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Hooded Woman with Bloodied Eyes
Ivan Borshchev
Buried
Presley Reyes
The weight of expectation,
The endless pressure's growing,
No room to breathe or rest,
Can't shake this constant worrying.
Tired of being the strong one,
Of always keeping it inside,
Wanting to break free,
To no longer hide.
Tonight
Michelle Su
Tonight, the air is thick with uncanny tension.
The moon in the sky is like a beast’s hollow eye.
Even only the teardrop of an icicle, or the rustle of a leaf,
Can send all the alley cats running.
At the end of the road, behind a barricade of pines—
They say that is where the witch’s home lies.
They say that she drinks a potion brewed with a frog tongue.
They say that she holds a wand made of bat’s bone.
Tonight, there is a boy at her doorstep,
A sinister cloak shielding his eyes.
Without fret nor hemming and hawing,
Three words escape from his lips:
Trick or Treat?
What is Love
JG
What is love?
Love is the person you want to text when something big happens,
Good, bad, or ugly.
Love is the person you want to fall asleep with on the couch watching a movie
Who you want to lay on and feel their heartbeat
lub dub, lub dub, lub dub.
The person you hope to live life with and do everything together.
Love is the person who you hope will just
talk and talk and talk
Because you want them to share themselves with you.
Love is the person you open the invisible scars and wounds to
Knowing you can’t stitch them back up.
It doesn’t matter that it might not be forever,
It matters that your lives are intertwined at this moment in eternity,
Right now.
Owl
Owl
Trinity Hu
Songbird Squabble
Dorie Meunier
I am a good sister, to both him and her.
Although apparently, I cannot have it both ways. Not when they are locked in a never-ending battle. They fight like small songbirds, desperate for a seed out of your hand
I could’ve been one of those birds
If I cared more about snatching the seeds of love, validation, and time. The only problem is I do not care enough to want them, not anymore but ..
I know how it feels when the supply of seeds is snatched away to be given to another.
Love may be a vast ocean with no bottom, but your seeds are not. There are only so many of them. That is why they have to fight.
I excelled in everything you did.
Although I try to deny it we really are quite alike. I used to be one of the birds and I imagine you were too, before you became the holder of the seed but when you shed your feathers you forgot how it feels to be a bird.
I know we have a problem with these seeds.
You don’t know any other way to distribute them. In the end, then it is your fault that they fight. Whether it was your intention or not your seeds have become a competition. A competition that divides the two songbirds. I won’t let it divide me because I don’t need your seeds of acceptance.
I accept myself.
Broken Angels
Dorie Meunier
This time tomorrow the house of broken angels must betray you.
Not because they did not love you for their affection runs deep
into the very veins of their wings torn tatters from years of work.
Carrying the weight of weighing humanity is no easy task.
God had abandoned them to define the tales of right and wrong.
To distinguish the pure from the blackened they sunk into your mind.
Their feathers became besmirched by the blood and guts that made up your morals
until they determined a final verdict.
Though they loved you they could not shirk the chain of responsibility
Any more than you could escape the smirch of death destined for all humans.
Forgive them then it is your fault you did not make the cut.
If you had turned the love you gave them towards your fellow man
perhaps they would not have had to betray you.
Lost
JG
Because what would I do if I didn’t explore?
Trying new things and
Wandering gets you lost, they say.
But stagnation is a bore.
I live for the unknown that the world is.
The new people places and things to see.
The anticlimactic that follows the high-speed tension
I’m going stir-crazy.
The school year is settling and I feel lost.
Unsure of what to do but
Ready for something to happen.
Lost in place.
Lost in stagnation.
Cold brisk air
Hannah Cyr
It must be the cold brisk air
That rustles the hair that the brightly colored leaves fall into as their life on the trees comes to a close
Speaking of which, the cozy sweaters, long sleeves, jeans, cardigans, and big fluffy socks, that protect your skin from the harsh yet loving cold.
Oh yes it must be that cold brisk air
That brings spooky costumes like the ghosts that scare
The little children as they run through haunted houses and intricate fields made of corn
Speaking of which the taste of sweet grainy bread, and pumpkin pie, the Turkey, and apples, and hot lattes full of chai
All because of the cold brisk air
ghost of me
The ghost of me is from when I was 10 and wrote a letter to my mom apologizing for slamming the door because I couldn’t talk to her without crying
But the scary thing is that’s still me
The ghost of me is still me, just waiting patiently to become a ghost
It’s pathetic that tears and words never fail to escape me at the same time, even 8 years later
Still, the only way I can talk about anything real is writing it down but now, I can’t even send it to anyone
I don’t dare to burden another with my emotion but
I am failing my words that seek to be spoken
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