Poetry

Part III - Poetry

D E O R Q

The perishable thy grabs the nearest apple the most perfect looking apple you see you take that massive bite and ingest it questioning ‘what does that thing really taste like’ at first it is sweet and tasteful however it is also rotten when your teeth make contact with the brown, rotten bits you slowly realize that it makes you sick it makes you feel gross and as the apple gets digested you realize that although it can be sweet it also has some dark spots the little imperfections in this story i am the apple i let my guard down revealing my imperfections and what makes me human however you only wanted a perfect apple not one with brown spots and imperfections so you throw me away leaving me to the rats

addiction

feeling the blade running through my flech and as i watch red ink drip from the pen i feel yself float being set free from this thing called life

reflective ocean

how would life be if i flew through the sky the moon would continue to show its love and you would continue to live so that simple answer is yes, even when i am gone the days continue and nobody will notice i am gone becuase of the little ripple i made in the water of that vast ocean

D E O R Q

Abby Kirton

Where I ’m From

I am from small town bars, loud rumbling cars, And fresh made pickles in special jars I am from Two rooms and beds, he said-she saids, And dad’s famous homemade breads. I am from Grandma’s front climbing tree, And my sister being as tall as me I am from large cities with pride parades And in the back pond making bracelet trades I am from what happened to me when I was six The story of which still makes some sick I am from wishing I had a real friend And not wanting it to be the weekend I am from healing the past and what it brought And sneaking out and not getting caught.

the mind of a lazy soul the mind of a lazy soul is quiet as messy as one would forsee but it quiet colorful and whole a paradise everyone wishes life would be the mind of a lazy soul is about as adept as one would imagine but its creativity one can not control makes the most impossible things happen the mind of a lazy soul is about as relaxed as one would get or so one would think, looking into a hole for it is far more laid back than you would like to bet the mind of a lazy soul is about as simple as one can think but for one taking through it a casual stroll, their understanding of it for sure will shrink 12, says the clock

12, says the clock Eleven, says the mind ten, says the scored test nince, it was scored for eight, the days spent learning seven, the days of a week six, of the door hinges squeak five, the exam score for I am yearning four, is the expected score three, the weeks before rest two, hours a day I spend on the grind one, the certainty for I know the next day I shall rock Don’t procrastinare, IG

I stare at the florescent screen ideas slipping my mind wherever my train of thought has been I really can’t seem to find procrastinating I really must put to an end writing English essays at the height of fatigue oh, wherever my time I decide to spend I can’t seem to escape my critique “To be or not to be” so goes the hardcover book I revel in the fact that I just seemed to see so long this shouldn’t have took

My knees sink into the earth where he lay, his ashes bringing forth decay. How I wish I could sin enough to be sent below, (more than I already have to follow) I want to infuse him in my veins to be reborn again the way he created me, once began. I want to inhale his being And exhale his desires to do their aspires. Brick by brick, atom by atom, carb by carb, I will do whatever it takes to replace his shards. No matter how many stars explode, and infinities collide, I need him by my side. Perhaps I can sell my soul, mine for his, his for mine, I unseathe my pen and slam the paper down to sign. I have been ready: trailing down the page to the line.

But, before I do,

Where do I sign?

32

Vivienne Tabor Leah Quintero

Adam Driver nose Perfect baby face He’s in a perfect pose He’s probably got a mace Small white kitty Big blue eyes He doesn’t want your pity He just wants your cries

I think I might be gay There’s this black cat His name is Winston He’s pretty cray Sometimes he catches a rat I think he might’ve went to Princeton But I don’t know about that I like jazz, I like it a lot People say that makes me nasty They say I should get rhinoplasty But I think my nose is hot

Katherine Kregness

styx

here is the firelight, trapping the light-winged, the yearning here is the endless, the ash-halls of life itself, the mourning here is night, her arms splayed like a sun-dog, the mother of truth

these rooms hold no love for the empty, no patience for the saints. there is only loss, here

and when chaos hums and sleep draws nearer, the lonely river of nobody’s blood has swept away the turns of time

here is the morning, the cold of light, the open void, an endless sky here is the breaking, the heart of god, the dawn of triumph, its dripping eyes here is the burning, the muddied ocean, an endless war, the deserved burden

there will be no comfort here, for time is as patient as it needs to be. comfort is for kinder, softer places.

here is the ache; truth does not live where you want her to. she is worn and tired and a Cassandra for the ages.

so Death ambles forward, Love close behind, and Tyche, the gambler, will not save us in time.

Photo by Vivienne Tabor Photo by Vivienne Tabor

Part IV - Visual Arts

Art by Moneerah Saoudy