My Poem

To submit to the Brooklyn Public Library, Zoe and I decided to write a poem. It is called The Glass Ceiling. It is about one of the 8th graders workshops, that was about women in the workplace. In that workshop, there was a lot of talking about the glass ceiling. The glass ceiling is basically a limit for women that is not there for men when it comes to work. If someone has to choose between women and men for a job, they are more likely to chose men. I decided to write about this in my poem. My poem is about a women looking up at a metaphorical glass ceiling. She is looking up at men, while the men are doing so many different things, while she is sitting below them, doing the same work that they are but she isn’t getting paid as much as the other men. She is questioning if she was a different gender, if she would be up there with all of the other men, or if she would still be down under them metaphorically. Here is my first draft of my poem:

They’re standing up there,

Triumphantly

When I wonder,

How did this happen?

If I had been born differently, would it be different?

Would I be standing up there, triumphantly?
Instead of sitting here,

Watching their success, that could have been mine

While I’m down here, sweating hard.

Why are they standing there,

Doing the same work that I am,

They say I’m not working hard enough,

That they are.

I wish I could at least say that’s not true

That I don’t believe everything I hear

Deep down, I’m wondering if it’s true

If they really are sweating harder than me

I know I should think that what they say isn’t true,

That I am working harder than them,

But as I sit under them,

I wonder if it is why

I’m looking up at a glass ceiling and they look at the sky

 

And here is my final draft:

They’re standing up there,

Triumphantly

I wonder,

How did this happen?

If I had been born differently, would it be different?

Would I be triumphant?
Instead of sitting here,

Watching their success.

Their happiness.

Their non-existent sorrow.

Why are they standing there?

Not even breaking a sweat,

While I’m down here, sweating hard,

Earning 79 cents to their dollar.

I would raise my voice if I thought it would make any difference.

But as I look up at them, and they work unseeingly, I realize,

They feel no remorse for me,

Or anyone else down here.

They only care for their own prosperity,

That should have been mine.

They say I’m not working hard enough,

Deep down, I’m wondering if it’s true,

If they really are working harder than I am,

And as I sit beneath them,

I ask myself why,

I’m looking up at a glass ceiling, while they look at the sky.

I think this poem really inspired me to do more poetry. This poem signifies some of my best work, and I am very proud of it.