to my mother. She has always been a positive female influence and someone I look up to a lot.


    you gasped as you looked at me for the first time.

    9 pounds, 12 ounces.

    you were just happy i was here.

    you told dad to drive so carefully,

    you were terrified i would wake

    to a loose pebble on the road.

    you named me Grace, cause why not?

    it’s a sweet name, and i was sweet.

    you rocked me to bed each night,

    eyes never leaving mine

    you filled shelves with children’s books

    and let me flip back and forth through them

    pointing to images along the way

    and gargling in glee.

    you got me a easel and teared up

    when i painted a blob and it called it you.

    you let me use all of our tape rolls

    to put together pieces of paper

    with incoherent sentences written on them

    and call it a story.

    you watched movies with me

    and then watched as i went to my bedroom

    to think about them for hours

    and came back with a new movie, created by me.

    at night, you let “i have a headache”

    be my excuse to crawl into bed with you

    and snuggle into your arms as if i was still

    9 pounds, 12 ounces.

    you brushed my hair as tenderly as you could

    even though i still hated it,

    and rubbed sunscreen onto my face

    while i was trying to get on the swing.

    you bought me birthday hats and

    and watched with amusement

    as i used them to throw my stuffed dogs parties

    (and later weddings).

    you smiled when i came home and told you about my elementary school

    reading awards and smiled, even more, when i showed you

    my a+ essays.

    you laughed when i showed you the “oscar-worthy”

    movies me and my friend, and then me and my cousins,

    had created using the power of my ipad’s editing software.

    you cried almost every mother’s day

    when i handed you a letter, or poem, or collage

    and told me never to buy you something

    if i can write you something instead.

    you sat me down next to you one day

    and showed me a website you had found

    for a school called asfa

    and then you celebrated when i became as excited

    about it as you.

    you squealed when i got accepted,

    and you told me i would write amazing things

    even if i didn’t believe you yet.

    and now you hug me and buy me junk food

    every time i tear up and tell you i’m overwhelmed

    you fold my laundry

    every time you can see i’m too stressed.

    you tell me to relax and watch netflix with you

    even when i tell you i have no time

    because you tell me i need a break.

    you ask to read everything i write,

    you give me books from your library to read,

    you told me when i told you

    that maybe i should just be an accountant or something

    no. you’re too talented to punch numbers.

    you need to keep writing.

    and then you squealed again when i got my first publication,

    and again when i won my first writing award,

    you enveloped me in your arms

    with pride i could feel radiating off of you

    and held me, although i may be half a head taller now

    as if i was still

    9 pounds, 12 ounces.

  • Articles, Poem, Poems



    Hearts beating,
    Faster and faster each time.
    Sweaty hands,
    Bodies shaking,
    Can’t feel anything.
    But the safety of your hug,
    My heart skips a beat.
    As your eyes glisten
    Into mine
    Made for each other,
    but not forever.
    That’s love.


    Like poetry? Do you write your own? Submit a piece to be published on Girlspring at

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  • Poem




    My roots are

    Grounded in

    Generations of women

    Readying the battlefield.

    Women who were



    And those same women who

    Rose and



    My stem supported by

    Mothers and


    The same women who would

    Drop anything

    To save everything.

    By women sitting on the

    Sills of closed windows,

    And women of the past who

    Ran away.


    My leaves are sheltered by

    Strong women who

    Fight for their family’s


    By women who put up with

    Injustice and prejudice

    So their children may

    Live a better life than


    By women who throw themselves into

    A new world with no

    Knowledge of even the

    Language or



    My petals are painted by

    My grandmother’s delicate paintbrush.

    Adjusting pigment and

    Adding water.

    Diluting the tones

    And always making sure the image

    Is strong

    And understood.


    Doctors, lawyers,


    And an almost architect.

    Painters and nurses and

    Engineers and

    Stay at home mothers.

    All powerful.

    All strong.

    All helping me

    Grow into

    What I am meant

    To become.

  • Poem

    To What Extent Does Plumeria Bloom

    To What Extent Does Plumeria Bloom

    How am I to comprehend such beauty?

    Whether that be upon the

    absence of a petalless plumeria

    or a twigless oak.

    Comprehension of beauty is beautiful

    without footprints of rouge beyond

    birches. May

    it be an effervescence of

    elegance, in a kind of

    heart brought up boundless

    of tarnished wire.

    A manner by which

    undoubted purity,

    relinquished wrath,

    and unsought pride,

    and rightful accolades

    never know

    the idea of rareness.