Poem
Writing
The Mannequin and the Doll
By Tara Phillips and Anton Carusoi’m a mannequin, a marionette man, my actions preplanned.
i go through my motions, i do a little dance. My movements based off the crowd’s applause
i give a little wave because
that’s what i was made to do, that’s what i’m made to do, that’s what she makes me do.
Defense Mechanism
By Alice Kogowords bubbling on my tongue are not metaphors,
They are a message, a warning of future plights to come.
I should thank this body for that, thank
you. piece of flesh you
distracted woman you
PTA to AA
By Annie BarryShe stood in front of a mirror
Clean and sober thinking about how she feels taller than her own reflection
Then she took an injection
Rubble
By Ayush PanditThey’ve run out of garbage bags to use as body bags.
Power lines cracked in half like splintered pencils are strewn through the streets
neighborhoods panic as the ground forgets what being solid is again
aftershocks bigger than most earthquakes bend steel and rebar
Time It Takes to Sober Up
By Emme Mackenzie“What is one factor that affects the Blood Alcohol Level and is an extremely important factor (in order to ‘sober up’)?”
In my final moments
By Sankara “Le prince heritier” Olama-YaiI hear the gunshot, I do not see
The bullet but I know it’s coming
Aimed to perforate my skull
They say your life flashes, once death’s
Shadow is on your tail and grips you in
Your terror’s wake. I have 0.05 seconds
Shades of Pain
By AonBAnother black kid got shot by a white cop.
ANOTHER BLACK KID GOT SHOT BY A WHITE COP.
ANOTHERBLACKKIDGOTSHOTBYAWHITE COP.
ANOTHERBLACKKIDGOTSHOT
ANOTHERBLACKKIDGOTS
Ten . . .
Nine . . .
Eight . . .
Seven . . .
dad
By Lauren Yokshyou are like the sun:
oblivious to time’s existence
wake up at noon to eat dessert
and watch television reruns.
you are sleepless nights
and grease stained fingers
covered in cuts and bruises and scabs.
you are like the war
Clock Work
By Kahill PerkinsLike clockwork revaluations to new forgotten ideas lined up in my mind like young adult novels on my ratty old grey bookcases, I live stories lined up in many different tenses dog-eared identities taking place in crises fueled hourglass clocks, if there is one thing I’ll never run out of it is
The Passing
By Sophia TerianThe fragility of life will always terrify me.
Sometimes I feel so vulnerable,
thinking of all the ways my life could spontaneously end –
the accidents
the inflictions
what I inflict.
The fragility of life will always astonish me.
I Want to See My Face on a Milk Carton
By Alrisha Sheaand when you talk in your sleep the voice is never your own
and when the world ends and the next begins our radio stations
will still patiently recite their numbers. (dear mx. god,
is this how it feels to be replaced?) In the wilderness,
A Blessing or The Victory of Another Eighty-Two Years
By Molly HatesohlI remember Pauline Miller. Before she moved,
She lived in an understated, light green, box of house
on Raldoph Avenue.
She lived there for a long time.
Bloodlines
By Ayush PanditMy blood is not pure.
Siphoned through custom it puddles as an unholy poison.
A mixture between castes that courses sin through my veins
Broken tradition seeps through my marrow
and pools black in the hardened pupils of my grandmother
A Living Anachronism
By Amanda PendleyAs the years go by and we outgrow our old faces and our old skin and our old identities,
I wonder to myself if we are really becoming new people at all,
or if we are simply just accumulating more years and more selves
Dimensions
By Alexa NewsomDimensions, our world
Minds comprehend first through third
Fail at the fourth, time
Time Flies
By Connor RichardsonTime flies.
I was in love with you.
You said “ily2”.
I treated you with respect and love.
You said you appreciated it.
That was 1 year ago, oh how time flies.
I continued to love you unconditionally.
You said “ily2 bb”.
Dirty Sponges
By Peter MombelloThe tabletop
Dirty
With years of paint.
A paint knife
A sponge
A cup of water
The only things that remove years of memories
A fresh palate
Orange watercolor
Pink tempura
Black acrylic
White wall paint
And hot glue
On the Drive Home
By Grace Wilcoxwhite road lines merging under
our worn out tires,
taking us away
the radio vibrates with
noise over the homeless
man on the curb,
boombox over stereo
used to be versions of me
over what we’re left with
maybe he wants to get hit
The Sweet Curse of Nostalgia
By Sankara “Le prince heritier” Olama-YaiI love the smell of cigarette smoke
Not because I’m a smoker, I love the smell because
It takes me back, back to the piss stained streets
That raised me, where the overwhelming aroma
Of freshly lit cigarettes plagued the air
childhood home
By Emily Martinshe is four years old
toddling around
on wooden floors
like a spinning top,
too short to reach the cabinets or
see above the sink,
clambering atop
countertops
to reach her
pink plastic glasses
disillusioned revolutions
By Hailey AlexanderThe clock glares at me,
with the steady
accusations
of her hands –
Where will you be
In an hour,
In a day,
In a year?
An Ode to My Innocence
By Kathryn MalnightYou ruffled dress.
You lip glossed,
clean tongued, classy individual.
Where I’m From
By Ahna ChangI am from the nail polish in my room,
From holographic glitter and high heels.
I am from the toys on the ground
(rainbow, soft, Sasha never picks them up.)
I am from cacti pricking my fingers,
From shopping and thanksgiving,
From Sasha to Caleb.
room 502
By Amanda PendleyIf time could be measured in words
I would handwrite novels until my knuckles bled
Analyze every single piece written by Steven King twice
Type poems so complex so that the meaning gets lost
Construct every screenplay to give you the ending you deserve