McKinney High School 1400 Wilson Creek Pkwy. McKinney, TX. 75069
We are unified by struggle. Whether internal, external, or interpersonal, challenge requires reflection. In this collection of poems and art, the dynamics of hardship and the ways we move through them are observed. If admitting to weakness is the first step to growth, then let this collection serve as a seed for the future.
Andrew Miller
frozen sobriety
2
I thought, as i knelt down on the grass:
10
Lina Nguyen
CONTENT ISOLATIONIST
3
Korryn Kerber
SUPERNOVA
5
SONNET FOR THE COURTROOM
18
SAMMY ELHINDI
DARKENED FOG
8
Emma Berndt
My Witness Statement
12
Bihan Chhetry
LOVE LEAVES
15
Regan Young
A FINE LINE
19
William anderson emily stringfellow bianca diaz
cover cover cover
William anderson
1, 16
ETHAN COURTNEY
4
EMILY STRINGFELLOW
6, 8
Donna freeman
9
ISAAC COVARRUBIAS
11
EMILY LAW
13
LUCY SWAN
13
ZOE SUMNER
13, 14
KAILEY WOLFF
17
TAYLOR SPENCE
20
JASON MATHAI
23
William anderson PHOTOGRAPHY
Andrew Miller That bitter chisel, the ice laid easy
and false love
through the unexpected
only yield blood to the surface of
grip of frost and roads turnt to
flesh;
sleet, my God--
it warms naught, for the drunk
the whole Earth’s gone and froze
incongruence of his word is freezing. Entreat me to believe
over us. you’re still there, Our little igloo, false insulation keeps us warm without heat.
darling; I draw fast to an end
It’s in the tipsy and the buzzed we
tonight--
feel
I retreat with the snow;
the warmth; but alcohol
it is in that pure and innocent breast the last confidence of my life hails.
Lina Nguyen
I always thought I was conceited, for thinking I, was all I had. Shutting myself away from the world because I thought virtue had come from independence. It was not that I had ideas of superiority, nor did I find any trouble looking for help, but perhaps I thought I was too difficult to love. Them or me, who was the problem? This insoluble question terrorized me, day and night it bounced around the walls of my mind. So the only person I let in my life, was me, myself, and I. I wondered how I could trust anyone, because I knew deep down there was no one who truly had my interest in mind.
I knew and I know that I would be disappointed, for who could I rely on but myself. Time and time again, people have proved to me that they are nothing but destructive. This pattern would only continue, from adolescence to beyond Now with these revelations of autonomy, that I flurried in my head; I put up a wall, not even I could tear down, And although Kierkegaard may deduce me, to one who lives a life of mere aesthetic. I know that I care for no man on Earth, and no man on Earth cares for me.
ETHAN COURTNEY DESIGN
EMILY STRINGFELLOW DESIGN
Korryn Kerber i can’t tell if i’m burning up or burning out. is there really that big of a difference? does it matter? after all, i’m in pain either way. so much that some days i can hardly breathe. all i can do is lay there unmoving, trying to turn off my brain but it never works. my thoughts are a cycle of ‘stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking.’ other days, the pain is just a buzz in the background. i can carry on with my day as normal. or, what passes for normal these days. i guess the question i asked earlier is really, am i a neutron star or an old woman’s prayer candle. there is a difference, but i still don’t know if it matters. maybe it does, maybe because when the star goes it will one day become a new star. the candle will get thrown in the dumpster. the glass will break and when some unfortunate soul goes dumpster diving, all they’ll find are my bones and their own blood. maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe because even though a new star is formed the old one won’t ever see it. won’t know if it gives light and life or deserts and droughts. at least if i’m the prayer candle, i’ll be appreciated and admired my whole short life. if i’m the neutron star, you likely won’t know i was ever there until i’m gone. i want to know the name of every star that has ever lived and died. i think i owe it to them.
Hundreds of hollow boots covered the dirt
Method of pest control. So to the propagandists,
Road with empty, dark holes, that would fill, W
Let incredulous customers roll their
Eventually, with murky water that turned
Eyes while their heads, newly detached from their
Red in the sunset. One day, the transformation
Bodies, roll on the bloodied soil as well.
Would be complete, one that would be felt in abandoned
And then, only investors and customers remain.
And overfilled houses alike, One where the sober and dazed are plagued with
So protestors’ cries are muffled, then, their
Insanity, sick of the spoiled drinks that
Whining hushed, and finally, their eyes at rest.
Rotted and poisoned their stomachs and
But rest provokes realization, and
Corrupted their minds. The problem was their kind:
Realization stokes anger, and
Those who infested our blessed land. But who can claim to own a home after centuries Filtered the remnants of history the Fog of time cannot be reclaimed and seized and Used in place of pure water. Alas! The Protestors’ sounds cannot be heard over
Anger catalyzes revenge. So when
The change comes, people are drowned
By the waves of boots and flags and tanks and Rifles. Now the infestation dies as spores
The propagandists who desire a home,
Scatter and sink under heavy and condensed fog.
No matter whether it be purchased, rented,
Alas! Fog blinds from truth and drives people
Or appropriated—and the last option is
To fury. It makes victims scattered and
Always the most convenient. But who cares
Disunited, and disunity fosters
Anyway? Should a noble adhere to the wishes
Corruption, disobedience, and hatred,
Of insignificant dogs? Never! Not while
Rendering its victims too weak to prosper
Extermination is the most efficient
Over strong and influential propagandists.
ART
EMILY STRINGFELLOW
Then, transparency. Silence. All that is left For the mothers of fallen men to say: “My friend is dead, my neighbor is dead, my Love, the darling of my soul is dead.”
SAMMY ELHINDI
eman
re Donna f ART
Andrew Miller
Kapernick did this too. And more than once: you can't ever give up the fight And stop to take a break; Though you may get tired, and your heart ache; And along towards tomorrow, when you think they will never partake, In something for which they need not be involved. Suddenly you burst into tears; There is simply nothing else to do. And I thought, as I knelt down on the grass: This is an ancient gesture, though it takes new meaning, One of the very best kind, one with feeling; Eric Reid did this too.
AILA A
ZIZOLI ART
If only as a sign,—a gesture which defied Those who wished to stop a voice different than their own from speaking. He learned it from Kapernick... Kapernick, who really tried.
ISAAC COVARRUBIAS PHOTOGRAPHY
Emma Berndt In a way, I wish I wasn't involved in this struggle I could go back to Untouched plains and forest Unpolluted seas Back when the future only meant progress and not Destruction what once was wild was only An illusion Our plans already in motion The ice already melting the forests already burning No one thought it would be so easy How could innovation be so deadly? I wish there was no need for this
But my life brought so many opportunities Iove seen it all go wrong, watched our fate unfold So how could I Sit by Stay quiet While I watch the world That I spent so long trying to understand Days, weeks, months, spent in its most wild places The world that my fascination Has grown for everyday The fascination I know is not only Mine And so, who am I to not use what I have Witnessed To warn what is to come Our beautiful world turning tragic But the world has not fallen The wild is not yet lost I can only hope, this message will Fall onto the right ears And this struggle will not be for nothing
ZOE SUMNER- 1, 2, 3 EMILY LAW- 4 LUCY SWAN- 5
medium- clay
Bihan Chhetry
If Love is a tree; How promises turn into poisoned berries, And love seasons into an autumn leaf. A bond; the broken branches that which crackles. And with a breeze that subdues a sapling’s conviction, Slowly, Love tumbles into oblivion, When colored leaves wither to dun, Crumbling as it goes, falling apart. Knowing that, Trees can wither, Even Love leaves. Then why must the burgundy of burden, or the dim yellow of the past, stain the surface of our world? The larger the trunk, the higher the fall; And, oh how far, oh so far You can fall down; down into Oblivion.
Love can glide through the day, and you swear that you are floating, Like a leaf riding the fall currents. A fragile link is the stem, yet so adamant are the roots which hold together what once was; How their honey-dew lips can perverse you To simmer over sweet sensations. How the forbidden nectar can bring Even a bee to sting. Dandelions to be tamed, Jasmines to be pleased, And causing Leilani’s to soar. In our natural disasters, Our eyes can shed rain, Seeping melancholy into the Earth’s crust, And to breathe back hope; All we need is a simple sun. A ray of ‘shine whether to be absorbed, Truth be plants always seem to grow; And it usually does turn out to be. Even when a forest burns and grass ashes, Life starts anew, to be reborn. For Mother Nature will scorch the Earth and flood the Sea, There will always follow a tsunami of tranquility, Because never will trees not sprout;
So, when tears part the sky, Know that the sun still shimmers, Let your cheeks glisten, As light touches the world. If Love is a leaf, Which crumbles and dies, Or if Love is a seed, Wherein the futures lies, which do you choose to believe?
William anderson PHOTOGRAPHY
ART
KAILEY WOLFF
Korryn Kerber
the sane part of you told me not to wind up like you, but the rest, in its greed, took a knife and drew your blood out of my mind, apologized for the stains, don’t you look. “don’t you look like your mother, does she love you? does she even know you? do you know her?” i dress like pretty poison, foxglove. she dresses like biblical misery, though. i’ll be dragged to hell alone, that’s your fault. i’ll atone for the sins of my poor sons, i’ll wait for the devil’s glass tipped assault. i smell gunpowder from the heirloom gun. let me wipe the mud from your teary eyes. let me pull the trigger, i am your prize.
Regan Young she was the golden thread that united him to a past beyond his misery she was his hope, his life, yet still quite a mystery. when she roamed into the edifice of his heart full of desire all the human breath in the place, rolled at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire as she was his hope, his life, the only one he couldn’t acquire. haunted in a ghastly manner that abominable place would have been if it weren't for her smile, the smile would be mirrored on his very chin for she was his light in a world that casted shades so very dim the only person he would look to during a night so awfully grim. her beauty unwavering, enchanting, and unmatched she kept him lost in a trance, still closely attached. he yearned for her love, affection, her praise for the mere thought of this girl set his heart fully ablaze. in the shadows he sat and let his eyes wander taking in every detail as she was the only thought he could ponder not a single word spoken nor a slight touch shared all he could do was watch, unable to approach her for he was scared just an arms reach was she away from his grasp he would yell, shout, holler til his voice was just rasp nevertheless the sight only tresses down her back, her gaze full of warmth be the only thing he lacks. how foolish a man could ever even thought he’d be the only person she longed for in this never-ending sea. how foolish a man he knew he had become for the emptiness in his heart had left him quite numb.
lost in darkness and despair his heart left mangled he sat confused, dazed, his emotions were tangled for the love of his life never spared him a glance and now he was trapped in this unrequited unloving romance.
ART
TAYLOR SPENCE
day by day he sat and watched her travels day by day he lost patience, he would slowly unravel. from afar her beauty and grace shined so bright, and he would wait for a time that he deemed seemed right.
PHOTOGRAPHY
Bianca Diaz William Anderson Kacie Herrington Bihan Chetry Isaac Covarrubias Nyal Pierson Jason Mathai Nathan Unsted Annie Xia Kyra Hewitt
Katye Thompson
*Can’t wait to have you back Mrs. Christian!
Austin Doroshchuk Savahna Simmons Juro Akyol
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To our staff, You have been the fuel to this fire, the human behind the machine. Through every version of this book, every scrapped font, every change in design, we knew that we could count on our team to give us a sturdy foundation to fall back on. To our teachers, You provided us with plenty of resources and kept us connected to our school’s community and were vital to this production. Without you all, we could not have even begun this project. We are proud to feature the work of our artists and writers who poured their hearts and minds into their work. This school year was difficult, and they were able to turn that pain into something beautiful. We hoped this collection would inspire reflection and change, and everyone involved helped us achieve that. We are forever grateful to you all, and we hope you are as proud as we are of what we created together. To the world’s greatest adviser, Words simply cannot describe how grateful we are to you for everything you have done for us and The Lost Art as whole. Without your constant support and encouragement to keep improving, this magazine would not be the same. We love you Mrs. Thompson, we can’t wait to come out even stronger next year!
The Lost Art was produced using Adobe InDesign CC, Adobe Photoshop CC, and Adobe Illustrator CC. We chose a handwritten font illustrated by Kacie Herrington for our main titles and written piece titles, we used Lemon/Milk for our artist names, and Minion Pro Regular for our body text. All doodles and background images were contributed by our staff members.