Poem

Writing

The Mannequin and the Doll

By Tara Phillips and Anton Caruso

i’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 Kogo

words 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 Barry

She 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 Pandit

They’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-Yai

I 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 AonB

Another 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 Yoksh

you 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 Perkins

Like 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


TIME’S UP

By Catie Toyos

You would think the sidewalks were made from gold
From all the rumors regarding this place
A fabrication that is bought and sold
Tradition is lies into lemonade


The Passing

By Sophia Terian

The 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.


11:54

By Nora Larson

Vanessa and I talk.
We like talking.
The smell of acetone and wine
fight in the warm air.
A lull of
Avett Brothers music fills the
silence.
Our nail beds
burn,
from too many attempts at
“Nail Art”.
The clock reads


I Want to See My Face on a Milk Carton

By Alrisha Shea

and 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 Hatesohl

I 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.


Rebirth

By Ashley Honey

Hair up
Tarp down
Pop
My mother uses her strength to cradle
Our liquid gold
Douses the pan with potential energy
And snaps the blade to its wand
The brush crackles and crinkles
Screams
She slaps more gold on the canvas


Bloodlines

By Ayush Pandit

My 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 Pendley

As 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 


Voicemail

By Olivia Humphrey

Please leave a message after the tone.
I love you. I really do.
I had so much fun today.
I’m so lucky to have you in my life.
We’re just an amazing, perfect match.
Text me to plan a date for next week.


Dimensions

By Alexa Newsom

Dimensions, our world
Minds comprehend first through third
Fail at the fourth, time


Time Flies

By Connor Richardson

Time 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 Mombello

The 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 Wilcox

white 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-Yai

I 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 Martin

she 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


Fifteen

By Abbey Roschak

Age is just a number
We all start out at one
But someone’s first year
Is another’s seventh
Their neighbor’s eleventh
My fifteenth


disillusioned revolutions

By Hailey Alexander

The 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 Malnight

You ruffled dress.
You lip glossed, 
clean tongued, classy individual.


Where I’m From

By Ahna Chang

I 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.


Childhood

By Gillian Knaebel

Alone to my thoughts, to my terrors,
Wishing upon days we were careless,
Remembering a time, 
Like a nursery rhyme,
Where our greatest fears were that of the fearless.


room 502

By Amanda Pendley

If 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