Aimer

Melissa Eggleston

​

It felt like a dream, warm pumpkin lattes, pleated skirts. 

C'était comme un rêve, des lattes chaudes à la citrouille, des jupes plissées.

The oldest English literature, and a quill pen like a movie. 

La plus ancienne littérature anglaise, et une plume d'oie comme un film.

 

Seeing your curls bounce and you walk to the front entrance. 

Voir vos boucles rebondir et marcher jusqu'à l'entrée principale.

 

I'll have whatever that stunning lady is having. 

 

J'aurai tout ce que cette superbe dame a.

 

How to love 

 

Aimer

​

​

Dear Supreme Court Members, 

Elizabeth 'L' Mahoney

​

I have been provoked.

The echo of my bitterness

bounces off your walls of justice.

Keep this perverted image of power

and absurd idea of law

away from your courtroom. 

 

When cities are set aflame with resentment 

and carnage you are to blame.

This was your choice.

And only then

will you grasp the spirit

of choice.

 

Sincerely, 

An angry woman

Hideaway

Melissa Eggleston

​

What if we hid? 

Vanished from society, like vanquished 

Servants of the almighty. 

We scoured the earth for its precious metals. 

Seeked revenge for the hatred the other fools have held to us.

Dissipate and see how long it takes

For others to find our trails of never ending regrets. 

What if we hid away where all our neighbors were hiding too

Finding the love that they never felt before the escape. 

We are surrounded by northern lights

Bright and luxurious, 

Baffling as betrayal. 

You were my hideaway for a second. 

Now I sit in the throne of lies and despair.

Look Up

Tiarah Swann

​

Look up.

The beautiful scenery 

Just you, me, 

and earth 

 

The brisk wind 

Chilling your bones

The glistening sun beaming

off the snow

How can you miss this?

 

What could be 

if you could see?

Look up.  

Insomnia 

Emily Shufelt

Inspired by Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman comic book series

​

Midnight.

He comes.

Raven eyes pierce through me,

No light in them but a pinprick,

Like the light from the stars themselves,

Cold with anger.

I don’t know what I did to him.

He chases me every night,

Ebony robes and sand trailing after him.

I can never get away,

Waking up in a cold sweat.

The same for years.

Insomnia, they say.

My anxiety causing issues sleeping, they say.

When I explain, they don’t believe me.

The meds don’t help.

They don’t work on him.

He’s not real, they say.

Just a figment of my imagination.

A nightmare.

It will go away.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

The sandman is not a story for kids,

He’s as real as you and I.

Little Bookworm

Avonlea Stiles

​

She may have grown up in Ballston,

but she lived in Narnia and Wonderland

District 12 and The Factions

Idris and Inkheart, the stories in her head

She lived in literature

because words were easier

to digest than paint

peeled from lead-filled walls

stomach empty and angry

begging for anything to fill it

Words were kinder than 

broken parents trying their best

but never being enough anyway

Words brought her comfort

peace, family, hope, light

Dreams of domestic bliss

where she too could be Miss Honey

a beautiful vision of hurting people

finding their perfect forever 

 

As she grows she will no longer

crave those books’ distractions

their places to be and hide

She will turn to writing her own tales

of crafted lines riddled with hidden meanings

to introduce anyone who will read them

to the woman the little bookworm formed. 

 

I Pray For Cosmos 

Kayla Mattison

​

what has

been lost

seek hope

engraved 

believing 

you deserve to know your worth

an estrial stork brought forth down

unique astronomical star shine free

my child

i believe

we all

have our

own flames

don’t let

yours fizzle

out

Planet Politics

Kayla Mattison

                                                               

                                                                 my head like the Earth 

                                            polluted with the toxins of

                          brain fog causes 

                                                          mental strain.

​

catastrophically suffocating

is it amnesia, nitrogen dioxide? 

coal infused clouds, ashy skies

chemically produced tears.

 

am i in a double life?

de-realization transformation

no amount of dissociation will

erase contaminated destruction. 

 

rise higher, add fuel to this fire?

stripping away bark, lumber, roots

forest lives and rights

just like they are an average woman.

 

i guess that is proof Earth really is

a Mother, a protector. 

treat her better, treat us better.

one for all, all for one.

Solitude 

Melissa Eggleston

​

Your warmth protected me. 

Solid foundations, 

Of endless romance, 

Endless satisfaction. 

Sensations, hard to handle. 

Cold february, warm april. 

Sentimental moments of afterglows so small. 

I know the merriment will end 

In minutes time, 

Seconds flat. 

I’m rushed with emotions unlike any human can handle. 

Solitude confines me in its cold taste. 

Lonely march, jealousy june. 

Solitude loves my wrath. 

​

​

The Composer

Emily Shufelt

​

The alienated artist

Sits behind his piano

With his fingers dangling over the keys,

Heavy with creativity.

Music and lyrics playing in his head,

Just begging to be written.

 

He begins to compose,

Frantically playing and scribbling,

Creating a hurricane,

Blowing pages around his shabby apartment

Until they come together as a finished score before him.

 

Only he knows the world it contains.

Now he has to share it with the world he knows.

Where Do I Fit In?

Alisia Renteria

​

They say home is where you'll always feel welcome

But how come I feel like a stranger walking through those front doors 

The unknown of where I belong 

Where do I fit in

 

A home is a box filled with memories 

But mine is filled with ones I'm not a part of 

Moments in my family history that I wasn't there 

Where do I fit in 

 

They say THIS is who you ARE

But how can that be when the things that shaped YOU

Happened when I was sent so far

Where do I fit in

 

My phantom self always on the sidelines 

Family gatherings I’m included in through facetime

Family portraits I'm not a part of, I ask myself

Where do I fit in

 

My phantom self always on the sidelines 

Family gatherings I’m included in through Facetime

Family portraits I'm not a part of, I ask myself

Where do I fit in

Bleach Beach 

Mad Baker

​

opening weekend. sky clearer than 

the water your kids

 

splish, splash into each others eyes 

jump, dive from the docks 

gargle underwater as mermaids or

gulp, swallow between giggles between 

 

Gasp. chemical burns airways shut 

eyes searching, pleading, but

how could you help 

with your house on the shoreline bleeding 

spring cleaning into 

your children’s summer screams?

​

A Child's Hiding Place

Mad Baker

​

Small rotten tooth tied onto a string,

Glass pearl necklace, plastic diamond ring,

 

Fuzzy pink diary with all pages ripped out,

Handful of rose seeds that never got to sprout,

 

Booklet of church hymns you pretended to sing,

Matted teddy bear you always would bring,

 

Report cards infested with the hideous sixth letter,

Echos of promises that they would get better,

 

Blue plastic egg tied up with a bow, 

Womb for the dead mouse with nowhere to go,

 

Painted picture of a black ocean’s white shore,

And a child that drowned with them under the floor.

Abandoned 

Zoey Beaver

​

The creak of the door

as you open your demise.

Melted walls now cracked.

Staring straight towards the abyss,

you call out.

The echoing of your voice bounces

off the walls, susurrate voices return.

Opening the door to your left,

a sense of uncertainty entraps your lungs.

You smell the rotting beds as you walk,

tasting the granular air.

It wasn’t the living calling out

but the decomposing cadaver

left out to be forgotten.

Conundumb

Kayla Mattison

​

Take it or leave it, heinous men

Are pests like weeds that don’t  

Know when to keep a lie 

For example “I didn’t do that” to

Our faces, no I guess we are the whores

Death of a Baby Bird

Mad Baker

​

Accidental 

tragedy, persistent 

suicidality, homicidal 

calamity, or undiscussed 

possibility? Supposedly, 

each bystander individually 

perceived the fledgling’s 

landing or descent or 

departing activity 

with meticulous 

accuracy. Contradictory 

allegations impede upon 

my investigation into dissected 

motivations and eventual 

hypotheses. Disagreements on 

actions seen and 

contradicting auditory 

evidence proves ultimately 

an utter lack of 

understanding 

at the scene. Blinded 

by the sun’s reflection, desperate 

act of preservation, adolescent 

apprehension, or 

​

dared to prove he had a spine, 

the child fell and promptly died.

Ennio (Ode to Ennio Morricone)

Michael Dinga

​

Sixty seconds to what?

I’m afraid Deborah’s theme has no end

for the ugly and unforgiven

 

She lived in amber skin

with autumn eyes like 

vespers over flaming hills

 

before you sold her mask 

for a fistful of ecstasy and 

chained her in Red Rock

for a few dollars more