Acknowledgements

Home , Always Guaranteed, Baby I Like, Electric Body, Every Time I Look at You, Flames of Passion, Give Me the Love

Acknowledgements

Thanks goes to all of those who helped with Verdant: all contributors of writings; Principal Ginger Gustavson; Assistant Principals Marie Eakin, Maria Edwards, Chenita McDonald and Robert Silvie; Librarians Mr. Kevin Allen, Mrs. Annette Williford, and Ms. Pamela Williams; Captain Shreve’s English teachers Mr. Michael Scott and Mrs. Maureen Barclay.

Staff

Editors:

Brian Chauppetta Rachel Dupree Emily Hurst McAuley Ferrell Grasyn Turpin

Faculty Adviser:

Michael Scott

Verdant 17 is a collection of Captain Shreve’s best student writing from the 2016-2017 school year as selected by the Verdant editorial staff. In this collection you will find essays, narratives, and poems that have received recognition from the Scholastic Writing Awards, Seedlings, Artbreak, and the PTSA Reflections Arts Program. Entries are copyright of their respective owners, and may be reproduced for personal or educational purposes only. For more information, please contact Michael Scott at [email protected].

Table of Contents Prose

Letting Go……………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 9 Lilyth Foley

Looking Back while Running Forward………………………………………………………………. 11 Lonniqua James

Mamboing Back Home………………………………………………………………………………………. 13 Caellen Kimble

Breathe in, Breathe Out, Flex Fingers………………………………………………………………. 16 Parker Smith

Dear Mr. School Board……………………………………………………………………………………….. 19 William Cooper

Letter to My Brother………………………………………………………………………………………….. 21 Jordan Jones

Love Trump’s Hate……………………………………………………………………………………………… 23 Allison Howell

Tan White Girl…………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 25 Josie Larkins

Shout…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 28 Amira Thomas

A Regular Sunday……………………………………………………………………………………………….. 30 Tyran Jackson

All White Shoes…………………………………………………………………………………………………… 35 Jordan Jones

Common Sense…………………………………………………………………………………………………... 37 Rachel Dupree

One Last Orange………………………………………………………………………………………………... 40 Grasyn Turpin

Dear Brown Girl………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 42 2

Jayla Williams Poetry

The Big Day…………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 44 Emily Hurst

Nine Years of Holding On…………………………………………………………………………………… 46 Grasyn Turpin

Heart…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 49 Brian Chauppetta

A New, Old Acquaintance………………………………………………………………………………….. 51 Caellen Kimble

Bohemian Disaster…………………………………………………………………………………………..… 54 Anne-Marie Auer

Beginnings, Middles, and Ends………………………………………………………………………….. 55 Austin Waldon

No Mona Lisa………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 57 Lilyth Foley

Abandoned…………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 58 Erin Smith

They Always Talk About My Schizophrenia……………………………………………………… 59 Trevor Herrick

The Reason…………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 61 Kelsie Payne

Dis……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 63 Cassie Snow

The Collector………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 64 Anne-Marie Auer

The Dead Ones……………………………………………………………………………………………………. 65 Trevor Herrick

Stress et Anxiété………………………………………………………………………………………………… 67 Erin Smith

Bath Bomb……………………………………………………………………………………………………….…. 68 Victoria Robinson

Living in a Tower Built Upon Glass……………………………………………………………………. 69 Austin Waldon

#growingupblack……………………………………………………………………………………………….. 71 Jamiah Marshall

Old Man, New Man…………………………………………………………………………………………….. 73 Ashlin Thomas

To Those with a Brother…………………………………………………………………………………….. 75 Amanda Hightower

Airplane Mode……………………………………………………………………………………………………. 79 Chelsea Fuller

Heroin…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 81 Emily Colgin

The Highwaywoman………………………………………………………………………………...... 83 Georgia Hilburn

Empathy……………………………………………………………………………………...... 85 Tanner Hines

Rich Runaway…………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 86 Alexis McClain

Complicated Femininity…………………………………………………………………………………….. 88 Tyran Jackson

Warning Label Needed………………………………………………………………………………………. 90 Amelia Snow

I Am a Man………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 93 Cade Davis

Life Changing……………………………………………………………………………………………………... 95 Carly Davis

Expectations……………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 97 Cassie Snow

Frosty………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 100 Joshua Mills

Thanks………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 102 Kelsie Payne

Mute………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 105 Claire Guin

The Innocence of the Child………………………………………………………………………………. 107 Sherridan Wilson

Songs to Say Goodbye………………………………………………………………………………………. 109 Emily Colgin

Yes = No…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 113 Parker Smith

City in Flames……………………………………………………………………………………………………. 116 Shakira Frierson

My Feet Swing Back and Forth………………………………………………………………………… 118 Alexis McClain

An Ode to Musicians………………………………………………………………………………………... 121 Charlie O’Brien

Annalise…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 123 Brian Chauppetta

A Response to a Quote by Osho………………………………………………………………………. 125 Chase Harner

The Further……………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 127 Dawson Weathers

Opinions, Hand-Delivered…………………..…………………………………………………………… 128 Jacob Wise

Because I’m not a Writer…………………………………………………………………………………. 131 Jamiah Marshall

Dear Photoshop……………………………………………………………………………………………….. 134 Taylor Guin

Star’s Sky…………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 136 Jayla Williams

Expect Something……………………………………………………………………………...... 138 Sherridan Wilson

15 Years, but 4 Hours……………………………………………………………………………………….. 139 Laura Leigh Lawrence

10 Year Old Kid…………………………………………………………………………………………………. 140 Liberty Johnson

Anxiety………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 141 Lindsay Reynolds

There’s No Freedom…………………………………………………………………………………………. 144 Lindsey Kelly

Deformity………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 146 Malina Martinez

Spots………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 148 Mary Catherine Douglas

We Will Never Know…………………………………………………………………………………………. 150 Olivia Hilburn

Just Me………………………………………………………………………………………………………………. 152 Samaria Tillman

Father/Daughter………………………………………………………………………………………………. 154 Taylor Guin

Day to Day………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 156 Francisco Guzman

Thrice Pondered……………………………………………………………………………………………….. 158 Rachel Dupree

Sirens………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 159 Tanner Hines

Trapped…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 161 Lindsey McGeorge

Save Yourself……………………………………………………………………………………………………. 162 Laura Leigh Lawrence

Reflection………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 165 Emily Hurst

Violated…………………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 167 Lindsey McGeorge

The Friend That Never Came…………………………………………………………………………… 171 Mary Catherine Douglas

Wendy Darling………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 173 McAuley Ferrell

Letting Go Lilyth Foley

Auribus teneo lupum, ‘I hold a wolf by the ears’ This water between us is so coated with algae that I can’t see the blue of clear skies anymore. My reflection is lost in this ugly shade of green–not like the ripe color of your eyes. You’re too pure to stick your toe in, but I’m too selfish to find my way across. You promised to teach me how to swim when we first found this place, do you remember? When we were kids, stumbling into something precious with the foolish idea that we would own it forever? Maybe we should’ve been more careful about getting our hands dirty. But it was so tempting, all perfect and untouched, do you remember? Back then I could’ve traded your eyes for mine and everything would’ve looked exactly the same. What’s changed with you? You look different from this side of the world, something about the way the sun hits your hair. The reflection of the light off your already golden head. Tell me, do you feel brighter now without my shadow at your feet? I know the birds sing louder over here without your voice to suffocate them. Do people see you clearly now that my presence isn’t there to keep it all out of sight, out of their minds? Tell me. Why is it that the ground at your feet looks so clean, when my vision erupts into chaos every time I look at you? When trees are clashing, when the river is spitting up water, when wind is tearing away any sign of life, there you are in the midst of it all, oblivious. Too busy laying ruin to the thoughts inside your head to see what you do. Or maybe you do; maybe you’re not as blind as you pretend to be. Or maybe you’re right and I’m just too cynical. God, when do I stop making excuses for you? You are perfectly capable of coming up with your own stories–better than anyone I know.

When am I going to stop treating you like that fragile little bird I found who wasn’t ready to be freed from its nest? We both know the image you painted in every one’s mind isn’t of you; you stand taller than me. So when am I allowed to stand on my own? When do you give me my freedom? I want so desperately just to take it from you, but every time, I can feel them watching me out of the corners of their eyes. Even now. Why is it that I’m the only one who sees what you do? Is it because I love you so well? Because the heat that you enkindle in my veins burns through the delusions that you inspire? God, I hate you for it. But even for that I hate myself. What I wouldn’t give to be soaked in oblivion by your purity, your sanctity, your innocence… I wouldn’t give anything. The truth of it is: this water between us is too deep to work through and I don’t know how to swim without you.

Looking Back while Running Forward Lonniqua James

A crucible, by definition, is a place or occasion of severe test or trial. These trials mold us to be the way we are. They either change us for better or worse. We all have crucibles and adversity that shape our lives. Sometimes, we allow our fears to stifle our actions. Take me for example. I stood back for years. No bonfires where you can roast marshmallows with friends. No firecrackers, as if the sounds were not scary enough. Heaven forbid you stand too close to the grill. Do you need anymore scars? Candles were the worst. I loved the smell of them. From Hawaiian Escape to Vanilla, they all smelled sublime. I was always frightened though. The wicks were very short and I was afraid to touch the fire. That's right — fire. It is crazy how the things you have seen can shape not only your fears but your actions. I am very wary of fire. The way the flames dance prettily — begging for a partner to join them. The yellows, reds, and oranges put you in a trance. The pungent smell of the thick black smoke makes you keep inhaling. You think it's because of its beauty, but you're really being deprived of oxygen. It seduces you. Beckoning you to come closer and closer. Only when you reach out and touch it do you realize what you should have known before — fire hurts. Fire hurt me once. It actually hurt my whole family. It destroyed our home, flung us far from our relatives, and plunged us into financial ruin. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was either three or four and my older brother was five. My mother was in the kitchen cooking us lunch as she always did back then. She was on the phone — gossiping probably. She soon went outside for some reason. In a matter moments there was a fire on the stove. The smoke detectors went off. My brother and I were in his room. The plain white walls that would soon be nonexistent. We heard a knock on the window. “Go to mommy’s room!” , my mother said. She had locked herself out. When we were running there,

we saw the kitchen, dining, and living room on fire. Our house, our pictures, our memories were ablaze. We went to her room and hid under the black and white striped cover, waiting. Suddenly there was a crash! My father had jumped through the window and saved us! He faced the fire; with no fear — for us! He was our savior. His fatherly light shined brighter than the fire’s abominable one. We went there yesterday. It was odd, standing on an old patch of land. They never put anything there after 11 years. I began to think. “I wonder if this is a sign. Is this some type of symbolism used in writing my life story? Will I always be changed by this event?” I was broken out of my torpor when I looked to my left. Over there was a small patch of flowers. Cute little yellow flowers. They were growing amongst the scorched earth. I almost ran to the car! I was elated by this new information! I was grateful that I was able to look back on this memory in a new light. When I got home, I lit a candle. It was a tall, strawberry kiwi, candle. The wick was short, shorter than usual as it was a household favorite. I was not afraid. It was an act of expiation.

Mamboing Back Home Caellen Kimble

‘Twas the night before Mardi Gras all throughout the house, there wasn't a sound other than the ribbits of the frogs out in the lake and the patters coming from my bare feet tipping across the tile. I remember how I stayed awake that night, restlessly pacing across the floor, unable to sleep. Due to my excitement, I was at the point where everytime I tried to lay down my mind began to race as I begin making a mental checklist to ensure that everything was in place for the upcoming events. The door creaked as I went in and out of the house to single-handedly count each string of beads for the next day. I wondered how many I needed to throw to make sure we didn't run out before the night was over as I climbed up the large pirate themed float built only weeks before. My cousin Cody- and archetypal frat boy of large stature stood at the door, watching me as he ran his fingers through his curly, sandy hair. He yelled out, “Go to bed girl, you can't enjoy a good night's rest because you’re too worried about tomorrow!” The sound of his deep, heavily accented voice startled me and caused me to trip from the top of the float. In a state of rage I sprang onto my feet and threw a box filled with cups and small toys at him, causing him to fall into lake behind the house. By this time, it was 3 a.m. so I decided to go lay down. Only a few short hours later, my alarm blared and I hopped out of bed. Now was my time to shine! I was so elated that I didn't know what to do. I soon realized that I had all day until it was time for the parade line up, and there was absolutely nothing else that I could prepare for so I decided to catch up on the sleep I missed out on the night before. It was time to get ready for revelry, and I was overjoyed. As I arrived, stepped out of the truck and climbed aboard our float, the blazing hot sun beamed down on my skin. The song “Mardi Gras Mambo,” a traditional tune almost everyone in Louisiana has heard once before replayed continuously while the shouts, “Throw me some beads mister,” overwhelmed me. For years, I had waited to finally be a

part of this. No longer was I an average citizen at the corner of Capitol Street, hoping to be acknowledged. I was a part of something grand, Mardi Gras. This was the first time I was getting to ride on the float with my older cousins and other various family members. It was 7 o'clock and the festivities were about to begin. The dynamic tension that was filled inside the quaint pirate ship caused a sense of urgency to pulse through my veins. The resounding music was no comparison to the noise of the crowd. Everyone stopped and danced on the sidewalks. You saw people of all ages doing the Cupid Shuffle while young children in a tizzy were begging for the gleaming, over priced light sabers being sold on the sidewalks. The parade began and the crowd roared even louder; in a drunken stupor, many were pleading with my Parrain (a creole term for godfather)- a short creole man with long black hair that glistening in the moonlight, for trinkets to take back home. He was quite the pundit on all things Mardi Gras and naturally when he turned to face me he could see the nervousness scattered across my face. I had no idea what was going on, why was this experience so unlike all the others? This encounter was something I’d waited a lifetime for. After continuously begging me to loosen up, he decided to do something so erratic that the whole crowd would silence themselves. He picked me up and placed me on top of the bow of the ship and yelled to the small crowd trailing nearby, “You can take the girl out of the port, but eventually she'll earn back that New Orleans flair!” An older man around 60 grabbed onto his hand and replied, “Laissez les bon temps rouler!” (Let the good times roll!) The life in his eyes gave me a sense of relativity. I quickly realized that everything was fine! The love of New Orleans and Mardi Gras were evident. Although, everyone there was different we all stood as one and shared a common standpoint. Mardi Gras Mambo was still playing in the background and as I aired out the noise around me and paid attention to the lyrics I realized that the tune was more than just a song. It reflected the city of New Orleans: fast, complex, and full of life. Never would I contemplate that a song that I've heard millions of times before would have such a mass effect on me. It was as if all of the fear and nervousness

that I had built up inside of me was released. I wanted to relive this moment over and over again and to this day I still think of it. Since that night I have made it a tradition to enjoy my time back home in New Orleans while making sure to ride the float and Mardi Gras Mambo until the sun rises up.

Breathe in, Breathe Out, Flex Fingers Parker Smith

Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Turn seventy-five degrees on my left heel and continue walking. Right. Left. Right. Left. Stop. The thirty-two second route from my room to my office took two seconds longer than usual today. Deep breath in, breath out. I didn’t let it get to me. I pace myself in the perfectly centered chair in front of my perfectly centered desk, straightening my perfectly straightened pencils, and prepare to get to work. Breath in, breath out. Flex fingers. I glance up at the clock and freeze—8:57—I can not possibly begin work at an odd time! I do not move an inch until the clock ticks a minute—8:58. I straighten my laptop once more, dust off the keyboard with two quick swipes of the duster that I keep in the second drawer on the right. Replacing my duster to the exact place that it was before, I place my fingers on the keyboard one by one—ASDFJKL; with my thumbs resting on the space bar. Breath in, breath out. Flex fingers. Times New Roman, 12 Pt. font, double spaced. OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, is defined by the DSM (The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) as “Recurrent and persistent thoughts, urges, or impulses that are experienced, at some time during the disturbance, as intrusive and unwanted, and that in most individual cases cause anxiety and distress (Beyond OCD).” I however, define OCD as the order of my colored pencils, as the distance from my desk to the door (4.5 feet), as the counting of my steps everywhere I go, and as the gripping anxiety if any one of these things are not so. Breath in, breath out. Flex fingers. Research points to the front part of the brain as the cause of this disorder. When the front part of the brain has impaired communication with deeper parts of the bria—

Breath in, breath out. Flex fingers. I stand up, push my chair in, drop the the floor and begin to do push ups. Down, up. One. Down, up. Two. I continue this cycle until my arms give out and I collapse to the floor, exhausted. You may be wondering why I did this—it is, of course, because I misspelled the word “brain.” I lift my fatigued body off the ground, straighten my clothes, and sit down to resume my work. Breath in, breath out. Flex fingers. Backspace, backspace—Brain. I tend to notice details—all of them, but one thing I did not notice was my mom walk past the office during my fit of frenzied push ups. I do notice some things about her. Like when she disappears to her room every time she sees me on the ground doing push ups. Like her puffy eyes after a long night up with me. Like the sad expression she carries at every doctor's appointment. Like the sunken, almost pitiful expression that grips her like a vice every time I mention my future. I want nothing more than to make her happy, but for whatever reason everytime I make her smile, it feels faked. Forced. It feels like her smile holds back a million tears. Breath in, breath out. Flex fingers. OCD is nothing but a struggle. People pity the one who suffers from the disorder, but the people that surround them are the ones that should be pitied. These people sacrifice a normal life to help someone that they had to learn to love. Every single person I know has had to change the way they act around me, the way they treat me. My mom has exchanged her normal work life, social life, and even her personal life for twenty four hours of caring for me. My dad has traded his free time and weekends for seven days of work, all because of the fact that I may never leave home. My siblings sacrifice normal childhoods—because soccer practice just does not fit into the equation. They all give up the gift that is watching a child grow and develop normally in exchange for a walking computer that is anything but free of errors. All of this sacrifice while I sit here,

straightening my pens, meticulously managing everything around me. My life is a burden on others, nothing but an all too logical burden that makes absolutely no sense. Over the years I have witnessed the pain and desperation that I have brought on my family with nothing more than a single, uncontrollable lapse in my genes that leaves me helpless to these impulses that tear me apart inside. I may not be able to read your ever changing faces or judge your hidden feelings, but I know pain when I see it. Breath in, breath out. Flex fingers.

Works Cited

"Beyond OCD." OCD Clinical Definition | DSM-IV-TR | Diagnosing OCD | Beyond OCD. Beyond OCD, 2013. Web. 04 Dec. 2016.

Dear Mr. School Board William Cooper

Throughout my educational career I’ve spent gobs of hours studying and stressing over standardized testing. In 2015, the presidential administration pushed for a reduction in “over-testing” stating that it “takes the joy out of teaching and learning” (Morello). However, I have yet to see any reduction whatsoever. My schoolmates and I have treaded through dozens of standardized tests since the beginning of our high school career. My junior year alone, I was required to take eight tests ranging from the ACT to AP and EOC tests (not including the hours of studying for finals and midterms). Reducing the number of standardized tests in school is necessary not only because they interfere with teaching the course curriculum, but because they are weighed much too heavily when considering acceptance into universities, as well as being both unrealistic and irrelevant in the real world. If we continue to “teach to the test,” then we’re going to end up as a society who has no practical use outside of the classroom. I have spent hundreds of dollars on the ACT, sacrificing my time and effort for a test that has no practical significance once I graduate from high school. The generations that preceded us, our parents and grandparents, they don’t remember taking the ACT or SAT, and if they do they only had to take it once. Our generation, however, has been forced to take it not only once, but multiple times because the world we live in is so much more competitive than it has been in the past. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the premise behind standardized testing. I understand we need to have a standard to compare students, but the truth is it’s impossible to compare students across the country based on a homogenized test. Unless of course you want a nation full of really good test takers who lack individuality and creativity. Plus, when you start to measure a school’s success based off of how they’ve tested, it begins to create an unhealthy competition among neighboring schools. This ultimately results in the student’s suffering as teachers begin to pile

on hours of homework to prepare their students for the dreaded tests, and results in the abandonment of extracurriculars and athletics. So why must we place the value of these tests so high when considering acceptance into college? Why do we not place a higher emphasis on grade point average? Shouldn’t the four year GPA of a student reflect much higher on a person’s work ethic than a four-hour test taken early on a Saturday morning? We need to implore colleges to reduce the necessity of standardized testing whether that’s through legislation or protesting. I’ve spent both my junior and senior year building up my ability to take the ACT, and yet, when I go out into the world hunting for a job, how will it have helped me? Employers will never hire me based on whether I can comprehend four passages in 30 minutes, or whether I know what x is equivalent to, but hey, at least I’m a pro at filling in bubbles on an answer sheet!

Yours Truly, The Student Body of America

Works Cited

Morello, Rachel. "Feds Will Work To Reduce Time Spent on Standardized Testing." StateImpact Indiana RSS. N.p., n.d. Web. Oct. 2016. "Pros and Cons of Standardized Testing." Columbia University. School and Child Care Service, n.d. Web. Oct. 2016.

Letter to My Brother Jordan Jones

“He came, he came,” we used to yell around 6 AM every Christmas morning. Peeking through parts of the carefully wrapped gifts and shaking boxes labeled with our names, we’d take time to see who got the biggest presents until Mama woke up. One of us would look to see if she had been awaken by our cheerful yells, while the other checked to see if Santa ate the chocolate chip cookies we baked together the night before. Our eyes would bulge at each other when we realized all that was left were a few crumbs and a half empty glass of milk. Even though we were sure we’d be on the “nice” list, his visits always seemed to amaze us more and more each year. You and I used to be so close. Remember the day we moved into our first house and we both got our own rooms? We specially picked out new furniture and paint colors to match—yours a bold blue, mine a bright yellow—because we were “big kids” now and we wouldn’t be able to sleep together all our lives. But on nights when the thunder got so loud that I couldn’t hear my own dreams, or when those dreams turned into nightmares, I no longer wanted a room to myself. I’d tiptoe into your room, and in a light, shaken up voice I’d ask if I could sleep with you in your bed. Regardless to whether or not you actually heard the question, being that you were typically halfway asleep, you always said the answer I was waiting to hear. A sleepy “mhm” was muttered and without any hesitation I was snuggled up in the blanket on the other end of your bed. All of my biggest fears seemed to be covered up and put to rest. Your presence, like the blanket over my body, wrapped my soul in a warm, protective shield. Man, we used to be so close. What about those days that were too hot for us to bear playing outdoors so we ventured to something inside the house? Do you remember playing school? How I forced you into being the student nine times out of ten; how I’d whine if you didn’t do the work I “assigned”. What about the times we’d play doctor or

dentist—you’d let me fork around your mouth with toothbrushes and tweezers, or use turkey basters and meat syringes as imaginary needles. Did you forget dance night? How I’d let you pick the song, but the girly dance moves we performed to Mama were mainly choreographed by me. No matter how much I did to earn the title “Miss Bossy”, you still put up with my every request. I used to be so selfish, but we used to be so close. Now, I wonder if you got tired of me and my bossy shenanigans. I wonder if you’re going through that teenage phase of shutting the rest of the world out, or if something so dark that you can’t even see it lies deeper in you. Or maybe this is just who you are—a person who values alone time. Sometimes I feel as if you don’t see the bright blue on your walls anymore. To me they seem like they’d resemble a gloomy, dark gray. Before we did everything together, now I barely even see you. Our rooms are right beside each other, but I feel like you’re gone off in a far away place. Maybe that place is somewhere reserved, filled with beings that know you better than I do. If so, I wish they’d give you back to me. I miss the times we shared together. I miss feeling like I had you to protect me. I wonder if you’re okay. I try to make conversation, but sometimes it seems that you’d rather not be bothered. I’m sorry that we aren’t the way we used to be; I hope it doesn’t affect you the way that it affects me. We used to be so close, and I wish for a time when that past tense “used to” can be removed. I want to be close again.

Love Trump’s Hate Allison Howell

It's the night of the election and everyone has gotten word that Donald Trump has been elected President. Maybe if we protest, he won't be president anymore; that usually works. When people throw tantrums they get what they want. Let's trash every car we see with a Trump bumper sticker, hell, let's trash every car that's red because they are obviously Republican and support Trump. Most of us didn't vote, we just like complaining over things we took no part in deciding. Blame the fact that we didn't vote on Republicans, when in reality we were just too lazy. Throw the tantrum anyway—keep throwing the tantrum. Hold signs that say "Not Our President" because if we deny it, Trump won’t be president. Get up and walk out of class because interrupting class time will change the fact that Trump was elected president. Skip your college classes to protest because you'll still earn a degree by not going, and Trump won't become President. Disrespect the American flag because we are “mourning the loss of our country,” and it is our right to do so. Complain about Trump’s political incorrectness because we never say the “correct” things; we are always the first people to tell you how wrong you are. Keep complaining about how America has failed and how we are going to leave the country—that'll show them. Because if we threaten to leave, they’ll change their minds about Trump. Vandalize buildings, burn them down. Maybe if enough people become anarchists, Trump won't become president. Gun down police officers and break laws. It's okay. Protesting is our right as American citizens. Lose control—all control— and pretend that our First Amendment gives us the right lose control. Jump on police cars, smash their windows, scream in outrage at the police oppression, pepper spray, and smoke grenades. Speak out against police oppression, let everyone know how gruesome they are, especially when they are trying to stop us from burning down buildings in “protest.” Log on to Twitter. Tweet. Make sure all of your followers know that Trump is not your President

because if it's in a ‘Tweet’, it is true. Cry out to other nations, announce the turmoil, change the outcome of the election, and resolve all of our problems with foreign nations. Attack every person you see with any kind of Trump hat, shirt, hoodie, or sunglasses. Assault people if they are wearing red Converse because we know they voted for Trump. Hold place cards and chant “Trump is not my President” in front of the White House because taking our problems to the capital will change everything. Set fire to every cardboard cutout of Trump you see because then the real Trump won't be president. Spray paint and vandalize every news van you see because spray paint will definitely change the outcome of the election. Hate police officers. Hate Republicans, Hate Trump supporters, Hate red cars, Hate bumper stickers, Hate pepper spray, Hate red Converse, Hate presidential elections, Hate cardboard, Hate news vans, Hate Donald Trump, Hate the American flag, but Love Trump’s Hate.

Tan White Girl Josie Larkins

“You don’t count as black.” These words rang in my head in repetition like an alarm clock that I so desperately wanted to shut off. As I was walking into my house that day, a wave of relief rushed over me. I sincerely believed my home was the only place I would be able to forget those words. However, looking around my house I saw nothing but pictures of my white family. A day at the pool, a traditional Christmas Eve picture, all with my white family members. Was it true and if it was, how could I let this happen? Did I unknowingly denounce my African-American roots? Growing up with my black father and white mother, I never saw them as different except when it was time to play dress-up. My dad was to be the king and my mom was to be the queen as I was their princess. I played with my black cousins just as I did with my white ones without thinking about the fact that their skin tones weren’t the same. Even after my parents separated and I primarily stayed with my mother, she never let me forget who I was. She never sat me down and said “look, you’re white now.” My dad never made me feel like I was only black, even though that’s how others will perceive me due to the color of my skin ﹘ he made sure I knew I had the best of both worlds. They never made me feel like I had to choose, so what gives a random kid in my freshman science class the right to choose for me? In that monumental science class conversation, we somehow ended up on the topic of race. I was empathetic towards a friend of mine after she shared her personal experiences with racism as a black female. Then a boy, to whom I had never spoken before, looked me directly in my eyes with a look of confusion and let me know that I didn’t count as black because I am half white. My heart dropped and I was at a loss for words ﹘ no one had ever said anything like that to me before. It may seem like a harmless comment, but that one comment sent me into complete

and total isolation. Did this mean I was supposed to only befriend white people? What about the black friends I already had? Did they feel this way too? I sat back and examined my skin wondering if people just saw me as a tan white girl. I became awkward around everyone who didn’t share my mixed roots. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere no matter how hard I tried. So, in an effort to appease everyone, I decided to choose one racial identity. Instead of wearing my hair curly, I went through the grueling task of straightening it every single day. I allowed my country accent, suppressed for so long, to come out just a little bit more by dropping the “-ing” off of several words and using phrases such as “bless your heart” to anyone who needed a good ole’ blessing for what they’ve been through. I wanted braces simply because all my white friends had them and suddenly I saw some imperfection in my teeth too. My body became a disgusting sight to me, no matter how much I worked out. All of my white friends were either fit or perfectly skinny and I was naturally curvy. I wanted to wear the clothes from the stores where they shopped, but I couldn’t because I had curves that the fashion industry labeled as overweight. There were days I was almost certain I was going insane with my attempts to be somebody else. Nothing anybody said or did could make me love myself at that point. Slowly but surely I isolated myself, falling into a depression that I thought I was never going to get out of because the world had no place for mixed people. Then, I met someone I often refer to as my secret saving grace. A girl, mixed like me, who was undoubtedly happy with who she was. She wore her bouncy, short, curly hair down every single day. Her skin was lighter than mine, but she didn’t limit her circle of friends to white people. She had curves like me and didn’t seem to have lost any sleep over having them. Her smile could’ve put the sun to shame ﹘ that’s how bright and genuine it was. I saw her assert herself into conversations, with people of varying race, with ease as she stated her own opinions or made them laugh with one of her witty comments. There was no denying she was comfortable in her skin, so why couldn’t I be? Without saying

anything to me, she motivated me to take all the steps necessary to reclaiming my identity. I literally and metaphorically let down my hair and learned to live again. There wasn’t a day my curls weren’t the first thing you saw when I walked through the door. I wore my size 12 pants without a care in the world. I focused more on keeping my skin healthy rather than hiding from the sun so I didn’t get darker. I had to learn how to love myself in a world where love is not always guaranteed. No matter how confident I am, I will never forget the feeling that the sun would never rise again because in my mind, even in broad daylight, I was trapped in an utter darkness. I’m not just a tan white girl. I am a black girl with naturally thick, curly hair that requires hours of work to tame. I am a white girl with my mother's smile and grace. I am a dramatic teenage girl who believes the world is ending at least three times a day. I am a lover of the decorative labels on items that others may not notice. I am, unapologetically, a proud biracial girl who definitely counts as black.

Shout Amira Thomas

Yelling has never been a sign of disrespect in my house. It’s always been a matter of “Hey. can you hear me?” or “Get over here and clean these dishes!” That’s how my family was raised. With families consisting of six aunts, five siblings and two parents, it's hard not to yell. As a matter of fact, being quiet in my house is practically a crime. Nobody wants to ask someone for the up-teenth time to repeat themselves — it’s a hassle. Apparently not everyone agreed with us.

On this particular day of middle school, it was awfully quiet. There was no sound save for the wall clock ticking away. The long term substitute teacher had previously left the classroom (probably to smoke a cigarette) and left the students to their own devices. My eyes wandered around the room, looking for something to do while my fellow students occupied themselves.. Chelsea, a girl who sat next to suddenly tapped my shoulder, asking for help with her thesis. Excited actually be doing something productive, I leaned over and began to give Chelsea tips - very loudly. After about five minutes, the substitute came back into the room. She immediately noticed the volume of my voice and told me to tone it down and I did - or at least I thought I did. A few more minutes went by when all of a sudden the substitute teacher slammed her fists against the table, causing the whole student body to jump in unison. Uh oh. The substitute went on tirade about how yelling indoors is completely disrespectful. Spit flew from her upper lip and you could practically see the vein in her temple swell with anger. Following her condemnation of my very being, she brought me to the front of the class and called my parents. She put the phone on speaker and informed my parents that (apparently) I’d screamed at my fellow classmates all class period and when she confronted me, I screeched at her as well.

Tears trailed down my cheeks because of the sheer amount of humiliation. Soon after arriving home, I completely shut down. The television stayed off, and I rolled myself up into a ball under my covers and cried. I stayed quiet for three days. My parents were livid when they saw my tear stained face. They dressed in their best clothes and made their way to my school, my dad holding his briefcase that he takes to court. They walked into the office with me in tow and shrieked and my principal, demanding an apology from the teacher who’d inappropriately disciplined their child. Their tirade went of for the first four hours of school. By the end of the day, well, I wasn’t the only one who shed tears that week. Even after receiving an apology from the school board about the unacceptable behavior of their employee, I never did speak at the same volume in public. I struggle to suppress my voice every single day and it’s even harder to hold back my laughter which could wake the dead. I wish that teachers would be more careful about what they say to their students because some speeches can have a negative impact on that child for life.

A Regular Sunday Tyran Jackson

Five-Foot Midget is sitting on the couch mindlessly folding towels with all of her attention on Empire with a white t-shirt on her head twisted in a bun. She puts the towels in a basket, pauses Empire, carries basket to bathroom, starts putting towels in the cabinet. A car pulls up with loud bass and a busted motor, it dies down. Three seconds later, Five-Foot Midget hears a combination of knocks and doorbells, followed by an opening door. Five-Foot Midget rolls her eyes and sighs, taking basket back to living room. One French Fry Short of a Happy Meal: “Hey, DeeDee!” Five-Foot Midget: “Hey, Mya. Hey, y’all.” Ms. Thang: “Guh, whatchu got on yo’ head?” Summer School Student: “You know she thank she somethin’ cause she nappy-I mean natural.” Beady-bee Head: “That’s why she look like Erykah Badu.” (ALL COUSINS LAUGH) Single Mother of Four: “You just gone let them talk about chu like dat?” Five-Foot Midget: “They can talk all they want to. At least I don’t need no bundles to make a ponytail.” (ALL COUSINS LAUGH) Ms. Thang: “Whatchu got dat basket for? You washing clothes?” Five-Foot Midget:

“Nawl, ‘Niya. I’m just carrying the basket for exercise.” Ms.Thang: “Good, cause you need some.” (ALL COUSINS LAUGH) Five-Foot Midget:(walking to front door) “At least I ain’t got no beady-bees in my head like you and ya musty brotha wit that yella t-shirt and them brown UPS shorts, lookin’ like Spongebob. Single Mother of Four: “Dee, you’ll put the Haves and the Have Nots on fuh me?” Five-Foot Midget: “Well, I’m watching Empire right now. You can watch it afta Empire go off.” Single Mother of Four: “Hell, ain’t chu washing clothes anyway? How you gon’ watch Empire and wash clothes?” Five-Foot Midget: “I was watchin’ it while I was folding the clothes but I guess I can put it on for you.” Single Mother of Four: “Ooh, you so kind. Thank you.” Five-Foot Midget walks over to table, grabs remote, searches for Haves and Have Nots on OnDemand with right hand on remote and left hand on her hip. Five-Foot Midget puts remote back on table, picks up basket, holds it between wall and stomach while opening the door, goes through, closes door and goes into washroom. She sees her load of clothes from the washer machine sitting on top of the dryer. Five-Foot Midget: “What kinda mess? Ain’t that about nothin’. They gone take my clothes out the washer, sit ‘em on top uh da dryer and put they clothes in the washer. Well, hell, least they took my clothes out the dryer. And they done put theirs in. Boy, boy, you let black people use ya stuff and this how they do ya! Give ‘em a inch and they take

a flip-floppin’ mile. Lord, please fuhgive me, I just took communion this morning and pahsta just said ‘Be thankful fuh ya family.’ ” Five-Foot Midget starts singing ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.’ She opens the dryer to check her cousins’ clothes. The steam fogs her glasses. She closes the dryer and goes to start it again. She sees that they put the dryer on the wrong setting and stops singing to fuss. “Ooh, I swear ‘fore Lord, I done told them not to put the flip-floppin’ dryer on-” Five-Foot Midget stops fussing to sharply inhale and start singing again. She sits on top of the deep freezer, taking joy in her washroom hiding place. She stops singing and turns on her Pandora app on her phone and ‘Juicy’ by Biggie starts playing. She raps the whole song and sings every song, including Kirk Franklin and Nirvana, that comes after it for twenty minutes. The washer and dryer have stopped. She takes their huge load of clothes out of the dryer, puts their next huge load in the dryer, and starts the washing machine for her next load. She gets ready to put the detergent in the cup and barely enough soap to cover the bottom comes out. Five-Foot Midget: “Now, I know good and doggone well that they did not use all of the detergent in the container that we just bought last week. I know they didn’t, Lord. Is that what they did, Lord?” She opens the cap on the container and sees the tablespoon of detergent left inside. “Yes. They. Did. Ohmygosh, I swear fore Lord, these folk get on my nerves. How in the bleep bleep bleep do you use somebody else expensive laundry detergent without asking?! Father, Father, I done tried. I done really tried not to-” Five-Foot Midget stops fussing again and goes back to singing. She stops the washer and unplugs it. She gets her basket of dry clothes and goes back to the house. She open the door to Single Mother of Four asleep on the couch, Single Mother of Two cornrowing Lil Bit’s hair to install crochet braids, and four kids running around the house. Single Mother of Two: “Guh, everytime I come over here, you washing clothes. Do you do anythang other than wash clothes?”

Five-Foot Midget: “Guh, everytime I walk in my house, you here. Do you ever stay at ya own house?” Single Mother of Two: “Hmph, I guess. Oh, yea, we was washing some clothes outside.” Five-Foot Midget: “Yeah, I know! You used all my laundry detergent! Now what I’mma do ‘bout my clothes? I’m just suhposed to wear a trash bag to school like Missy Elliot, huh? This ain’t ‘I Can’t Stand the Rain’. Whatchu laughin fuh? This ain’t funny. Dang, you got a job and yo own house, why you can’t go to the laundromat or look, even better. Why you don’t just buy your own washer and dryer? Oh yeah, cause it takes money and you’d rather spend ya money buying ya chirren new Jordan’s every week. Ain’t no Joneses in the hood for you to try to keep up with. What is you tryna do?” (ALL COUSINS LAUGH) Single Mother of Four: “Haa! Whoop, bet you heard that.” Single Mother of Two: “Dang, we thought you was sleep. Where you come from? And ain’t nobody asked you nothin.” Single Mother of Four: “Well, hell, I was sleep but I sure heard that girl put you on blast for using all her detergent but you steady buying yo kids Jordans when y’all live in the hood.” Five-Foot Midget: “I hope you ain’t tryna put her on blast when y’all use my stuff too. Then, eat all my food, go home and be back for the next Sunday. Then, you had me turn my show off to watch whatever you wanted, I come back in the house and you sleep. I could have left Empire where it was. And then another thing, if y’all wanted to use some, and I did say ‘some’, you need to ask first and then get some. And if you need to borrow detergent every single time you wash clothes, then that tell you that you

either need to put in on the detergent we keep at the house or buy your own. Cause this is ridiculous. Dang! Tyram starts to storm off to her bedroom when she trips over her dog Phillip. All cousins laugh. Fade to black.

All White Shoes Jordan Jones

I don’t come from the Chuck Taylors on my feet, American Eagle on my back, or a Coach purse on my shoulder. I was brought up in all white shoes from Walmart and patterned dresses made by Mae Mae, my grandmother who took my family in. I am from Monroe, Louisiana—a small, country town—a place I never pictured leaving. Some may say I was a living and breathing stereotype: I was being raised by a single mom because of a “deadbeat baby-daddy.” The fact that my father did not contribute nor was he around caused Mama to struggle to pay endless bills. Yet, she never struggled to provide my brother and me with what we needed most—love. Hiding problems of the outside world through handed down Barbie dolls, coloring sheets, and episodes of Dora the Explorer, she never got to chase after her own dreams. She was too busy trying to help us reach ours. We took trips to the memorial library and playground because it was an easy, free thing to do. The books I didn’t finish reading in the library became bedtime stories that following night. I longed to jump on the high-flying swing and run through the dirty sand boxes. My all white shoes constantly needed replacing; the question was whether or not they actually got replaced. I knew nothing of water parks and rollercoasters. The park was my Six Flags. Opportunity struck after Mama remarried and we all traveled to a city that seemed to be much bigger than the one that we lived in. The streets of Shreveport were filled with busy shopping centers, entertainment spots that catered to children, and restaurants booming with business. Now that Mama was no longer single, our financial situation improved ‒ there being two incomes in the household versus one. With more money, lifestyles changed. We took more trips to malls and amusement parks, and spent less time in the libraries. The Chuck Taylors and name brand purses became expected. I grew accustomed to superficial tags. School was quite different too; predominately white, my classmates differed from the ones in

Monroe who were mostly black. With my strong desire to fit in I permed my brown, springy curls because I wanted to match the girls with long, blond, straight hair. My world was grander and filled with material things that I had forgotten to appreciate. Fast forward eleven years and reality has touched my soul like a ton of bricks. Mama is no longer married and our financial state has changed. Though she works so that I can have the commodities I wish for, the “superficial tags” are no longer my priority. Wearing my hair straight like everyone else isn’t a must. My curls are alluring and the clothes I wear don’t make me ‒ of course it never hurts to get dressed up every once in awhile to express my style. Now I am almost 17 and my understanding of the world is better, but it continues to change. Going into the bustling halls of my high school for the first time, I had no idea how much I’d change as a person by the beginning of junior year. I wish to be able to look back and have no regrets. To not look down upon the moments when my all-white tennis shoes get dirty, but instead learn to make them white again.

Common Sense Rachel Dupree

In the early 18th century, America was on the brink of independence, and frontiersmen led the exploration of territory to the west of the Mississippi. Unexplored land was threatening and unyielding―no one knew what was over the next ridge or inside the next heavily wooded area. These men depended on their firearms as means of protection and harvesting food. Without them, North American frontiersmen would have starved, been slaughtered by hostile Indians, or mauled by large predators. The tradition of having a gun as protection runs deep. When police forces weren’t available in the 17th and 18th centuries, many people relied on their firearms for survival. While not widespread today, there are still people who depend on guns for survival; currently, firearms are mostly used as a means of protection against intruders with bad intentions. A ban on guns will not only take away a person’s ability to protect him/herself, but it will also mean that the only people who have guns are the criminals. Criminals will get a hold of a gun by any illegal means necessary. Statistics prove that places with more gun control have a higher crime rate. Take the handgun ban in England and Wales in 1997: there was a 50 percent increase in the homicide rate. The homicide rate only started to fall when England and Wales began hiring more police officers. Even then, the homicide rate was still high (“Murder and Homicide”). Banning guns will also take away a hunter’s ability to manage wildlife. If the large game animal population exceeds the carrying capacity of the land, the population will expand beyond those boundaries and into suburban and urban areas. Deer and other wildlife will start feeding on people’s gardens and vegetation around their homes. Not only that, but there will be a higher risk of drivers hitting a deer or other large game animal, causing accidents that could potentially be fatal. Guns give hunters the ability to manage large game herds, thus preventing the

population of game animals from overrunning populated areas. The management of game herds also provides a medium for harvesting food. As a hunter myself, I can attest to this. Without firearms, I would not be able to obtain a delicious source of protein: venison. I take the meat I want to eat, then donate the rest to various organizations that could use the meat to feed those who are less fortunate. On a more serious note, we were given the right to bear arms not because the deer were coming, but because the British were coming. Our Founding Fathers supported our right to bear arms, and thus created the Second Amendment. It was their belief that giving power to the people all across the nation would prevent tyranny. Our right to own guns preserves our ability to create a militia―the counterpart to central authority. I am not saying that gun owners have any intention of rebelling, but merely stating the fact that our Founding Fathers―the men who created this country we so dearly love―supported that right. Guns don’t kill people, people kill people. A gun lying on a table won’t hurt anyone; however, there will always be morally corrupt and mentally ill people who want to pull the trigger. Gun-owners are for common sense laws: background checks are an example of this. In fact, 85 percent of gun-owners support background checks. A recent study shows that homicides dropped 40 percent after Connecticut adopted laws in 1995 that required those seeking to buy a gun be at least 21 years old and go through many hours of safety training (Richards). Keeping firearms out of the hands of felons and the mentally ill is a concept recognized by both sides of the gun control debate. The gun industry provides many jobs for people, and they are well-paying jobs at that. The gun industry is booming. Overall, the size of the commercial gun and ammunitions market is around $32 billion nationwide. Many gun industry workers earn an average of $140,000 per year, and as many as 211,000 are employed either directly or indirectly. Basic salesmen are even eligible for medical benefits (Pavlich). The success of the gun industry has an impact on the state and federal tax revenue. Taxes are paid on guns just like anything else; taking away the

gun industry will deal a severe blow to our economy. Thousands of people will become unemployed, and there will be a deficit in the amount of money that goes to the government. When I read the statistics, I see that there are more benefits to gun ownership than there are drawbacks. However, it is only the drawbacks that are given the most publicity. But beyond those drawbacks, guns stimulate the economy, manage wildlife, and provide safety, security, and food for Americans. Firearms are a symbol of freedom in the United States of America, and as an American, I take pride in being able to own a gun.

Works Cited

“Murder and Homicide Rates Before and After Gun Bans.” Crime Research Center, 1 Dec. 2013. http://www.crimeresearch.org/2013/12/murder-and-homicide-rates-before-a nd-after-gun-bans/. Accessed 15 September 2016. Pavlich, Katie. “Guns and the Economy.” Townhall Magazine. 24 Apr. 2013. http://townhall.com/tipsheet/katiepavlich/2013/04/24/guns-and-the-econom y-n1573238. Accessed 15 September 2016. Richards, Sarah. “Why Background Checks for Gun Purchases Have Gun-Owner Support.” Johns Hopkins Magazine, Fall 2015. http://hub,jhu.edu/magazine/2015/fall/background-checks-guns/. Accessed 15 September 2016.

One Last Orange Grasyn Turpin

I smell you in oranges. As the citrus scent tickles my nose I think of your steady, calloused hands pulling away skin from the juice-filled pulp. I hear you in the creak of a green, plush rocking chair (it sways like a boat). I feel safe. I hear your laugh in church bells chiming with mirth. It draws me close and settles my soul. Its outstretched arms ready to embrace. I feel you in the pages of a newspaper. The crease of your forehead, the wrinkles of your eyes. It feels like hands pressed in prayer and the Lord forgives. I see you in boiling pots and wooden spoons. You're whistling of “Sweet Chariots”. My toddler feet balanced on tiptoes, teetering, and I'm a mess of bouncing curls and boisterous giggles. The cold in the white tile is a contrast to the warm in my cheeks as you tell me how much to put of each ingredient. But more than anything, I see you in my dreams. I envision your laugh, your hands, your eyes. They’re faded and covered in gray. Silenced by static. It's not you.

It will never be you.

I could never let you go, but seeing you breathe in my everyday is a searing pain to my chest. It makes me reach towards what I can't have.

I can't have you.

And maybe that's the hardest part: being reminded of how much I need one last laugh.

One last ingredient.

A chime of a church bell.

One last embrace–I love you.

One last orange with you.

Dear Brown Girl Jayla Williams

Dear Brown Girl,

Strut yo’ stuff girl! Keep your head held high. Continue to wear your hair big and please, continue to eat yo’ collard greens and cornbread. But whatever you do, don’t conform into the ways and stereotypes of this world. For your skin absorbs sun rays. You are light filled. So continue to let your light shine. Girl, finish school. You got this. Show off your big lips and thick hips. Strut yo’ stuff girl. When the cutest boy in your class tells you he doesn’t date brown girls, keep it movin’. When your friend is only your friend at school and isn’t allowed to come over your house, still, strut your stuff girl! Don’t worry about how this world sees you. You don’t even know how powerful you are. Dear brown girl, you are dipped in brown sugar and glazed with honey. You smell of cinnamon spice and everything nice. Don’t play by the rules, even your hair defies gravity! So please do continue to wear yo’ fro. Please, do continue to eat yo’ neck bones with yo’ hot sauce. Please, do continue to keep your head held high. But with all that you do, continue to strut your stuff girl! They hate when you do that.

The Big Day Emily Hurst

I look into his eyes and think of everything we’ve been through together-- So many long, speechless nights. We share so many “firsts” and so many “lasts.” He looks so handsome in his black suit. I’m holding his hand-- it’s warm from my touch. I tug at my bright red dress. Yes-- bright red. I’ve never been big into traditions. I look to his mother, She’s silently weeping.

As I look back to him, I’m flooded with memories. Of screams and of scars. I let go of his hand, and it falls limp at his side. Suddenly, I’m back at the house. That sleepless, hateful house. As his shouts fill the air, I vow not to fall asleep that night, As he rolls over and begins to snore, I think to myself, “I won’t let his threats become a reality… At least not for me.”

I’m back at the church, Music starts to play, It’s about to begin. I leave his pale body and take my seat. The minister begins,

“Ladies and gentlemen we are gathered here today to honor and pay tribute to this life Lost too soon…” I resist rolling my eyes.

Nine Years of Holding On Grasyn Turpin

It was never your fault, darling That I was too broken Spitting out the words Then forgetting they were spoken

I loved with regret This I'm constantly reliving Because my love was apologetic And you were unforgiving.

Put the cards on the table Then decided we’d leave them Because screaming at you brought Unadulterated freedom

The red in my eyes burned my vision Sweat and lying tongues Your anguish filled my veins Vodka and kerosene lit in my lungs

I can still hear you begging me To think of our daughter To make her loved Not make her into a martyr

Her back against the door I slammed

Fear streaking her three foot frame Baring my teeth at her mother And she’ll love me all the same

I thought maybe I could stop But my fist still hit the wall How much more can I take If you've given me your all

Plaster split with an audible crack I looked to the ceiling Maybe there was an answer You watched from the ground kneeling`

Begging me to go back to bed I'll see you in the morning The bottle sang me to sleep While your tables were turning

Papers lined the granite counter Ink on my finger Your signature bled The world blamed the drinker

You were moving so very fast I was left behind Eyes never met As the papers were signed

Nine years of holding on Was suddenly an art And though I lost myself Losing you was the hardest part

Heart Brian Chauppetta

If my heart could spill A thousand words upon a page In perfect twirly curly cues To free them from this cage. From this golden cordate prison I will set the bluebird free, Free to open up new fledgling wings, To shout its harmony.

If my heart could beat The steady rhythm of a drum Pouring out in perfect cadence Sounding beauteous aplomb. Let this steady rhythm move me Let it pulse within my veins Let it liberate my being To live life without refrain. If my heart could sing An operatic melody, Letting song pour over rhythm Words so smooth and velvety. Flowing from my soul - a message So pellucid and divine Speaking of God-given freedom Serving as a holy shrine.

If my heart could walk Along a thousand sandy shores, Gazing out towards the sunset Sinking in the vast azure. Just to think that I had made it Where the sky marries the sea. A feeling of triumphant valor And of glorious esprit.

If my heart could build A place to hide from all its fears - All the silly insecurities And ridiculing jeers. Would that make it appear perfect, Make it free from any blame? Or would it rather strip it Of its very given name?

A New, Old Acquaintance Caellen Kimble i. past we all know someone from the past that we’d rather not see again. merely due to the fact that they bring a continuous string of negativity along. ii. sorrow my fellow friend ﹘ sorrow is his name ﹘ follows me around. he keeps me afraid of letting anyone come close. everything that i have ever obtained has been taken right from me. never does he ask, apparently it's free. iii. future we all know someone that we’ve met, a person we spend nights dreaming of. we anticipate encountering them once again. iv. resilience once, long ago i knew someone a person by the name of resilience; it seems like ages since then. people sometimes mistake me for her. i always reply “resilience is a

misconception and you should know that's what i’ll never be; i am a coward, afraid to live life. i am scared to get close to anyone who comes by all because of my unwanted long lost friend sorrow. v. present we all know someone that has been around our whole life but is sometimes found hiding elsewhere, away from all the commotion. continuously going unnoticed. we all must realize that we cannot become resilient if we’ve never met sorrow. because of them someone new emerges from the dim light within… vi. ecstasy anguish just returns and takes all i have; leaving me ablaze so that i can never be resilient. once ago this would’ve stopped me. i have realized that they introduced me to this unexplainable person known as ecstasy. he’s been here all along! i’d never recognized this alluring, eternal being. he can consume the best and overtake the worse. in the end the things

put in place to stop you never win. ecstasy is so resilient that it binds your heart, soul and everything you have to give. the essence of these people are never ending as they are hiding in many, noticed by few.

Bohemian Disaster Anne-Marie Auer

The moon hung in the sky as if held by a thread, And the stars beamed down on the earth. A quiet canticle began to arise, And the hum of sweet serendipity fell over the clearing. Flames intertwined in a fiery tango there, Tamed by an encirclement of stone. A lone dancer cantered into the opening Raising a sole hand into the celestial sphere freckled with constellations , As if she was overcome with passion. Bare feet blended onto the packed earth gradually accompanying her, As fireflies would mingle above the tall grass. Tidal skirts embroidered with blossoms and creatures, Floated in the air and contorted with the wind. Headpieces and belts teaming with silver coins adorned the budding women. The chimes and jangles of bracelets and bangles accompanied the delicate twilight. Hand in hand they spun around the blaze in jubilee. Faster and faster they whirled, Chanting in praise and prayer. They became the fire, And radiantly burned bright. Suddenly, a glacial aura fell over the expanse, For now the moon had fallen and a lone star remained in the sky. The Earth was scorched black and only the charred flesh of a flower remained.

Beginnings, Middles, and Ends Austin Waldon

The music fading, The Kiss, Searing and passionate Full of youth Conquering all — The car ride home forgotten. Innocent and Blossoming 18 and invincible Will you marry me? The Kiss, Erupting with flames of passion, Promising a future — A damn good one too. The clanking of the baseball bats forgotten. Whispers and Wishes 20 and strong Strong lungs and loud wails What should we name him? The Kiss, Soft and tender, The doctor and nurses forgotten. Doubt and Indecision 30 and falling

Dinner a quiet affair Goodnight sweetheart. The Kiss, Habitual and lackluster, The plethora of dreams forgotten. Anger and Rage 45 and unfaithful A phone waving madly back and forth Who is she! The Slap, Sharp and Stinging The past forgotten. Wanting and Reminiscent 56 and dying The steady beep of the EKG fading into the background The doctors say not much longer The Kiss, Quivering and Clammy. The click of the hospital door forgotten. In loving memory of…

No Mona Lisa Lilyth Foley

No Mona Lisa I know you practice playing God behind closed doors, but you can’t paint the leaves worshipping the feet of these skeletal trees in all your favorite colors and pretend it’s fall, or dip the moon into a jar of honey then stick it amongst the stars. You can’t bleach the clouds just because you hate the rain, or craft a masterpiece by gluing fallen limbs onto any tree you please. You can’t control a tornado by simply molding it in your hands like clay or scrape away the rocks and rubble of a mountain and call it a hill. You can’t catch every lightning bolt you see in a bottle and use them as brushes to color the sky at night. You are only mortal.

Your hands are calloused from trying to shape the world into your vision, the divots in your skin smeared over with the bright colors of arrogance and delusion, but I am not one of your works in need of correcting. You can’t paint a smile over my face and call that beauty.

Abandoned Erin Smith

You never gave me a chance to know who you were. Before I could get a glimpse of you, you’d already vanished. When I was young I always thought you were lost, Lost and couldn’t find your way back home, back to me. To me you were the hero that was never there, but if I believed enough you could be. As I grew older I started to question myself on your existence. There were so many parties, games, memories that you missed, But the sad part is that you were never missed. Your presence became less and less needed, more and more unnoticed. I accepted that you were never coming back, That you had turned your back and I didn’t want you back. Now here I am matured and aware of the truth, About you, why you left and suddenly…..I pity you. Your father was never there for you, he abandoned you, Since that’s all you know to do you abandoned me… How does it make you feel to know that I made it without you? Without you, I did what you couldn’t do with me, I grew up Dad, I didn’t become a product of a bad equation. I multiplied my blessings and divided from my demons. And I hate to admit it, but I divided from you too.

They Always Talk About My Schizophrenia Trevor Herrick

I wish I could forget, The innocent screams. The sound of meat being scraped off. The banging of metal on the skull, The cracking, then the squishing. In this place, we are locked. We can’t escape, they won't let us. We can’t forget our sins, they won't let us. We all did the same thing, We all cracked the bones, We all tore the flesh, We all ate it all in the end. In this hell house, we all know each other. Some go and never come back. The ones that do come back, their eyes are gone. They can’t see past their own imagination. My best friend is missing a body, Just a head, alive, but at the same time not. He talks to me, Tells me to attack my cellmates, I listened once, and then I had great dreams. They were filled with the best moments I had in a long time. The need to feed. The need to taste the flesh of my new friends. In the end, I got what I wanted, What I needed.

Gotta go, my idiot of a doctor is coming. I try to forget the screams, but they keep coming back.

The Reason Kelsie Payne

Debate is what you want So that is what you got Don’t shut me down because you are afraid;

It’s the facts that matter Of course I agree But you can’t pick and choose what that will be,

I give you proof from the history book of life You tear it to pieces since it isn’t pleasing to your ears;

“Facts are only facts if you can prove them”, I have researched it what else do you want me to say God is real, it is big and bold Here’s the quotes, artifacts,and years.

You ask what is our purpose I can only present it in so many ways It is as simple as glorifying Him no matter the day;

This for example is the reason for my being I’m here to tell people like you, the joy of God So please just open up without the cold heart

The true facts is the belief in your heart

That shows the real truth; Lead in my ways, leave your sins astray God will be willing to forgive today.

Dis Cassie Snow

“Dis” is a tragic prefix The meaning is completely altered. Subtle and comforting words can transform into major conflicts. “Dis” is a tragic prefix There is a change in the emotion that it inflicts An outcome that keeps you from wanting to move forward. “Dis” is a tragic prefix The meaning is completely altered.

The one thing we all want present: Loyalty Complete and total allegiance to one another. Something so difficult to find in this society. The one thing we all want present: Loyalty A word that only seems to be a novelty Add “dis” and you’re nothing to each other. The one thing we all want present: Loyalty Complete and total allegiance to one another.

Something that tends to be broken too much: Trust You give away an abundance only to receive pain in exchange. Leading to a feeling that needs to be discussed. Something that tends to be broken too much: Trust A form of betrayal that people seem to lust Add “dis” and your life will encounter an abrupt change. Something that tends to be broken too much: Trust You give away an abundance only to receive pain in exchange.

The Collector Anne-Marie Auer

He winds through a maze of stain-glass lanterns and vibrant fabrics, Pockets heavy with trinkets. His path coated in dust and impurity. He weaves from shop to shop in hopes of finding a safe place. A white man steadily approaches. A modest, tan hand flutters in and out of his satchel, Grasping for the possession it greatly desired. The pockets are nearly bulging with entities now. He comes to rest where silk pillows gather in abandonment. There he gently lays his collection: A locket, tarnished with soot, filled with blackened photos; A rosary, decaying from years of neglect; A pocket watch, crippled from the omission of time; A coin, defaced by rough fingers desperate for good fortune; A map, scorched by the fires of conquerors; And a journal, sodden with forgotten dreams. You are a “soldier” who stands tall and firm, As you walk through the bewilderment of spices and jewels, the air, brimming with commerce and corruption, nearly strangles you. But through the thick film, you hear the jangle of a sweet bell, and the voice of a child begging you to see his collection. He pulls you to the place where pillows gather in abandonment, and asks “What will you take next?”

The Dead Ones Trevor Herrick

If we could see the dead, would we be scared - Or would we just think of it as a normal thing? Would we find a way to be disgusted, horrified terrified? What would they look like? How they looked in their greatest moment? Full of life and joy? Or as they were in their final breath? Mangled, bloody, and torn apart? Would they talk to us? If they did talk, would we be scared of what they are saying? If the dead could see us, what would they think? Would they cry for their loved ones? Like they felt their pain? And rejoice when they join them? Full of the happiness they can’t feel? Would they be able to cry? Would tears actually fall? Or, will they, like the dead ones, be gone? If we could talk to them, what would we say?

Would we ask if it hurts? Or how they died? Maybe how they lived so long? Might we ask them if there is heaven? Or hell? If we would have seen them our whole lives, would they be a nuisance? Or would they provide valuable insight into life? Will they laugh? Would we be able to hear their laughter? Or will they be quiet as the cold depths of space? If we could see the dead, would it matter at all?

Stress et Anxiété Erin Smith

Another essay, another day of tests, quizzes, and homework, Then after it all I have to go to work. Losing sleeping over assignments that will be there regardless, Losing hair in patches that will be there regardless…. I cry because it’s the only way to release the weight, To feel stress free only to bear it all again ten-fold. Saying “I’m fine” when I really want to drop dead from exhaustion, Exhausted from faking being ok, from not being ok. Needing help, but not asking for any because I’ll be told, “You’re honors figure it out.” Fighting to keep grades up to please a mother who can’t be satisfied, Yet is satisfied with fighting with me to keep my grades up. Being anxious to the point I feel so wrecked it hurts, Aches in my chest so strong, I go numb, Numb to the fact that I might actually fail. Falling to sleep, but being awake because all I can think about is due dates. AP tests, mid-terms, finals, because yes they’re months away, but they still matter, My actions now affect how much they will matter. If I treat them like they don’t matter then I never will. And the thought of that makes the weight even heavier.

Bath Bomb Victoria Robinson

She took me out of the handle; Twirling me around - I wonder what she’s thinking. Looking at me while trying to decide what to do next. Finally, she takes me to the bathroom.

She gets in the tub. I don’t know what she can do with me now, I’m not covered in the plastic.

She starts to run the water, Stopping it at the very rim. She picks me up., Spins me a couple of more times in her fingers, She’s made her decision. Slowly, I’m being lowered.

One! Two! Three! Four! Five! It’s done, It’s everywhere, She drops me in the water, The water is turning red. I watch her. Breaths are slowly decreasing., Until finally, all is still., Except for one final tear rippling the water.

Living in a Tower Built Upon Glass Austin Waldon

You look at me like I’m dumb, I’m not. In fact, I’m the person you come to looking for answers. You say I’m gay, Yet you are the one who clings oh so desperately to “Ya Boys.” You say that I’m pathetic, Yet you are the one wasting your time with the writings on the bathroom stall and well… You look at me — And you’re jealous, or so They say.. You bully so you aren’t bullied or… because you’ve been bullied…. Or something like that, I can’t keep it straight. But I watch as You from your pedestal high and mighty, You so brilliantly blinding, You who can do no wrong, Smile as the very mention of your name, Slips a blade of denial Between my shoulder blades. I know, It’s strange, But Time carves rocks into valleys.

I’d never have thought That you, One once precious and pristine, Would throw it all away For the honor of being called “cool.”

#growingupblack Jamiah Marshall

To my unborn little brother, There’s something you should know about growing up in this family. When Mama says, “When we get to this store, you bet not touch nothing!” She really means it. It’s your best bet not to ask her for anything. After receiving a whooping, you’ll probably hear something along the lines of: “You better shut up before I give you something to cry about!” Yes, that includes the hiccups that won't go away afterwards. Please, don’t try to make a joke with her. She won’t find them as funny as you do. “Who you think you talking to? I’m not one of your nappy headed friends!” When you hear that, don’t even try to explain your intentions. “Don’t be running in and out my house! Either you gon be in or be out.” Tell your friends early: Mama don’t play that in and out. Please take it literally when she says: “Keep talking, I will knock the taste outcha mouth.” (not out but outcha) Mama’s heavy handed, and that busted lip ain't worth it. “Don’t make me get my belt!” Don’t let her fool you, she already has the belt. And before she has the chance to ask, allow me: “Do you have McDonald’s money?” If you don’t, think about what you want on your sandwich while we pass that yellow arch. And while I know it’s hard to contain yourself when your song come on but, You better know that school work the same way you know those song lyrics. Stay in a child's place. Never comment on anything Mama and her friends are saying, Even if you know they don’t know what they're talking about.

And lastly, When Mama lose the moken troll, it’s between the couch cushions. So now you know all you need to know about living with Mama, Good Luck. Love, Big Sister

Old Man, New Man Ashlin Thomas

I am rich. I am rich in my mind, my belief, my heritage. I saved a life, gave a life, ended a life. Many are unaware of my past as they stroll looking down upon me. Many are unaware if their past can catch their present. Many question my ideologies. I don’t even get it.

Today, I will start the life I once had. Today, I will conquer more than “the slum on Hollywood”. Today, I will become worth more than this shabby jacket and slouchy jeans. No one will tell me what I’m incapable of. No one will tear the courage from my spine. No one will impair my healed heart. Try me.

Where do I start? Where do I find a job for a middle-aged guy with a Doctorate degree with experience in the top hospitals of America? Where do I find a job that’ll take crumpled, brown proof documents. Where do I find a bank that’ll allow me to open an account, an agent to sell me a home, and a nice family to allow me to use their shower? Not in America.

Old man, dirty man. That is me.

Old man, crusty man. This is what I see. Old man, new man. That’s what’ll be.

The End.

To Those with a Brother Amanda Hightower

Envious. I’m completely envious of you. You have a brother. A brother who is probably your best friend, yet you don’t realize it. A brother that you claim you absolutely cannot stand. A brother you wish would just go away. I’m envious.

June 29, 2011. The absolute worst day of my life Just 10 days after my tenth birthday I slept with mom and dad that night I was woken by my sister She was crying I sat up, a sleepy sensation soaring in my head. Before I could say a word my dad and sister bolted out of the room I went back to sleep, thinking it was probably nothing. Then later, around 6am, I woke up again. This time just because I had to use the restroom. But I noticed - I was all alone in my parents’ bed. my mom came around the corner and grabbed her phone Sobbing. “Justin” I thought to myself. I knew it was him.

I felt it. I quietly sat there to myself thinking “He might be hurt. Maybe in the hospital. But he’s not dead . He can’t be dead.” I said these words to myself in a way that made it sound like the only solution. But I was wrong. I went and sat back in bed for a while, Unable to sleep, I called mom back there. She came, obviously upset. “Whatcha need Moo?” she asked. I asked what was happening. “We’ll talk about it later okay? Your Uncle Keith is here, and so are the girls from my work.” This just threw me off more. “What in the world is going on?” I thought to myself. Just then, Karrie, Mom’s coworker came in with a bowl of honey combs, and turned on what used to be my favorite show. WWE. I watched and explained who everyone was to her as I ate my breakfast My mom interrupted. Karrie walked out. She sat down on the bed and grabbed my hands. She took a big, deep breath. “Justin was in a car accident last night, and he did not make it through that wreck.” It took no time at all to process. I immediately tackled my mom and started bawling. “Bubba” I repeated over and over for 10 minutes. I finally let go, taking it all in. Bubba. I asked for Dr. B, to come back there with me, Along with Noah, Coach John and Coach Tim.

I didn’t know where my sister ws, but my dad was outside pacing the sidewalk. That’s what he always does when he’s upset. Bubba. The day dragged on. People filed in and out of my house. Bringing all kinds of food and offering their sincerest condolences to my parents. I don’t remember any emotion going through me. I just felt.. ….empty. Bubba. My best friend My 17 year old brother. The one who taught me how to throw a softball How to shoot a basketball Showed me how to ride a bike And the brother that left me with more black eyes than hugs, But yet still loved me like no other. Gone.

I often think back to the last time I saw him. He was coming out of the bathroom, and stopped by my room and just looked at me and said “peace out Moo.” I hang on to those words. Remembering it was the last time I ever heard his voice. If only I knew it’d be the last time… But how could anyone? It got easier as the weeks went by. I missed him. I still do.

Justin has been gone for nearly five and a half years now. And while I’m not over it, I have learned to accept it with some help. I have come to understand that things happen, And it can be so. so. hard. But I’ve also got the memories, And I know he’s always listening to me. I still have my brother. Just not physically. Through all the tragedy and heartbreak, I’ve become a new person that I’ll always be thankful for.

Airplane Mode Chelsea Fuller

We stare at our phones all day, Ignoring what the world has to say, We let it control our everyday lives, But they are just murderers in disguise.

Society spends time taking selfies all day, As opportunities pass and fade away. We could be improving and making ourselves greater, Instead we are dedicated to being a Facebook debater.

Technology was put on Earth to improve our life, Yet, social media infects us with strife. We are constantly consumed by the world-wide web, Who’s dating who and the newest celeb.

We are either on social media or playing games, While our day-to-day lives go up in flames. We are losing the art of true communication, As for regular conversations, there is less appreciation.

We sit down to study only to receive a notification, There is less work done at our work station. We cannot focus, our attention spans are little, Our fingers are quick to text, they are too preoccupied to fiddle.

Our opinions should not only be voiced behind the safety of a screen,

We can digest the opinions of others without being mean. Technology is good if used the right way, Don’t be consumed by your devices today.

Heroin Emily Colgin

He’s like heroin in my veins. He made me crazy

He came in, with a pinch , like a needle He found the open vein and entered.

The second he entered, I felt the rush. He engulfed my whole being I knew the risks going in but I was so satisfied. I felt so good. I felt like I was in another world. His high was so unbelievable

I soon became addicted

By the come down The crazy come down from this high I felt insane I felt alone I craved more and more It hurt so bad How could something that just felt so amazing hurt so bad? I couldn't be without him

Once i freed myself of him, I would get cravings to start again. I tried and tried- to fight him off- But I couldn't get rid of this feeling.

I relapsed.

The Highwaywoman: a Response to Alfred Noye’s “The Highwayman” Georgia Hilburn

“They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! “Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say— Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!”

The highwayman- he was coming, she knew within her heart. So all through after noon the landlord’s daughter writhed the rope apart! King George’s men were dancing, liquor seeping from their breath; So she leapt out the shuttered window, The old-inn’s moon-lit window; She leapt through the open window, and ran to stop her lover’s death.

The wind was a torrent of blue sky among the gusty trees, And the moon, that ghostly galleon, had drowned beneath the seas. The road was a ribbon of sunlight, entwining the golden moor; And the landlord’s daughter came running- Running, running- The landlord’s fearless daughter came running across the shore.

Along the road she sought: a coat of wine, a throat of lace; And in time she met the tardy robber, a lustrous grin upon her face. He hoisted her upon his steed as she relayed her harrowing plight, And the highwayman went riding-

Riding, riding- The highwayman and woman went riding bathed in light. The landlord’s red-lipped daughter and her dear highwayman, Vanished on the ribbon road, and were never seen again. But what happened to George’s wicked men? Tim the ostler will attest: They were shot like dogs in the moonlight; Down went the dogs in the moonlight; They died like dogs in the moonlight, by the musket they’d bound beneath her breast.

Empathy: a Response to Paul Laurence Dunbar’s “Sympathy” Tanner Hines

I finally see what the caged bird feels While he stands there as his back still peels. For years upon years he has suffered this torment From so many people who are so violent It is because of the things that you go through That you alone are the reason that I do.

I now understand why he keeps beating his wing Only to get back in between What he loves so dear and misses so much, Wanting only another person’s hand to clutch. He stands there trying to heal his self-made scars Caused by the constant bludgeoning of the bars. Don't stop now, you're so close To seeing the people you love the most.

I now hear what the caged bird is singing. Before I thought of it as a constant ringing Until I began to actually listen and care For what he sang about gave quite a scare. And after years and years of tremendous pain, He can finally feel the trembling touch of rain. I now understand the caged bird and his ways, And I hope that he'll be happy for the rest of his days.

Rich Runaway Alexis McClain

Warm silk, king tempurpedic mattress I sat up and swung my feet to the floor Grabbing shoes, grabbing my phone, finding keys Quietly, quickly, in the dark I find the back door Shutting it silently, saying goodbye to a rich life.

Red Mini convertible, blaring music, sunrise I drove alone, screaming lyrics that came from within Crying relief, crying happiness, feeling like me Hourly, shortly, I’d stop for a smoke I kept driving, saying goodbye to a rich life.

Exit signs, bridges, cities, states I wouldn't stop, driving until I saw stars Finding a park, finding a spot, parking the car Contently, peacefully, I leaned back my chair I locked the doors, closed the soft top, saying goodbye to a rich life.

Blue sky, white clouds, fresh air I cranked the car, and pressed the button until the apple appeared Ignoring texts, ignoring calls, searching “McDonald’s” Hungrily, happily, I eat hash browns and drink coffee I paid with cash, earned and saved, saying goodbye to a rich life.

Two weeks, six months, one year

I’m always moving, and I don't know where Feeling lost, feeling found, wandering around Necessarily, rarely, I work here and there I love to live, now that I’ve said goodbye to a rich life.

Complicated Femininity Tyran Jackson

Prophet. Afro goddess. Woman. Firm hands on her hips show that she is ‘bout the business Her strong, yet, silky smooth voice advocates for justice

Her voice It doesn’t waver or stumble over her graceful words As they glide out of her throat like sticky molasses, roll around the microphone that amplifies her syrupy breath, and dance through hungry ears‒down to the activist hearts of her determined audience, she works as a prophet speaking truth and spreading her anointed gospel.

Be not duped by her slender frame, strong arms, and perfectly rounded afro Her words and passion are as firm as her hands on her hips She is not angry, contrary to popular belief, but passionate. Passion which is evident in her walk, her talk, her graceful stand at the microphone

Advocating for the release of a man. A strong black man whose only “crime” was educating people about the injustices happening in front of their faces and rallying them to rise up and take their well-being into their own hands. A strong black man, who along with a group of fellow strong black men and women, created a revolutionary party dedicated to uplifting and inspiring their community. What “terrorist group” does that?

She is a strong black woman who, rather than stand behind the strong black man, stands alongside him.

Afro goddess. Hew flawless coils and curls intertwine to resemble the sun. The sun, from which the strong black woman ventures out into the universe to spread the gospel truth. Her halo.

Woman. Femininity in its most simplistic and complicated form.

Warning Label Needed Amelia Snow

It's a tragic story actually Their everyday casualties clashed dramatically She loved him, without a specific reason She found herself loving him more as the seasons…. drifted and passed them by . They say time flies. But just because you’re breathing doesn't mean you’re truly alive Their conversations, Dry. Like a hot summer day, Her visions of them together fading away And they were leaving fast But she's unaware that kiss will be their last That one touch of their lips Was the one that leaves her heart ripped Ripped forever, Unable to be stitched back together That was when she was stripped, stripped of her pride That day something in her truly died The day he said goodbye without a tear in his eye Yet all she could do was cry. She gave him 1 year 11 months and 29 days of her life And at midnight….. It was all gone. It slipped from her hands like butter. She was confused because he never stuttered ..when he said “i love you “ She should have seen it coming. When he leaned in for a kiss it was nothing cunning

But it felt like something. Those nights he would come home at 3:00 in the morning With stains the shape of lips on his torso and hips His love should have came with a warning. His hand dived in her chest, and took something sacred Something now faded and wasted was traded For something that will last a couple weeks Her knees were weak, and when you don’t have a heart You suddenly forget how to breathe She remembers the days All they would do was lay in his bed and watch movies Her favorite was sleeping beauty She liked the love stories, But he found those boring. he prefered the ones with heartbreak…. That should have been a sign That he was going to leave her with nothing but heartache “How could he be lying all this time” She found herself picking the petals off flowers For what felt like hours and hours. But the problem with that is you can't put the petals back What was once beautiful, is now broken like shattered glass That's love for you alright It turns hope into fright It turns a flower into a shower of petals and thorns That's what love does to your heart You can't fix it with glue, and what it leaves you with Isn't really you. It leaves you with hatred, it left her with cuts from razor blades and

There's not an ounce in him that's sorry While she Knew the exact second they met of that may He couldn't even remember the day, or the month He never took the time to take her to lunch He didn't listen to a word And he broke his You can't be loyal when you live in a theater of the absurd He made her blind. Tricked her mind into thinking he loved her. She gave him the benefit of the doubt While she was waiting for him, he was on another girl's couch

You can't overdose on ibuprofen she would know this Though that won't do the job all she needs is that one kiss It filled the role of every drug She messed around and got attached to him She wish you could overdose on laxatives Not even 13 or 14 or 15 could end her pain But Aniline actually worked She found herself looked at herself in the mirror But her vision got less clear ever pill she took She fell to the ground at 17 And went into a forever slumber What's ironic is that was his favorite number He killed her without a touch And before she died he had already moved on to the next dime If only someone could warn her

I Am a Man Cade Davis

I Am A Man A man that had ambitions, hopes, and dreams That one day he could take his family on a vacation even, if it was just one hour away.

Olen Mies A man that wishes he had more than a gas stove and a blanket for him and his little girl to keep them warm while they’re both huddled in the corner praying for winter to be over soon.

Ja Sam Muskarac A man oppressed by a government that says everyone is “Equal,” but yet he doesn’t have a single pipe in his house for running water or a dime in his pocket.

Soy Un Hombre A man who works day in and day out but somehow only makes eight dollars a week. On a good day. And as he works, his only motive and goal is to one day save up enough money to have more than a two room house for his wife and six kids to sleep in.

Ahau I Te Tangata A man that wants more than a tree with a bed of dirt and a blanket of stars to sleep under Who actually wants a house, even if it's some mud and sticks thrown together to keep off the rain, if you can even call that a house.

Naneun Naja Da A man who wants out. Out of North Korea. Who's absolutely tired of some fat guy who claims he's a god making decisions for his once happy family. That is, before the war.

I Am A Man I am the one that got out, not out of a place, but out of the society I was stuck in. And as I look back, I realize that not having money at times, or going to bed hungry, is a lot better than it could be, because I'm free with a home, my home, to sleep in at night.

Life Changing Carly Davis

How am I supposed to tell them? I’m about to change their life. There is no good way to word it, But why me? Why do I have to tell them? I wish I was wrong. There has to be another solution. A n y t h i n g would be better than this. All of the tests have the same results, Countless test because… because. Part of me just doesn’t want to believe them. I stand outside of their room, Clicking my pen, twirling it between my fingers. Tapping my foot anxiously, Planning on what I’m going to say. I put my ear against the door and listen. I hear chatting, Family and friends, Telling jokes and laughing, Love and hope filling the room, This makes my job even harder. I’m about to completely change the mood, From love and hope to pain and sorrow. I take a deep breath. I slowly begin to walk into the room. Everyone looks at me,

The room falls silent. My first instinct is to walk away, ...but I can’t. I clear my voice, I am prepared. I give them the news. I hear a sniffle, I see a tear, I am hit with numerous questions. I give them the only answers I have. I leave the room with a heavy, laden heart, My next patient is awaiting news of their own.

Expectations Cassie Snow

Listen closely I need you to listen to me, I will control your life from the second you wake up until you close your eyes to go to sleep. What I say goes This is how your life will play out. So listen to me because i’m not going away. You need to be tall, have a flat chest, small waist, thick thighs, round butt, perfect skin. This is what you should look like, try working out Stop eating fast food. Go get a tan, Ugh you should just go natural. You need to be perfect. She has a hundred thousand retweets Why don’t you? She has blue eyes and a button nose But you… No, you just have eyes the color of mud and a nose that sticks out too much. You aren’t pretty. Buy this product, It’s only thirty dollars You need this one too And this one

And this. Oh no, don’t wear that. You’re showing too much. Your breast need to be covered, You’re a slut and a disgrace. Woah, hold up! Don’t cover yourself that much, You’re a fucking prude Go join a convent. It’s not cool to be a virgin, grow up. Oh my God That doesn’t mean just hook up with anyone! Okay Okay, I know, Maybe you should dye your hair, Try this color Yeah, that’s totally in style. Wait, now this is in style. Keep up with the trends! That was so last month Stop changing yourself You’re unique You can’t please everyone! But you should… Don’t wear makeup Show your true self. Gross, cover your acne, You look better with makeup Not too much! You need to get a job so you can make money.

You need to buy this it will make you look cool. You still don’t have enough money? The popular girl does You must not work hard enough. Stop getting so much, You’re way too spoiled. Do things for yourself. Make sure you have good grades Stay home and study. Go out more Be social. You stay home too much. It’s not that hard Why aren’t you listening to me. I don’t understand how you’re still getting this wrong.

Frosty Joshua Mills

Frosty the snowman was a jolly happy soul, With a corncob pipe and a button nose, and two eyes made out of coal.

Frosty the snowman Was made by some kids one day They found a hat, Put it on his head where he sat. And he came alive hooray!

Frosty the Snowman, Loves winter oh so much, With the snow in the air, And Santa out somewhere. Well it’s going by in a rush.

Frosty the Snowman Knows that winter cannot stay, The snow is damp, He no longer feels like the champ. And it will eventually be May.

Frosty the snowman, Used to be one jolly thing. But summer came around, Now he’s a puddle on the ground.

100

Slowly running down the drain.

Frosty the snowman, No longer has a soul. Now he’s somewhere in the sewer, And that couldn't be truer, His death was inevitable.

101

Thanks Kelsie Payne

All you live by is your stretched truths That oozes out of your mouth Shooting sharp daggers through my chest

Slamming the door more than usual All your clothes packed in your bag of filth

Blasting through the door You turn around with a noticeably fake smile And the sympathetic flowing of Shattered words of “I’ll see you soon”

The last of you is the dust flying Seen through the waterfall of sorrow Knees buckling and then “thud”

Really you want my story, You’re hundreds of miles away with your “family” I’m just your drunken memory

My soul shattered in millions of pieces It’s not fair everyone has someone that show love Do you know what it’s like

My winters were cold and unnerving There’s no crease in my hands being folded with yours

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Memories of bedtime stories, Yea, that’s a dream

Full of broken promises That’s my memorabilia from you Way to go!

I’ve made my progress, Thanks to you I am independent I am strong

Thanks to you This house gets cleaned every week Folded shirts in a neat pile in drawers

Thanks to you I have two jobs And there’s food on the table everyday

Thanks to you My cooking is the bomb The younger siblings are happy with no memory of you

We all get along just fine Your toxic present is unwanted I don’t know if there is a place in my heart for you

There’s a familiar sound in the driveway

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A sophisticated man and nice car Why are you back

You say you’ve changed That there is a spark in you to make it up

Yea, you really made up You made up one of your lies again Nowhere to be seen Note, reading sorry

People say I should have more trust Not sure what that is or that it even existed Thanks.

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Mute Claire Guin

I have things to say Not just to say To yell To Scream. I have ideas in my mind i'd love to share. Out loud. Not just on the paper I lug around, because Pens break. Paper runs out. But those voices last forever. I've never cheered at a football game, Yelled at my siblings, Or even said I love you. I feel like a burden To friends, To family. I want to converse with them Tell them how I feel But they don't know. They don't know how I feel. Because that's not something you write down That's something you say aloud. What a luxury to say what you want. When you want Wherever you want. But I have had that fair right taken from me.

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The little kids would come to me On the playground Asking my name. But I couldn't answer So no friends were made. The teachers would ask me questions Those first few days They would yell at me For not talking back But they did not know That's all I wanted to do. All I wanted to do Was not be mute.

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The Innocence of the Child Sherridan Wilson

Fear to a child is unknown Blind to anything but innocence Naive to dangers and troubles In a sense ignorant to consequences or outcomes But the child is brave Eager to experience new things Not quite aware or exposed to embarrassment The child is bold Not yet able to understand the vibes they give off Not thinking twice about what was right or wrong The child is courageous With support of Mama they can do anything Unsure of the meaning of failure or success But they know Mom and Dad were made proud The child is fearless Not afraid of a bad fall when they sneak out of their crib A professional at conversation; even with someone they don’t know Not afraid to go to anything and anyone Until they are warned that everything isn’t safe To them a bear is not a life threatening animal But a big, innocent creature Who’s soft to the touch and now their new friend The child does not care It doesn’t matter if their screams and wails annoy others As long as it makes them feel better and gets them what they want The child is free

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Making mistakes and living the life anyone would kill for The child is a leader Inspiring others to follow their decisions The child is the character of what many aspire to be

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Songs to Say Goodbye Emily Colgin are you Leavin? is that Beautiful Soul walking out the door? How Do You Sleep, knowing i'm Bleeding Love? is this just your Sweet Escape? stop acting like you're Irreplaceable. but i can't deny i do Love the Way You Lie. it's Just The Way You Are you have to look hard, but i can see that Halo

Baby, I Like It I Love It, actually the way you walk around in those Pumped Up Kicks going A Thousand Miles with a Pocketful Of Sunshine. you're just a Creep In A T-shirt.

When The Stars Go Blue i hope you know i just want to Dance, Dance with you but What Can I Do? i try to Shake It Out and get out of this MAAD City

If you are walking out on that Boulevard of Broken Dreams

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don't forget to think about me and that I'm Yours, whenever you decide to come back. i hate that everytime we walk this path we go Back To Black just Drive drive far away in that Fast Car speed down that Fast Lane drive to The Bottom Of The Ocean Don't Wait for me once these Weekend Wars pass we will Float On, okay?

Go on and live in that Gangsta's Paradise your Electric Body will lead the way with its Neon Lights you're Handsome and Wealthy, there's a lot going for you.

i gotta Whole Lotta Love and i just Can't Quit You Baby so find your Wide Open Spaces and come back to me bring that Piece of My Heart back Home You & Me were so Happy Together What Happened? what made you so Heartless was it the Money Baby? you gave me the Sun and Good Loving that any girl would need you taught me How To Love more and more everyday

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I must admit, you are Irreplaceable but this Love Story has become a Bitter Sweet Symphony

This Love, It was Alright, and It's OK Right Before My Eyes, i see you, dazing for those Cigarette Daydreams so Hold Me one more night then go I Understand, Monogamy just isn't for you. Listen To Your Heart and find that Pursuit of Happiness while your gone just remember We Are Young and there is always Time time to cover up that Scar Tissue time to become Comfortably Numb my Ball and Chain won't drag you around any longer but you must remember, there is No Church In The Wild so look for that Modern Jesus and watch out for the Wolves

Tonight Do the Math because you're the Man Of The Hour you Stole The Show

All the ways you drive me insane It's All In Vain

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and as you Sail out into that Deadwater Give Me One Reason to not wait these Lonely Lullabies this American Daydream to Live and Die, while Hooked on A Feeling

XOXO baby, You Got Me

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Yes = No Parker Smith

(These two words may look like polar opposites, but hear me out.) One thing I would love to be in life is a yes man. Come over! Yes! Let’s go somewhere! Yes! Do my homework! Hell no. I wish I could say yes whenever I want to, But sometimes it doesn’t work out. Struggling to schedule sleep, school, soccer, sex, Sacrificing my satisfaction, striving for success. Despite everything, I still manage to sleep, And spend time with family and friends And do all the things that a high schooler should do... And even some of the things that I shouldn’t. One part of me loves this lifestyle, Whether it’s passing out at 2 AM, bitterly tired from 6 hours of homework, Or passing out at 2 AM after a night out with friends, I wouldn't trade it for the world.

But when my alarm buzzes at 6:45 AM, I want to say no. I want to give up. I want to roll over and go back to sleep. But I say yes.

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I say yes and trudge through my day. Dragging my feet through the knee deep sand that is the 8 hours that I spend in a classroom each day. And when I think that’s over, I have soccer, meetings, homework, and no free time. But free time isn’t free when you’re me.

So if you ask me to hang out, My mind, my body, my soul all want to. Every inch of me wants to say yes. But my schedule says no. My schedule is colorful dictator, Telling me where to be every second of the day, Never failing to follow me everywhere I go. These commitments… These condescending commitments clouding my conflicted head Creating a catastrophic collapse that culminates in carelessness.

I stop giving a shit. I come home, going immediately to sleep, A short reprieve before I face the mountain unfinished homework that will haunt me when I wake up. I turn in blank pages with an empty, blank face. I sink behind. I give up.

NO.

Those two letters that once haunted me now give me hope.

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Those two letters that kept me up at night, wondering what would have been, what could have been. Now those two letters give me a defiant hope. The hope that I need to trudge on. To wake up at 6:45. To study. To be happy. To live and grow and be a teenager. To have success in school, and still make some mistakes outside of school.

So what I’m trying to say is, Although a No may be Negative by nature, It does not necessarily negate the notion That the two letters that were once told me that I couldn’t, Pushed me to become a positive person. These violently opposite words became synonymous. And eventually those two letters became three. Y E S

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City in Flames Shakira Frierson

I bang on the doors of hundreds Warning them, telling them to leave An uncontrollable fire had erupted, and would soon engulf many of these homes The panic in their eyes, like nothing I’ve ever seen before And the more I knock, the harder my job becomes

By nightfall, I feel like I've knocked on thousands of doors My finger's bleeding, my skin peeling, hands throbbing I was in need of medical attention, but I couldn't find the strength leave My people needed me

The team and I were able to put out some of the fire, But it continued to spread The smoke swallowing the town in one gulp I was no longer able to breath without a mask

Looking around drove me insane My distant memories of walking the streets, playing with others Now replaced by the scarring image of my dying city And as I looked at the people whose homes had been destroyed Their eyes filled with tears, their checks burned, clothes dirty I assure them everything would be fine, but I didn't even believe the words that came out my mouth We can't stay any longer Our equipment was limited, And our tanks are almost empty

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Sweat is dripping from every inch of my body My footsteps heavy as if I'm carrying bricks And as I look around scanning the area, making sure no one is left behind Then i see her, an innocent girl, banging from the inside of her house

I jump out of the truck, running back My colleagues call me crazy Unaware of why i left I have to hurry, save her and bolt But as I open the door to her home, she's gone

All i see is a dark shadow Smoke engulfing the house And as I try to step out It follows me, burning my flesh

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My Feet Swing Back and Forth Alexis McClain

I watch as my feet swing back and forth, I’ve never been scared of heights, My eyes land on an innocent deer; It had a family, and a beautiful forest home, But most importantly, this deer has a child. Suddenly I feel my stomach drop,

I shed a tear.

I see a dark figure heading my way, I feel my original confusion. Then I run. I see the positive pregnancy test, I feel the jolt of emotion as I cry out.

To no one.

I close my eyes to fight memories off. I focus on the trees and the birds, As they emerge from the safety and take a chance, Each bird flying to and from their safe haven. When I remember that night in the alley,

The night my purity was stolen from me.

My legs had ached from running,

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My arms were burning from fighting, He had hit me, beat me until… I thanked God when he went missing, And didn’t dare question it.

It had been six months.

I stared at the trees, helplessly, I let tears fall down my cheeks. There was a beautiful silence, As I sat on the edge of the railroad tracks. All I could hear were faint songs from the birds,

The whole world was whispering.

I had sprinted back home, looking for safety, Praying my ill mother survived the months alone, I walked into a silent house. I saw my still silent mother. Laying on the floor of our home.

I let out a silent scream.

Now here I was on this railroad track. Watching my legs swing back and forth, Watching the birds and the deer,

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Watching the slight sway of the trees; All the while building a dam,

Trying to keep the memories from flooding in.

One year ago I lost my purity. Six months ago I lost my mother. Five months ago I lost living for myself, Four months ago I lost my child, and my hope. Three months ago I lost and left my home. Ever since I’ve been here, Crying over the rays of hope I keep finding and losing.

Over and over again.

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An Ode to Musicians Charlie O’Brien

Runnin’ Down a Dream

Hymns of heartache Along dusty highways. Short-term lovers, Midwestern nights And mysterious women; The American dream.

Something in the Way

Dark, raunchy, but heartfelt Strange, but somehow easy to understand Humid air and addiction But oh so sweet

Do I (Where We Are)

Pop ballads, feel good songs Windows rolled down, drinks in hand The lyrics forgive your mistakes, And make you forget those who did you wrong

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Wicked Games

Sweet voice that sends chills Money, drugs, cars Fantasizing the fast life Mistakes far worse than you'll ever make, But somehow you can still relate.

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Annalise Brian Chauppetta

Annalise... A picture of perfection. An image of freedom. With the wind whipping through her hair And independence coursing through her veins She made me feel Alive. The press of her strawberry lips upon my ears Called sweetly to my soul, Beckoning me to join her In her world free of inhibitions.

Oh Annalise, How you tempted me so With the promise of open air And fields of endless lavender. And how I fell for your advances. You said the photographs didn’t lie, That their freedom would be our freedom And the world was ours for the taking.

And yet I am trapped in your pictures Alongside flat backdrops Of lavender fields. I am trapped by your camera lense, Annalise,

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Set me free From this 8mm cell.

Annalise, Set yourself free From the camera you hide behind. Why do you do it? Why do you hide Behind your rose-colored lens, Tucked away in your filtered world? Is it because you cannot fathom seeing everything for what it is? Ask yourself, Annalise, Are you afraid to let go Of that camera? It cannot save you, Annalise. But I can.

So I ask you, Set your camera down. Stop seeing those fields of lavender When they are truly fields of thorns. And realize this — Among the nightmares of this terrifying world There are beautiful things nestled in. It is up to you to find them… And up to us to make them ours.

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A Response to a Quote by Osho Chase Harner

“If you love a flower, don’t pick it up. Because if you pick it up it dies and ceases to be what you love. So, if you love a flower, let it be. Love is not about possession. Love is about appreciation.” -Osho

Love is like a flower

From the petal to root; It makes you feel empower’d Sometimes it gives you the boot.

The blossom is the beginning New, fun, and without pretense; A love where there is no sinning This is when new love made sense.

Leaves are the growth we made That show we feed of each other; These show life before has begun to fade And how much we love one another.

Buds are our future together Buds count our time left to love; Hopefully they grow forever But we both know the decision is from above.

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Roots are how alike we are How our souls enter twine; Let's hope they grow far But sometimes they hit a stop sign;

Then descends a hand So soft and smooth; Wraps its fingers around us like a wrist band I guess it's time to move on.

This harvest isn't really a hand But the world making it official; This word will leave our relationship like sand Our love was superficial.

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The Further Dawson Weathers

Past the door there was The Further It was an alternate world of ours. More silent, more still. Here light doesn’t beam through the sky as ours does, Here, there was no sun, It was dark, but not dark enough to hide the hidden. You walk through the streets scared, You know they will always be there You’re Hoping they won’t find you You can feel the presence of something other than you, Waiting Ready to approach whenever you're weak The door was only an entrance The only way to escape was to believe you never walked through.

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Opinions Hand-Delivered Jacob Wise

I’m not me Because the me that no one sees isn’t the same as what others want me to be. I wish I could break free. Free from the judgement of eyes that I can’t even see That watch me and bother me and hide in dark corners to keep the mystery of who it is that laughs at me. The bullies of my past never leave And the scars of words and laughter are engraved in your heart with knives that leave you bleeding and tighten in your chest until You Can’t Breathe With no mercy, humiliated by those around me to pick at what hurts, what cuts deeply. At 10 years old I couldn’t understand the thought of self harm, but I knew what I wanted was to disappear, to never have existed here. Here in this constant hell that they call a “safe haven” when in reality it's a graveyard for opinions and self-imagery. You can leave that shit at the door. They never wanted me The fat kid in the back that got all answers right because he’s “too smart” The one who got answers wrong because he’s “stupid” My hand never raised above my own head because it was normally brought with giggling and whispers because of reasons that never made sense to me.

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A boy, Who never left his own home because he couldn’t fit in anywhere he went. Afternoons left inside a room because there, there was no torment waiting for him Instead, there was safety. I’d go to my parents, and ask them what they thought of me. And they gave me compliments, Words aimed to calm and sooth me. But words were the start to all my misery, What haunted me And after years of only hearing loser, fatty I looked them in the eyes and said they were lying to me. I couldn’t believe them because in my head all I thought was that’s what they’re supposed to say to me. And I grew distant from them, my own parents, my family the ones who were always there for me, because I was too embarrassed to even begin with my own story. I thought it was my fault. The others, the ones who did nothing wrong, the ones that I aspired to be. The ones who had no bullies, who lived their lives so comfortably they were the perfect ones, not me. That is what they did to me. Made me hurt unconditionally, that their demeaning ways are what seemed to be the best option for me. I thought that if I could push the pain onto others, then my own suffering will lessen, and I will be better Then it clicked to me. The ones who don’t have modesty and laughed at me are feeling better by their own hostility.

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The immodesty, the mocking me, all trying to forget their own flaws and me, I was an escape Never really questioning the words that were said to me because I was too nice to return the hostility but now, I know better. I know that words are just opinions hand delivered. To the ears that even if they don't want to listen are forced to because they don’t care whether or not you're tired or you're done. But listening is different to hearing. Hearing but not taking in what they say is the key The key to the mystery of all the things audibly, physically, mentally thrown at me without one apology Letting the words take away your dignity your honesty is the way to show their victory For when you bow your head and let them come you've lost Even if you never wanted to fight the battle. But understanding that hearing and listening are two separate entities While one allows you purity, and the other leaves you injuries A ten year old boy can learn to laugh and sing Instead of thinking his life as misery

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Because I’m Not a Writer Jamiah Marshall

So, We received this project, At about the last week in the nine weeks. We were asked to write a slam poem, And it’s supposed to be two pages long, or thirty seconds to make it sound easier. Yeah right.

If your mind is anything like mine, Then its probably at the point of thinking “What the heck would I write about”. And that’s exactly what I found myself thinking, THE DAY IT WAS DUE!

It seemed all my mind could think about was the slam videos we watched for two days straight, But there’s only so many videos to watch. At this point, I’ve came up with nothing, the longest writer’s block ever, right?

Some of you are probably saying, “make something up” or something like, “hasn’t anything bad ever happened to you”

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But nowadays, even coming up with a creative lie, which is supposed to just flow like word vomit, Seems impossible. And please, Don’t ask me to write about “real life”, Because then, I just become immortal.

So as I tried to put ink to paper, Taking the bigger “L” ever, Seemed inevitable.

I want to say thank-you To the girl on my row, With writing capabilities almost as good as Maya Angelou. Your suggestions, Although greatly appreciated, Helped me come up with nothing.

I also want to thank Mr Scott. Who shared all of those wonderfully written slam poem. No pressure, right?

No one in the class seemed to be in my shoes, Then again who would want to be? Every single assignment, that block seems to resurface.

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And just like this situation, At the last minute My mind decides to work, And getting something on the paper Is my only concern.

And please, Dont just say i’m thinking too hard, When i don't even know if i'm thinking at all. Please believe me, If i could write my every thought on paper And store it in a shoebox for later, I would.

And yeah, This slam isn’t the best, But maybe it’s MY best. Because I’m not a writer.

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Dear Photoshop Taylor Guin

Dear photoshop,

Why do you make them unrealistic. Make them perfect. Make them new. Why do you make models so skinny, only size two will do for you Why do you make girls think they are not perfect, that the layer of fat is bad Why do you make them starve themselves, highschoolers won't make it to be a grad Why do you make them sit in there rooms mascara running down her face staring at magazines wondering why. Society praises the skeletons

She was the epitome of beauty She was golden and lovely...imperfect She was disease stricken The one that eats her away Consuming her body,yet mostly her mind It travels started in a image, then it goes to her bones and her head It eats her away, while she consumes nothing Her cheekbones now cut through her cheeks

An apple eaten to the core, that fakes that she's full Walking bones,a stick,a pencil Honey you're beautiful...honey why do this to yourself, you're beautiful No This thing once called beauty, is now a death wish Do think about the girl you're hurt next time you decide to “edit” a picture

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Sincerely, All the girls how have to remind themselves they don't wanna leave this world for the price of beauty.

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Star’s Sky Jayla Williams

Try havin’ a drug fiend for a motha. Yeah, that was 2016 for me. And a daddy dead. Yeah. That was 20whatever for me. Really not having nowhere to go cause yo granny kicked you out at sixteen, Said I was “grown now”. Grown now. ‘Cause I could finally get a job.

I didn’t wanna be grown. Cause what I knew about bein’ grown was gettin’ injected in her blue veins turning purple from the dull needle piercin’ her skin and gettin’ to that moment where her eyes rolled into the back of her head when you knew she reached her climax.

Six years.

Six years I watched those bloodshot eyes roll so far back they reached the gulf between Heaven and Hell, with her tryin’ to figure out which one she belonged in. Too dirty for Heaven and even dirtier for Hell. I used to think my granny wasn’t grown ‘cause I never saw her havin’ that “itch”. But that’s my mama, and I’m forced to love her, Even though she sells me week after week.

At least I’m providin’ the source of her happiness right?

So excuse me if I don’t resist the urge to laugh or roll my eyes when I hear girls cryin’ over not being a fuckin’ prom queen! Or cryin’ over a damn break up!

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So excuse me Miss Lil’ Brittany while I laugh at yo duck ass for being so effing oblivious. You don’t even know you sittin’ next to a felon. Eighteen and a felon already.

Grown: (adj.) To undergo natural development by increasing in size and changing physically.

Yeah, I mean my lips done got a lil’ fuller. Stomach flatter, hips wider, and boobs rounder. Hair ain’t that long but I’m still the “it” girl. According to Webster, I’m grown. But I’m not grown. I. Am. Broken. YOU ARE NOT GROWN UNTIL YOU’VE BEEN LOVED! And I am not. I am longin’. Longin’ for the same peace and serenity that mama gets when her “food” enters her body. Where is this love that everyone speaks of? Is it in a supermarket, ‘cause GOD SO HELP ME I WILL BE THE FIRST WITH A BUGGY! Give me the love in the movies where doves fly and happy music starts to play. I want The Color Purple love. That fire that Ciley feels for Shug Avery and her sister. How Ciley gets so happy when she sees her sister that that wide gap starts to expose against those yellow white teeth.

Yeah, I want that.

If only somebody could meet me halfway. My scars matching their blisters. I’ve searched and searched to find that movie star love. But then I stopped. Cause I found it with the dull needle that pierces thru my skin.

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Expect Something: a Response to Alice Walker’s “Expect Nothing” Sherridan Wilson

Expect nothing you say? Live frugally? How can you succeed without expecting to? Assuming a statistic because it makes sense How can you grow without the desire of success ? Acting as if to stay in a child’s sense forever Can you live without demanding you will? Thinking life will pass with the change of day The drive of life mistaken as a memory You say to wish for nothing larger than a star What once were aspirations and dreams Now gone with the flip of a switch Wish! I say Expect something Demand to to excel in the future Know that you have breath to carry through the day Expect nothing you say? Expect something

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15 Years, but 4 Hours: a Response to Five for Fighting’s “100 Years” Laura Leigh Lawrence

You say, “15 there's still time for you” 15 now is different from then. Go to school for 8 hours. Come home to 3 hours of homework. At least 1 hour of sports. Sleep for 8 hours. Meanwhile, 4 hours To be young, be dumb. Be 15. 4 hours to live.

You say, “Time to buy and time to lose” But we don’t have time to lose. 4 hours is nothing. 1 ½ movie dates, a trip to Monroe and back? What kind of life is that?

You say, “15, there's never a wish better than this When you only got a hundred years to live.” So why do I feel that my clock is ticking? How did the world let 100 years become Only 6,083 days of living? And I’m only 15.

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10 Year Old Kid Liberty Johnson

I’m just a 10 year old kid, That really wished she didn’t take advantage of you like I did. When you needed me I was always there, But now you're gone and it's not fair. I didn’t know what to do when I lost you, But in the process I lost myself too.

I'm just a 10 year old kid. Who was forced to grow up overnight, But I had to put a big girl face on for you. And you did to through the whole fight. Now i’m just a fourteen year old teenager Who never finished being a kid, Who knows how I would have turned out if I did. So yeah i'm a little childish sometimes, It's only because four years of my childhood was gone, All it took was six words said by a doctor, You have stage four colon cancer.

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Anxiety Lindsay Reynolds

Walking past a group of people. Just keep walking past them. They’re not looking at you. But what if they are? They start talking. They’re talking about you. Now they’re laughing. They’re laughing at you. Just keep walking. You should have just avoided walking past them.

Presenting in front of a class. It’s not a big deal. What if you did your project wrong? No one actually pays attention. They’re all staring at you. I’m not even that nervous. Your hands are shaking. You're sweating too. I practiced all night, I’ll do fine. What if you stutter? You’ll look stupid.

Sitting in a classroom. I catch someone looking at me. They were judging you. I answer a question and get it wrong. Now everyone thinks you have no clue what you’re talking about. I laugh a little too loud at something.

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Everyone thinks you’re obnoxious.

Meeting new people. Everything will be fine. What if they hate you? They’re extremely nice. They’re secretly judging you. The conversation isn't super exciting. You're failing at making small talk and they think you're boring. They invite me to hang out with them. They only did it because they feel obligated to.

Hanging out with my friends. My friends are great. What if they talk about you behind your back? I say something and they don't respond. You’re so stupid, you shouldn't have said that. They’re hanging out without me. They think you’re annoying and don’t want to be around you.

Thinking about the past. One time I said something stupid. The people who heard that still think you’re dumb. I didn’t say excuse me when I bumped into someone in the hallway. That person still thinks you’re a bitch. I tripped while playing a game in gym. Everyone still thinks you’re clumsy.

Being around my family.

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They ask about school. They think you’re failing. They ask what I want to do when I’m older. They’re afraid you won’t do something up to their standards. They ask why I don’t bring my friends around them. They think you have no friends. It’s time to eat dinner. Don’t eat too little or too much, they will comment on it.

This is something I face every day. Simple daily encounters that eat away at me. Always terrified to say or do the wrong thing. A constant voice in my head.

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There’s No Freedom Lindsey Kelly

As I clutch onto the bleak jail cell bars, I understand that soon I will be able to let go.

I will be free.

But what does my freedom represent? It has to be more than being unchained in just a couple of seconds. A couple seconds, Equivalent to the amount of time it took for me to form an impulsive decision… That concluded a life.

I was convicted for involuntary manslaughter, Sentenced to 16 months in prison, But it wasn’t necessarily “involuntary,” Because I was recklessly driving.

There's not a day that passes without me looking back to that night, The night I resigned my freedom, Not because I claimed my place behind bars, But because I lost the ability to be free from guilt.

So this so called “freedom” doesn’t exist for me, It will never exist for me. I will never be free from this guilt that could have been avoided. Everything could have been avoided, If only I had never pulled out my phone.

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I am now “free,” But I will never be free.

And if you were curious, The text I pulled out my phone to read said “ok,” And then, Everything became the opposite.

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Deformity Malina Martinez

Deep behind this door you see, Someone people cursed to be A monster born of horrible sin, Because He lacked society’s skin,

Torn apart by taunting threats And words causing major debts, He ached for attention and cried for help, But the world ignored him; slid him under the belt,

Now all he had was an empty heart Bleeding dry from the continuous darts All he needed was a friend, Someone who could caress his begging hand, Someone who could make “the normal” his man Make his core become a glowing tan, Tear apart his soul and watch as depression drains,drips,drags on the laughter ringing in his ears,

But not anymore...today would be the last straw, He would make equality society’s new law, No more chasing aching heartaches being twisted with slanderful words, This time he would fill the world with the burning fury of love birds, This time he would illuminate the laughter flowering from fractured souls, This time, he himself would tape together each shattered piece until his hands conjured cyclical cramps forming knotholes

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Because he could no longer handle the pointed pistols of suicide and indifference beckoning his every move, There was something inside that he must prove,

So he found a new world to call his home, Behind this door no more broken bones, He could finally bathe in the light as the agonizing pain no longer gained independence, His new understanding of society’s botchy, bitchy disfigurement had finally transcended, And although this door was more fucked up than before it no longer mattered, Because the raging wisdom tatted slowly on his soul made society look like “The Mad Hatter”

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Spots Mary Catherine Douglas

He just wanted to touch her, To take her paper white skin, And write his story

To feel her silky, scarlet lips, Intertwine with his own, In a movement that could create galaxies, And make shooting stars collide

He just wanted to caress her, He never meant to sabotage her

He never meant to grasp her so hard, That her arms became painted with blue and purple s p O t s He never meant to push her against the bed so hard, That her head became concussed, Leaving her dizzy, Nauseous, And with fewer memories than she had before

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No, he just wanted to touch her…

But she didn’t feel the same, That’s how this fantasy of his, Turned into a game

“Drugged and Abducted From Party” Is what the headlines would say, But as she was tied up in his basement, He wouldn’t have it any other way

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We Will Never Know: a Response to “Untitled” by Victor Tosh Olivia Hilburn

The people we all seem to admire; Those full of courage that will inspire; They suffered as we were safe at home; We were free and able to roam.

They were trapped, their minds astray, Because of them we are still okay. They waited for help, the only light, Only then finding refuge in the night.

They powered through with courage and strength; But as time goes on hope begins to sink. They waited for help, a very long time, Covered in dirt and covered in grime.

We don’t know what they really went through, Our thoughts of war were always askew. When they were liberated, there were many to save; But many carried our respect to the grave. , After they came back, memories followed; Minds full of pain, minds full of sorrow. The struggles they went through, we will never know; The horrors no one should have to undergo.

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They were “caged within the encircling wire,” Their struggles were painful, their experiences dire; The pain they experienced, we will never know, The soldiers of World War II brought the hope of tomorrow.

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Just Me Samaria Tillman each morning i wake up, looking in the mirror, thinking everything will change asking myself will my mom change? will my dad come back? will we leave out of this hell hole called home? will things go back to how they use to be? and i'm ten years old, you’d think i would be living a normal regular ordinary average typical life, as a ten year old, you know those things called sleepovers, playing with your friends, or even going to school, i barely even do that. my life is in a shambles my mom, on drugs

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my dad, he left, never came back my mom, she tells me nothing but lies about how she's going to change how i'm going to get in school, how we’re going to move, out of this hell hole, you know the one she calls home, because i sure don't.

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Father/Daughter Taylor Guin

Father I wake up thinking today is my last New thoughts wasted/only memories of the past I’m weathered, old Living past my expiration date Dont think Im needed anymore Don't know why I'm still here I feel like I'm a burden No more people I need to be near My wife works day in and day out For me...only for me I love her to death but I wish she knew That I still want to take care of her She is my angel , my responsibility That should be my job But they say my mind is tired I can't do the things I used to Deep down inside I still remember I can't find the words No way to make it clearer I want to keep going But I still can't find the point When your body is tired Just sitting all day Cause I find more and more cants EVERYDAY

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Daughter I keep thinking that today could be his last He just can't remember, he can only forget He has been through so much in his years 3 open heart surgeries, bypass you name it Medicines, countless medicines Yet I guilty think Why is he still here? I'm not saying he is a burden He is special no less But my mom works day after day Yet he won't let me help in anyway I haven't been able to see him He won't let me in I want him to know that he is not just an old man He is my rock My shelter from the storm My daddy I want to find the point For him to continue on But it seems selfish when I cringe at “Do not resuscitate” I love him dearly but I can't see Past the way I can't bear the thought of losing him Being without him Everyday.

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Day to Day Francisco Guzman

Day to day I provide, the odds become wide; day to day I give at will; I never stop or stand still; always sacrificed for a greater future; from the moment I started to nurture. Day to day I believe, that they can always achieve. I always have determination, to turn away bad imagination. Day to day I stand, with my long vision span; to keep ready, with my angels steady. I never give up, even as I say “enough”. I run with the clock, to keep the constant food stock. Day to day I wonder, how will I get past this terrible thunder? How will I overcome these obstacles, in order to have everything chronological? Day to day I sometimes worry, can we make it out of this harsh story? I always keep going the distance, to have a steady sense of persistence.

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I take one day at a time, in order to not get ahead or behind. I will always be here to provide, even if they say I can’t thrive. Because I will not say, I can’t survive. I say, I can do anything, that I put my mind to.

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Thrice Pondered Rachel Dupree

The chirping of birds Heard in the forest of books Calms a troubled soul

A menagerie of words Rearranged in quintessence

The eyes of the beast Observant and chatoyant The dark figure stays

Watching o’er the innocence Of the newly-born roses

An empire once great Now just remnants of the past Brought back together

By great and creative minds In the milieu of verdance

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Sirens Tanner Hines

Sirens are all that can be heard. A sign of protection. A sign of urgency. Saying get out of the way, Someone is coming to help. They are getting closer, Finally, Someone is coming To fix this world and its problems. People are yelling at the men in blue- Telling them to show them mercy, To treat them with respect, To not be prejudiced, And to love one another. They don't listen. A lot of them won't ever listen. The sirens are getting louder. Down the street there is a flashing light. Finally, They are here. The saviors are here to protect them. They are driving a truck. It stops next to them, Everyone gets out. The people are crying to them, Asking for their help,

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But they aren't listening either. Instead they grab a hose, Hook it up to the fire hydrant, And let it rip. People are getting knocked down, Left, right, left, right. They don't stop. They won't stop. Not until the people give up. But they won't. They will keep going Until it kills them.

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Trapped Lindsey McGeorge

It’s like mourning the death of someone I loved – me. In a crowd full of people, I’m always alone. I trust nobody.

Never ask, “What’s the matter?” My response will always be, “Nothing.” It’s numbing my soul, and It’s what I’ve become.

It’s almost like a bruise – A bruise in my mind. Be attentive, and don’t touch it where it hurts. It’s always there.

Depression is an immense estrangement for humanity. It’s impossible for me to be with people, And it’s impossible for me to be alone. I’ve lost my place in the universe.

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Save Yourself Laura Leigh Lawrence

Never be afraid to say no. No to the guy whistling at you while you’re walking down the street. No to the frat boy that hands you a drink at the party. No to the girls that have to get home after you’ve had a few too many.

No matter what they say Or what they say they’ll do Say no, it may save you.

That guy whistling as you walk, And saying “Hey sweetheart! Come closer.” He and his friends sell girls to other men Who can’t get the love they want with consent. So they take love without it. Love that is only one sided. Love that may end up with only one person alive.

The frat putting a drink in your face at that party, “Drink it! Loosen up a bit! Have a little fun!” It has been drugged. You don’t remember where you were, How you got there, And worst of all, What he did to you. You now have a new life inside of you With no father.

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You don’t know him. You don’t even remember him. You don’t remember the way he slapped you across the face Like a damn ragdoll. The way he shook you trying to wake you up And finally realizing you never were awake. He left, scrambled, Leaving you there to wake up with his baby inside you And never turning back.

Your friends that need a ride home Because “their moms are going to kill them if they miss curfew.” They had the radio up a little too loud, You were going a little too fast. They scream and you swerve... Granted you’d had a few too many... You went into the ditch And out, flew up And finally stopped. By crashing into the oak tree. You have no pulse, but your friends are alive.

So what are they going to say at your funeral now that they’ve killed you?

“Here lies the body of the girl I sold, Whose life I took Without a gun to her head. Here lies the girl I raped,

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Whose life I took By putting another inside her. Here lies our friend, Whose life we took Saving our own from a 2 week grounding. Rest in peace young girl, Who we took for granted. Because she didn’t say no.”

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Reflection Emily Hurst

He took her when she was young. Took her body and her mind. He left no bruises on her skin, but made her personality bleed. She didn’t know how to look into the mirror Without imagining what he sees. She didn’t know how to choose a dress Without envisioning its contrast with his eyes. She didn’t fully recognize her name Unless it came from his mouth. And any name besides his tasted like black coffee. He brought her flowers, and she wondered, How could flowers be beautiful without the warmth of his hands?

When he left, she crumbled. Fell straight to the ground where she stayed for days. There was no reflection in the mirror, so she broke it. Her hands bled, but she liked it. You had to scream her name ten times before she looked up. She washed her body often, As if a sponge and some soap would preserve her body. Every evening, she wished the moon would disappear, So she didn’t have to remember who hung it. And every night, she begged the stars to burn out… Or at least grow dimmer so that they wouldn’t wake her each night— Beckoning her to wish upon them for his return.

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Over time, she slept through the night, Waking each morning to appreciate the coolness and peace Of sleeping alone. She noticed the way her eyes lit up in baby blue dresses, And she repeated people’s names when she met them, Letting the syllables warm her tongue like hot chocolate. She kept the broken mirror. Not as a reminder, but as a metaphor That she broke, but she still had a purpose. Each morning before she left the house, She picked the shards up from behind the flower pots, And she looked deeply into its cracks. She saw her perfectly curled hair and her radiating eyes. But most importantly, she saw herself. And she loved the way she looked With no one Beside her.

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Violated Lindsey McGeorge

When he put his hands on me, I did not think to run, But thought to myself, “This is what it’s like in the movies.”

I’ve kept it to myself All these years, Bundled up inside, Waiting to burst like a firework.

I had seen him before, But thought nothing of it. The way his eyes always landed on me, Watching my every move.

It felt good at first - To know a boy was interested in me. I was flattered, even. But little did I know.

He asked me on a date later on, And I accepted his request. That night I had quite a few glasses of wine, But somehow made it out of the restaurant.

When I walked out, I stumbled and fell onto him.

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He must’ve liked it, And I should’ve known something was wrong when he placed his lips on mine. But I said nothing.

With the alcohol coursing through my veins, I was weak. Helpless. Defenseless and powerless under his touch.

I asked him to stop, But he said nothing. Instead he hailed a cab And abruptly pushed me inside.

We stopped by my apartment and went inside - Straight to my room.

Calloused hands pushed me onto the bed, A body was hauled on top of mine. Chapped lips covered mine, Masking my cries of help.

My mind was 90% numb, Sporadically receiving thoughts from the 10% that was there. My limbs felt like noodles. My body was a log.

Is he-? No.

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No no no. He didn’t even use a - Again, And again, And Again.

I was a rag doll, Being shaken and tossed around in every direction. My back was elastic. I was being contorted into something I did not want to be.

He was ugly. His voice was howling in my ear, “I love you.” And the whole time I was thinking, With the last of the power I had within me, “If you loved me, why are you doing this to me?”

So many emotions pervaded my mind after. Dejection. Sorrow. Rage.

My body was breached. How dare he do this? How dare he not use protection Because it “feels better that way”?

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I was taken advantage of In my most vulnerable state.

My entire body, Inside and out, Was soaked in a foreign and revolting substance, From a loathsome source.

I hated myself. I was humiliated. Degraded. Violated.

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The Friend That Never Came Mary Catherine Douglas

She never came, Her monthly visit, Adjourned by something, which was new…

Maybe she didn’t quite catch her flight, Got caught in traffic, Or was just feeling a little blue

I longed for the day that she would arrive, To relieve me of my worry, See my vision of that night, Was actually quite blurry

“Do you, ya know, have something?” I asked, Our bodies intertwined

“Uh, yeah, hold on,” He said, For this was not my first time…

Our bodies crashing into each other, Alcohol pulsing through my veins, My vision became hazy, Consciousness was hard to retain

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Drunk and taken advantage of, Another story for the news, But this one would be different, It would be titled, “Baby Booze”

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Wendy Darling McAuley Ferrell

Looking out of the window every night is the only action that seems to be mine anymore. The men in white come in every morning and control everything I do until night falls again. I’ve been doing this since the night mum brought me here, Looking for my love to come flying back and take me away again. No one ever believes me when I tell them, I don’t talk about him anymore. They tell me that it was just another hallucination, Just another part of my disease. But no amount of Thorazine could ever make me renounce our time together. From playing with the lost boys to fighting off Captain Hook, Those memories will live in my heart until he finds me again. Until that day I will maintain my knowledge At the cost of my supposed “sanity”. Because I know he’s coming; I can see the pixie-dust coated ship getting closer every night. I take what I can steal and pry my window open little by little, By the time I can fully open my window, He’s outside calling me. I take one more look at the world I’m leaving behind, And jump. But he doesn’t catch me, I just keep falling.

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Index Johnson, Liberty: 140 Jones, Jordan: 21, 35 Auer, Anne-Marie: 54, 64 Kelly, Lindsey: 144 Chauppetta, Brian: 49, 123 Kimble, Caellen: 13, 51 Colgin, Emily: 81, 109 Larkins, Josie: 25 Cooper, William: 19 Lawrence, Laura Leigh: 139, 162 Davis, Cade: 93 Marshall, Jamiah: 71, 131 Davis, Carly: 95 Martinez, Malina: 146 Douglas, Mary Catherine: 148, 171 McClain, Alexis: 86, 118 Dupree, Rachel: 37, 158 McGeorge, Lindsey: 161, 167 Ferrell, McAuley: 173 Mills, Joshua: 100 Foley, Lilyth: 9, 57 O’Brien, Charlie: 121 Frierson, Shakira: 116 Payne, Kelsie: 61, 102 Fuller, Chelsea: 79 Reynolds, Lindsay: 141 Guin, Claire: 105 Robinson, Victoria: 68 Guin, Taylor: 134, 159 Smith, Erin: 58, 67 Guzman, Francisco: 156 Smith, Parker: 16, 113 Harner, Chase: 125 Snow, Amelia: 90 Herrick, Trevor: 59, 65 Snow, Cassie: 63, 97 Hightower, Amanda: 75 Thomas, Amira: 28 Hilburn, Georgia: 83 Thomas, Ashlin: 73 Hilburn, Olivia: 150 Tillman, Samaria: 152 Hines, Tanner: 85, 159 Turpin, Grasyn: 40, 46 Howell, Allison: 23 Waldon, Austin: 55, 69 Hurst, Emily: 44, 165 Weathers, Dawson: 127 Jackson, Tyran: 30, 88 Williams, Jayla: 42, 136 James, Lonniqua: 11 Wilson, Sherridan: 107, 138 Wise, Jacob: 128

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