Untitled
By Annika Paul
Do you see your existence through rose coloured glasses?
Grey dried out and painted over with blue skies.
Only a lie to lead you forwards,
But still a reality to hold you back,
To cradle your summer stories
And whisper to you through flaking plaster.
Belief was burned into you from youth
Is it your fault for thinking so intensely?
But the sky lulls you on
Her drifting face telling you to close your eyes
To ignore your lifetime and everything in it,
Finding a new world to begin again.
Grey dried out and painted over with blue skies.
Only a lie to lead you forwards,
But still a reality to hold you back,
To cradle your summer stories
And whisper to you through flaking plaster.
Belief was burned into you from youth
Is it your fault for thinking so intensely?
But the sky lulls you on
Her drifting face telling you to close your eyes
To ignore your lifetime and everything in it,
Finding a new world to begin again.
Our Blood
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I want to get drunk
To get you off my mind
But my drunken, slurren words
Let me know our love was timed
Music infiltrates my ears
Your favourite song on full blast
As the room begins to fill with cheers
But no one knows what I have lost
My head begins to spin
Hands filled with our blood
but the screaming winds
Tell me it's time to clean it up
You told me not to call
But I never really listened
I hadn't thought at all
I'd only hear what i'm missing
I can feel my hands
Grasp another bottle
It takes all I have to stand
Walking away, just feeling hollow
To get you off my mind
But my drunken, slurren words
Let me know our love was timed
Music infiltrates my ears
Your favourite song on full blast
As the room begins to fill with cheers
But no one knows what I have lost
My head begins to spin
Hands filled with our blood
but the screaming winds
Tell me it's time to clean it up
You told me not to call
But I never really listened
I hadn't thought at all
I'd only hear what i'm missing
I can feel my hands
Grasp another bottle
It takes all I have to stand
Walking away, just feeling hollow
The Beauty in Broken Things
By Peyton Feinburg
I typically enjoy funerals. I like the dress codes, the way people’s wardrobes revert back to the goth phases of their teen years. I like the churches they’re held in, the ornate decorations and the stained glass windows, having God watch me, challenge me. One could reasonably compare me to God. Choosing who lives and who dies. Seeing the beauty present in mankind, accentuating it. Finding the art in breaking them.
I looked around the aisles, at the tear-stained faces, at the running mascara and the tissues in hand. This wasn’t bad, but the crowd could be sadder if they tried a bit harder. At least it was open casket. I wanted all the mourners to see what I’d done, all the perfectly placed slashes and stab wounds. It took precision, practice; things people don’t understand. Nobody understood. Probably because nobody knew. And I hated it. I wanted to get the credit, to get the recognition from being such a mastermind, a true genius. I relished hearing about myself on the news. The fear that dripped from their voices like blood, the warnings that never worked.
The body count kept rising. This was the fifth funeral I’d been to this year. People were getting scared. This only fueled my desire, adding kerosene to the fire. Maybe I should try that next time. Stabbing was getting a little boring, and boredom was truly the worst feeling. I didn’t like it when things got too predictable. I enjoyed surprise, like their expressions when they realized they were cornered and the end was near. Their eyes got so wide, petrified like a deer in the headlights. I hadn't run anyone over yet. I might have to try that sometime. There were so many fun ways to kill.
Even if I didn’t get caught this time, I could still enjoy the service. I leaned back, sinking further into the pew and running my fingers against the cracks in the oak wood. I liked the way it was damaged. Broken. There was a beauty to broken things.
Schadenfreude
By Hinata Derouin
Pleasure at the suffering of others. It’s something that not many people would like to admit. That there’s a sense of gratification that comes with seeing others in a worse state than yourself. A perverse sort of joy at the sight of proof of your felicity.
The thrill of seeing karma act upon one that left you miffed, the tingle from fingers to head when the opposing team misses a crucial goal, seeing fail videos on the internet and laughing to yourself at people’s misfortune. No one wants to admit that their rapture for others' pain overrode their sympathy. But it’s a secret thought that resides in the corners of our minds when we’re sitting alone with our thoughts as our only companions.
Where do we find the line on the ground? Between the human nature of what we feel as justice and the corrupted exhilaration of being the cause of that malevolence. When do we cross the border into a garden of snakes and apple trees?
The thrill of seeing karma act upon one that left you miffed, the tingle from fingers to head when the opposing team misses a crucial goal, seeing fail videos on the internet and laughing to yourself at people’s misfortune. No one wants to admit that their rapture for others' pain overrode their sympathy. But it’s a secret thought that resides in the corners of our minds when we’re sitting alone with our thoughts as our only companions.
Where do we find the line on the ground? Between the human nature of what we feel as justice and the corrupted exhilaration of being the cause of that malevolence. When do we cross the border into a garden of snakes and apple trees?
Four Dimensions
By Mariam Gabr
A picnic table
Engraved with
Flowy letters
And little hearts
Sprawling words
Scratched into the wood
Sarah was here
M&L together 4ever
Screw Jake
Brooke loves Sam
Vandalism, art
Careless words, poetry
Dozens of stories
A glimpse into the past
A moment of love,
Pettiness,
Sentiment,
Defiance,
Stuck in time
Words that mean nothing to you
Meant everything to them
Long forgotten
Yet marked permanently
Written in a desire to make something true
Written in storm of anger
Written in a cloud of love
Or written in a desperate attempt to
Be acknowledged
Seen
A silent shout
A lasting mark on this world
The writer forgot
But the wood remembers
Baring the truth to all who pass by
You write something of your own
Leaving an imprint that will be here
Long after you are gone
Engraved with
Flowy letters
And little hearts
Sprawling words
Scratched into the wood
Sarah was here
M&L together 4ever
Screw Jake
Brooke loves Sam
Vandalism, art
Careless words, poetry
Dozens of stories
A glimpse into the past
A moment of love,
Pettiness,
Sentiment,
Defiance,
Stuck in time
Words that mean nothing to you
Meant everything to them
Long forgotten
Yet marked permanently
Written in a desire to make something true
Written in storm of anger
Written in a cloud of love
Or written in a desperate attempt to
Be acknowledged
Seen
A silent shout
A lasting mark on this world
The writer forgot
But the wood remembers
Baring the truth to all who pass by
You write something of your own
Leaving an imprint that will be here
Long after you are gone
Chocolate Brown Eyes
By Katheryn Burns
Chocolate brown eyes staring
Chocolate brown eyes glaring.
She leaned against the stage, arms crossed over her heart.
Never knew what to make of her.
One day she hated me.
She shoved me to the side
She told me to, for once, do something.
Chocolate brown eyes made me feel like a waste of space
In a world where Chocolate brown eyes was on top
I was at the very bottom, swimming in whatever leftovers she threw my way
I never really talked to chocolate brown eyes
Instead I swam in scraps of words she spat down on me
Trying with a pounding heart and trembling hands to pry out something kind.
The next day she loved me.
As I sobbed my way down the hallway she pulled me aside
Dried my tears with her honey’s and oh sweetie’s
She folded me up in her arms and held me close to the heart I didn’t know she had.
Chocolate brown eyes smelled like berries.
So I sat on a yellowed bathroom counter and told her everything.
Chocolate brown eyes please bandage me up
Please hug me again and stitch up my wounds
Squeezed my hand and let me go
Chocolate brown eyes please don’t forget me
And then I took my last glimpse into her teary Chocolate brown eyes
I told her goodbye as I cried
Cried for everything I had lost and everything I was about to gain.
Goodbye Chocolate brown eyes
One last hand squeeze and she was gone.
Chocolate brown eyes, please pass me on the street
I want I want I want to see you again
If she showed up on my doorstep
I would smile from ear to ear
So when I sit on the cold floor and feel her ghost hands squeeze mine
Remember remember remember that's not a friend
I so badly want to send her something, so she knows I'm still here
But I can only wonder
Chocolate brown eyes, did you ever exist?
Or are you just a figment of my broken mind
Chocolate brown eyes glaring.
She leaned against the stage, arms crossed over her heart.
Never knew what to make of her.
One day she hated me.
She shoved me to the side
She told me to, for once, do something.
Chocolate brown eyes made me feel like a waste of space
In a world where Chocolate brown eyes was on top
I was at the very bottom, swimming in whatever leftovers she threw my way
I never really talked to chocolate brown eyes
Instead I swam in scraps of words she spat down on me
Trying with a pounding heart and trembling hands to pry out something kind.
The next day she loved me.
As I sobbed my way down the hallway she pulled me aside
Dried my tears with her honey’s and oh sweetie’s
She folded me up in her arms and held me close to the heart I didn’t know she had.
Chocolate brown eyes smelled like berries.
So I sat on a yellowed bathroom counter and told her everything.
Chocolate brown eyes please bandage me up
Please hug me again and stitch up my wounds
Squeezed my hand and let me go
Chocolate brown eyes please don’t forget me
And then I took my last glimpse into her teary Chocolate brown eyes
I told her goodbye as I cried
Cried for everything I had lost and everything I was about to gain.
Goodbye Chocolate brown eyes
One last hand squeeze and she was gone.
Chocolate brown eyes, please pass me on the street
I want I want I want to see you again
If she showed up on my doorstep
I would smile from ear to ear
So when I sit on the cold floor and feel her ghost hands squeeze mine
Remember remember remember that's not a friend
I so badly want to send her something, so she knows I'm still here
But I can only wonder
Chocolate brown eyes, did you ever exist?
Or are you just a figment of my broken mind
Wind
By Kayla Nixon
My tearducts are the colour of my jeans,
Indigo once.
Coffee and grass and bloody knees relented.
I wear them to the beach,
My hair in plaits, flowers braided in.
The maple bark, steady and sticky.
Sun, sapphire, breaks away behind me,
Sinking into waves, swatted by swaying arms,
Of seaweed. Germs, dirt, grime.
In the mirror I am muggy,
My skin smoky. My skin smokes.
Ashes well up. Steam pours out of the riverbed,
Blisters well up. Out of all elements,
Air has been mine.
In currents, storms, cornfields, cold.
Folded grass, stiff as it shatters.
Uprooted. Windchill.
The leaves tapping my window, urge me,
To put on another sweater.
Mothballs. Drawn to flames.
Woodsmoke tangling with lilac. Sweet tea,
lingering, over castles, valleys, hearths.
The heart of any home is a balance beam,
on fire.
Indigo once.
Coffee and grass and bloody knees relented.
I wear them to the beach,
My hair in plaits, flowers braided in.
The maple bark, steady and sticky.
Sun, sapphire, breaks away behind me,
Sinking into waves, swatted by swaying arms,
Of seaweed. Germs, dirt, grime.
In the mirror I am muggy,
My skin smoky. My skin smokes.
Ashes well up. Steam pours out of the riverbed,
Blisters well up. Out of all elements,
Air has been mine.
In currents, storms, cornfields, cold.
Folded grass, stiff as it shatters.
Uprooted. Windchill.
The leaves tapping my window, urge me,
To put on another sweater.
Mothballs. Drawn to flames.
Woodsmoke tangling with lilac. Sweet tea,
lingering, over castles, valleys, hearths.
The heart of any home is a balance beam,
on fire.
Leaving
By Kayla Nixon
ACT 1: COMING
We started out, ripping at the seams.
Out after streetlamps spluttered on,
Out until moths walked your nose bridge.
Over waterways, sometimes through.
Grounded in our erosion.
ACT 2: STAYING
Picture a street: air thick with nicotine, homes lined,
It smells like a printing press, you are the ink.
The letters you leave behind will burn up.
But first, they mean something.
Stories & flames flicker inside of someone.
Chasing trains. Why?
The reason is always that it’s too short, why waste it?
We fold pirate hats out of the newspaper.
In this light you are tinkerbell.
You, pulling me from the rose bushes.
It was all earthy moss until gray eyes.
We’ve been interrupters & interrupted & compositions,
Harmonized, we say, “I miss you,” out loud.
You stir mornings’ coffee into melted ice cream.
It’s your way of extending the small life of
Everything.
I grimaced each time. Pixie dust only goes so far.
ACT 3: LEAVING
I read your journal. It was a list.
Of jet fuel brands, and
Of the planets you wanted to visit.
In the margins, you drew martian men.
From the window, the street was empty.
You no longer, only the stagnant space you once commanded.
We started out, ripping at the seams.
Out after streetlamps spluttered on,
Out until moths walked your nose bridge.
Over waterways, sometimes through.
Grounded in our erosion.
ACT 2: STAYING
Picture a street: air thick with nicotine, homes lined,
It smells like a printing press, you are the ink.
The letters you leave behind will burn up.
But first, they mean something.
Stories & flames flicker inside of someone.
Chasing trains. Why?
The reason is always that it’s too short, why waste it?
We fold pirate hats out of the newspaper.
In this light you are tinkerbell.
You, pulling me from the rose bushes.
It was all earthy moss until gray eyes.
We’ve been interrupters & interrupted & compositions,
Harmonized, we say, “I miss you,” out loud.
You stir mornings’ coffee into melted ice cream.
It’s your way of extending the small life of
Everything.
I grimaced each time. Pixie dust only goes so far.
ACT 3: LEAVING
I read your journal. It was a list.
Of jet fuel brands, and
Of the planets you wanted to visit.
In the margins, you drew martian men.
From the window, the street was empty.
You no longer, only the stagnant space you once commanded.
Clipping Wings
By Sid MacMillan
"Two days sober and you already look like hell, don't you? (Three beat pause) Silent treatment, huh? Fine. You don't talk, I'll talk. I doubt you could get a word in edgewise with how you’re shaking- god, I told you, didn't I tell you? Get up, come on now, I didn't drive out all this way for my fuckin' health or something. You owe me fifty, by the way, ten for the gas and forty for the client you made me walk out on. (Beat) You go right on ahead and think whatever you want about me, but I came and got you, didn't I? Don't look at me like that, you and I both know I'm the only one who'd come get your sorry ass. Oh-oh, jeez, Robin, watch the-whatever, alright. Get it out of your system, you’ll feel a lot better. (Two beats) Aren’t you a sight to behold? (Beat/laugh) You’ll have to cut your ear off though, if you really want to sell the whole ‘troubled artist’ look. Oh, come on, that was funny. (Beat) Okay, fine, not funny. Jeez. (Two beats) It wouldn’t help, for the record. I...understand wanting to be somebody suffering, makes sense to, I get that. People like me always want justification for why they do what they do, always wanna hear about their destinies. It's something to make their life worthwhile, their meaning of life. They make that mistake though, they waste away tracking it down and die before they find it. You don't need to look for it. You can find meaning anywhere, if you try hard enough. Start a band, paint something, blow a bunch of money on something stupid, who cares? If you sit around, ass on your hands, you’ll never find anything worth living for, and once there’s nothing left to live for you’re worse off than dead; you get aimless. Start a cult, even, it don’t matter. Nothing you do matters, hon, and that’s the truth. That doesn’t mean it ain’t worth doing. People like me-us-have been saying for decades that they've met god. They're usually too stoned for anybody to really know what they mean by it and just stoned enough to believe themselves, but ain't that something? That god would meet people like us, people who haven't done one special thing all their lives. That's something worth living for, eh? That's meaning. (Beat) I don't care if you don't believe it, I think that's real special. And anyway, I'm not the one greening out at barely noon. You deserve it, too, you know. You could've told me if things were bad. I'd have listened. (Three beats) Everybody's got a limit, Robbie, it's just that nobody's found mine yet. No shame in having one, and you’d do well to know yours. (Two beats) C'mon, let's go. I have work and I’m already here, may as well take you home. (Beat) And no, it‘s not up for debate, get in."
Insomniac
By Siwar Alrafati
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I cannot sleep.
I have no fear of the dark, Or what may lie beyond it, Of the monster under the bed, Or the ghost in my closet. My mother has scoured my room, My brother has shooed away the night-crawlers. My father has kissed me goodnight, And tucked me in tight. And still I lie under the covers, Eyes wide open and staring , Finding images in my popcorn ceiling, Faces that become animals and then faces once more. And if I close my eyes, I can still see them, Dancing in my peripherals. My alarm looms closer to ringing, I had 8 hours, Then 7, Then 6, Then suddenly there are only 3. The glowing 03:42 mocking me, Counting me down. There are sounds I should never have heard, Ones no one else is hearing, For they have long since dozed off. My father’s heavy snoring rattling the very walls, The occasional bark from some stray dog, Just as nocturnal as I. The soft cries of the house’s old frames, Sobbing for me, For the dark circles and the headache yet to come, Like my brain is punishing me, Pounding at my skull, Begging for rest I cannot give it. |
You could say I’m just restless,
Too much adrenaline inside me, But I am all but drained of energy, A dead battery, And I wish for nothing more Tha n t o d ri f t o f f… I am not uncomfortable, Quite the opposite, really. My sheets are freshly dried and warm, And my pillow is more akin to a cloud. Still, sleep does not come to claim me, And as the hours I had turn into minutes, And daylight creeps in through the blinds to kiss my cheeks, And the cold of the night beckons in the morning’s warmth, I find my eyelids growing heavy. And I remember, Sleep will only find you, When you stop searching for it. |