Faded
by Anonymous
Death is undeserved. To babies. To teenagers. Undeserved most by Prerna aunty, and that’s only saying the the bustling streets of Mumbai are muggy during monsoon season.
It’s merely accidental. Conflict arises, and one takes the knife to chest. But the worst is when a sickening disease creeps through your soul, chews you up inside and out and leaves you to rot for years.
You don’t expect anything like it. Living life in perfect balance.
The cancer never left her body. It lurked inside silently for years, tearing apart the joy and happiness she brought into the world. Relentlessly attacking one organ after another.
Prerna was strong, independent, ferocious. She fought and fought for years and years. I remember sitting atop her ruffled sheets in the stuffy yellow room, the rickety fan pressing cool air upon our sweaty faces.
But beyond the forced smile, she lived in sadness, chained to her bed like an old dog, forgotten and strung to a post. Prayer after prayer, but it was never enough.
“Prerna aunty is dead, she’s in a better place now.” The words pounded through my skull like an awful earworm. The memories rested safely in the face of my palms, yet just beyond reach.
Unable to think, my vision faded and my head spun in a million circles. The cancer chose her. Prerna, a strong mother of two kids. A fighter. A beautiful, faithful woman who deserved a lifetime of happiness.
Her spirit is one with the Earth. She is in a better place. Clutching my chest hard, I gasped for breath, only worrying for cancer’s next victim.
It’s merely accidental. Conflict arises, and one takes the knife to chest. But the worst is when a sickening disease creeps through your soul, chews you up inside and out and leaves you to rot for years.
You don’t expect anything like it. Living life in perfect balance.
The cancer never left her body. It lurked inside silently for years, tearing apart the joy and happiness she brought into the world. Relentlessly attacking one organ after another.
Prerna was strong, independent, ferocious. She fought and fought for years and years. I remember sitting atop her ruffled sheets in the stuffy yellow room, the rickety fan pressing cool air upon our sweaty faces.
But beyond the forced smile, she lived in sadness, chained to her bed like an old dog, forgotten and strung to a post. Prayer after prayer, but it was never enough.
“Prerna aunty is dead, she’s in a better place now.” The words pounded through my skull like an awful earworm. The memories rested safely in the face of my palms, yet just beyond reach.
Unable to think, my vision faded and my head spun in a million circles. The cancer chose her. Prerna, a strong mother of two kids. A fighter. A beautiful, faithful woman who deserved a lifetime of happiness.
Her spirit is one with the Earth. She is in a better place. Clutching my chest hard, I gasped for breath, only worrying for cancer’s next victim.
Shape Shifters
by Anonymous
Sometimes they are dark, darker than the little black button that endures the impulsive click of her finger. Or as pale as the girl who stays up all night, just to forget her project at home. Appearing fluffy and bright like clean cotton balls used to clean up a bloody wound from her careless biking. Big. Small. Bright. Dark. Constantly changing.
Moody to say the least. Angry and anxious on some days, holding their breath in tight and not letting anything go. Playful as puppies on brighter days.
On worse days, ready to unleash buckets of emotion; down, down, down. Or they decide to disappear altogether, staying locked in their room all day, refusing to decorate the blue skies.
Occasionally, however, passionate streaks of vermillion, hues of brilliant yellow and delicate purples paint the sky like the delicate tip of her artist’s brush. Skies of red rubies, marigold flowers, tangerine oranges, lemon flavored starbursts.
Unpredictable. Constantly changing like a moody teenager. Aggravated, sorrowful, cheerful, frisky. Looking down upon the house of a little girl, who will now and then lay upon the grass, take a deep breath, and cloud gaze.
Moody to say the least. Angry and anxious on some days, holding their breath in tight and not letting anything go. Playful as puppies on brighter days.
On worse days, ready to unleash buckets of emotion; down, down, down. Or they decide to disappear altogether, staying locked in their room all day, refusing to decorate the blue skies.
Occasionally, however, passionate streaks of vermillion, hues of brilliant yellow and delicate purples paint the sky like the delicate tip of her artist’s brush. Skies of red rubies, marigold flowers, tangerine oranges, lemon flavored starbursts.
Unpredictable. Constantly changing like a moody teenager. Aggravated, sorrowful, cheerful, frisky. Looking down upon the house of a little girl, who will now and then lay upon the grass, take a deep breath, and cloud gaze.
dear annie
by Ari Vishin
annie lives on a farm back out east now.
always said she'd love just a piece of earth
now she gets up early and weeds the garden
and keeps going until six pm
annie has one hundred tomato plants.
i wonder how often she talks to mom
used to put her number up and wait for calls
now she sleeps right after her dinner
annie what is it like up northeast?
annie tell me how's connecticut?
after all this, i must let you know, annie
your macaroni and cheese is terrible
seriously annie -
it is just not that good
always said she'd love just a piece of earth
now she gets up early and weeds the garden
and keeps going until six pm
annie has one hundred tomato plants.
i wonder how often she talks to mom
used to put her number up and wait for calls
now she sleeps right after her dinner
annie what is it like up northeast?
annie tell me how's connecticut?
after all this, i must let you know, annie
your macaroni and cheese is terrible
seriously annie -
it is just not that good
God Doesn't Like My Non Boyfriend
by Ari Vishin
I was thirteen and my throat was still dry when I talked about myself. I was thirteen and my body didn’t fit right and I didn’t feel like everyone else. I was thirteen and I didn’t play party games because I had no stories to tell. I was thirteen and I promised myself that I would soon grow up and be normal.
Soon is still in the future, if at all. I walked with a boy today and our hands touched, though only accidentally. It has me thinking that maybe someday I will get to put a finger down during Never Have I Ever. I looked up into all the deep reds and oranges and golden-pinks of a stained-glass sky. When I was thirteen, I almost kissed a boy in a synagogue and I realize now that God never looked away. I will wait for him to blink.
Soon is still in the future, if at all. I walked with a boy today and our hands touched, though only accidentally. It has me thinking that maybe someday I will get to put a finger down during Never Have I Ever. I looked up into all the deep reds and oranges and golden-pinks of a stained-glass sky. When I was thirteen, I almost kissed a boy in a synagogue and I realize now that God never looked away. I will wait for him to blink.
A turtle's peaceful pointed beak peeks out
by Christina Park
A turtle’s peaceful pointed beak peeks out
He takes a breath then glides away to munch.
With blinking small eyes slowly looks about
And somehow finds from rocks enough to lunch.
Disgruntled fish flit here and there like bees,
Their colors vivid; painted stripes and spots.
Although they lack in calm nobility,
Their wondrous shades cannot be made or bought.
The homes of so much life are quick to fade
With coral branches turning pale as bone,
Who would have thought such lands could be unmade
And forests filled with life could turn to stone.
The turtle keeps his slow and stolid ways,
No haste, no race, despite his numbered days.
He takes a breath then glides away to munch.
With blinking small eyes slowly looks about
And somehow finds from rocks enough to lunch.
Disgruntled fish flit here and there like bees,
Their colors vivid; painted stripes and spots.
Although they lack in calm nobility,
Their wondrous shades cannot be made or bought.
The homes of so much life are quick to fade
With coral branches turning pale as bone,
Who would have thought such lands could be unmade
And forests filled with life could turn to stone.
The turtle keeps his slow and stolid ways,
No haste, no race, despite his numbered days.
A Velvety Evening
by Christina Park
his clothes were smoky blue and rose out from
the smudge of orange of the stage which gleamed
he moved his bow as though a part of some
white gauzy fabric, easy as a dream
haphazard strokes, yet soaked with master’s wisdom
his twitching back and forth, with shoulder shakes
a subtle dance from far Jerusalem,
the clarinet’s song pierces through and makes
the people grasp each other’s hands and prance
in circles, hopping, skipping, turning, with claps
the beating rhythm urges and enchants
my head bobs, heart aches, tingling skin, feet taps
i let the sound wash over me for hours
so sweet, and such a pleasure to devour.
the smudge of orange of the stage which gleamed
he moved his bow as though a part of some
white gauzy fabric, easy as a dream
haphazard strokes, yet soaked with master’s wisdom
his twitching back and forth, with shoulder shakes
a subtle dance from far Jerusalem,
the clarinet’s song pierces through and makes
the people grasp each other’s hands and prance
in circles, hopping, skipping, turning, with claps
the beating rhythm urges and enchants
my head bobs, heart aches, tingling skin, feet taps
i let the sound wash over me for hours
so sweet, and such a pleasure to devour.
To My Favorite Inmates
Darian Lee
To those of you who sort of were my friends
From in the jail I sort of called my home
Were prisoners were forced to make amends
And I was sort of there, while you all groaned
To those of you who sort of had my side
As we sat bored and wished that we were free
And sang the chain gang songs and laughed and cried
The truth is that, I sort of had a key
I’m sorry we were ever sort of pals
And that I lied and kept us locked away
The reason for the loss in my morales:
I knew if you could leave, you wouldn’t stay
The awful truth is I’d do any crime
To be there on that chain gang one more time
From in the jail I sort of called my home
Were prisoners were forced to make amends
And I was sort of there, while you all groaned
To those of you who sort of had my side
As we sat bored and wished that we were free
And sang the chain gang songs and laughed and cried
The truth is that, I sort of had a key
I’m sorry we were ever sort of pals
And that I lied and kept us locked away
The reason for the loss in my morales:
I knew if you could leave, you wouldn’t stay
The awful truth is I’d do any crime
To be there on that chain gang one more time
Please see
by Hannah Oh
Away is where he wishes he could go,
There’s nothing more, just anywhere is fine
Just any place in which he is unknown.
Where he could thrive and openly opine.
He would not be subjected to these norms
And forced to live while bearing all its weight.
Instead he longs to walk into the storms
For even that is better than to wait.
Yet there is much that would be left behind,
Like guidance given by his caring parents,
Or sparks of joy she left for him to find,
Her hefty fondness towards this boy apparent.
Yet even now he is oblivious
To love so great and unambiguous.
There’s nothing more, just anywhere is fine
Just any place in which he is unknown.
Where he could thrive and openly opine.
He would not be subjected to these norms
And forced to live while bearing all its weight.
Instead he longs to walk into the storms
For even that is better than to wait.
Yet there is much that would be left behind,
Like guidance given by his caring parents,
Or sparks of joy she left for him to find,
Her hefty fondness towards this boy apparent.
Yet even now he is oblivious
To love so great and unambiguous.
Ripe Magnolias
by Helen Li
The magnolias are ripe! the sparrows cry
Ripe as peaches in the clear blue sky
And with their petals they softly sing
Of pastel dawns and joys of spring
Ripe as peaches in the clear blue sky
And with their petals they softly sing
Of pastel dawns and joys of spring
Summer Nights
by Helen Li
Summer is in the air
Look at her, look
There she is, in the golden shafts thrown down from just beyond the distant hilltops
Piercing the afternoon with magnificent hues
And painting the world a creamy gold
There, in the magnolias that ripen
Against a cloudless sky supersaturated with blue
She collects the midnight shadows in a basket woven from finest spider silk
Stretches them out and imbues them with a curiosity
That lures the most stubborn beast from its hiding-place
Summer has settled contentedly in our valley
Cup your ears, perhaps you’ll catch
The sighs of willows as you walk past
And the brooding sycamores, who whisper her name
They comb her shadows with ragged fingers
You must remember to say
Goodnight, goodnight to the quiet moon
Goodnight to the boy lingering just outside my room
The stars gossip amongst themselves of things we know not
Perhaps they listen to our dreams, sometimes
Perhaps they listen to our speech
Summer caresses your cheek with a sturdy hand
Touch her, feel her
Calloused and strong from playing in the dirt, playing in the sand, playing ball games under a waning sun
And yet, oh so gentle
For summer knows the delicacy with which a passing monarch lights
And the genteel of night
As it blankets the budding roses so that they, too, may feel the lull of slumber
Dreaming dreams of bumbling bees and tinkling wind chimes
That is summer
Look at her, look
There she is, in the golden shafts thrown down from just beyond the distant hilltops
Piercing the afternoon with magnificent hues
And painting the world a creamy gold
There, in the magnolias that ripen
Against a cloudless sky supersaturated with blue
She collects the midnight shadows in a basket woven from finest spider silk
Stretches them out and imbues them with a curiosity
That lures the most stubborn beast from its hiding-place
Summer has settled contentedly in our valley
Cup your ears, perhaps you’ll catch
The sighs of willows as you walk past
And the brooding sycamores, who whisper her name
They comb her shadows with ragged fingers
You must remember to say
Goodnight, goodnight to the quiet moon
Goodnight to the boy lingering just outside my room
The stars gossip amongst themselves of things we know not
Perhaps they listen to our dreams, sometimes
Perhaps they listen to our speech
Summer caresses your cheek with a sturdy hand
Touch her, feel her
Calloused and strong from playing in the dirt, playing in the sand, playing ball games under a waning sun
And yet, oh so gentle
For summer knows the delicacy with which a passing monarch lights
And the genteel of night
As it blankets the budding roses so that they, too, may feel the lull of slumber
Dreaming dreams of bumbling bees and tinkling wind chimes
That is summer
Too Late
by Karen Li
in this bustling world where
no one has enough time
we sure find ways to
convince ourselves that
there is (always more).
we think that
tomorrow is a given,
our right to
a new day with
a new chance to
make things right
and so we use
tomorrow as a means to
avoid today.
excuse ourselves
“it’s not my day”
then when?
for tomorrow is
ever-changing,
an elusive creature
always flitting
at the edge of
our fingertips.
tomorrow never comes.
today’s tomorrow is
tomorrow’s today
and tomorrow,
tomorrow will be tomorrow
no longer.
tomorrow’s tomorrow will be
the tomorrow
of tomorrow
and so it goes
and it is never our day.
but we are content
because
“there’s always tomorrow!”
we are not wrong
until today was our last tomorrow.
realize we left everything
for the day we don’t have and
there is no tomorrow and
there’s not enough time and
it’s too–
no one has enough time
we sure find ways to
convince ourselves that
there is (always more).
we think that
tomorrow is a given,
our right to
a new day with
a new chance to
make things right
and so we use
tomorrow as a means to
avoid today.
excuse ourselves
“it’s not my day”
then when?
for tomorrow is
ever-changing,
an elusive creature
always flitting
at the edge of
our fingertips.
tomorrow never comes.
today’s tomorrow is
tomorrow’s today
and tomorrow,
tomorrow will be tomorrow
no longer.
tomorrow’s tomorrow will be
the tomorrow
of tomorrow
and so it goes
and it is never our day.
but we are content
because
“there’s always tomorrow!”
we are not wrong
until today was our last tomorrow.
realize we left everything
for the day we don’t have and
there is no tomorrow and
there’s not enough time and
it’s too–
The Weeping Willow
by Katie Rizkalla
The grasses swayed in the wind, shushing me as though my breathing were too loud. As though it were deafening their ears to a single bird's chirp off in the distance. Only a soul shattered, broken on the rocks at sea and used to the thundering of the waves, would dare to wander in the valley and wail above the soft song of the swallow.
The only solace to this soul— my soul— is the weeping willow, its gentle drapes dipping into a pond of salty tears. The leaves envelop that soul, praying silence will have mercy. As the he shelters the souls of the wailing sea, the willow weeps in silence. He learned long ago that to cry out, will only return in a mournful echo— passed along by the whispering grass. But for every tear the willow weeps, there is a songbird perched upon his branches to sing a chorus of joy.
The only solace to this soul— my soul— is the weeping willow, its gentle drapes dipping into a pond of salty tears. The leaves envelop that soul, praying silence will have mercy. As the he shelters the souls of the wailing sea, the willow weeps in silence. He learned long ago that to cry out, will only return in a mournful echo— passed along by the whispering grass. But for every tear the willow weeps, there is a songbird perched upon his branches to sing a chorus of joy.
A Slumbering World
by Matthew Yu
The silence could be felt - it inhabited the environment, and enveloped everything like a thick blanket. The quiet wasn’t threatening, wasn’t foreboding, wasn’t out of place - it simply was. It gave the place a sense of beauty and mystery. The avenue was lined with banks of snow for it had snowed all night. At the moment, snowflakes drifted through the air lazily, to rest gently on the road. Not a single thing stirred - the trees seemed to be in a deep sleep, barely definable by the way the snow clung to the boughs and branches. The air was frigid, crisp, fresh. Winter had arrived, and the world was asleep.
oh my child
by Naysha Kola
do not look my child
better
to stay
unscathed
cover your ears my child
but heed my words
one day
you will realize
stay close my child
but do not worry
you are too young
to know
remember my child
the life you have now
is not a forever
and above all
stay quiet my child
do not risk
a fleeting moment
for your future
oh my child
what I would do
if it were that
i was still you
better
to stay
unscathed
cover your ears my child
but heed my words
one day
you will realize
stay close my child
but do not worry
you are too young
to know
remember my child
the life you have now
is not a forever
and above all
stay quiet my child
do not risk
a fleeting moment
for your future
oh my child
what I would do
if it were that
i was still you
A Snowflake of Time
by Nikhil Kulkarni
I’m a snowflake original, special, yet there are millions of my kind.
Substantially different, something you cannot find
Falling from the sky, raining, perusing, gleaming through the night.
Every impact that is made, adding to the snow glaze in sight.
They reign the trees, the streets, and all of the ground
Gleaming from the moonlight that leaves others dumbfound
The beliefs the myths of a clean winter sheet
doesn’t stop a 1 am passer by and the steps of his feet
One, two and three craters created
Ruining the perfection of what has been stated
It seems ruined
Forgotten as though it never existed.
A clean sheet of heaven laid down and I missed it.
Why me, why him, Why do any of us feel?
These desires and wants, that are unreal.
The choices and possibilities that are so outreached,
that only those with money can ever preach.
The convulsion of thoughts,
disguised as soughts,
of things I need,
and desires to my breed.
My brethren, my family, all I respect,
deem me nothing more than a speck.
One who has shapes, sides, and corners untouched,
Whose always being is always being seen as “not worth that much”.
So then why must I feel these convulsion of feelings,
since it seems they go against society’s teachings.
But that is not true, no not at all.
You are a speck of million that begin to fall.
Raining down in a slow pattern,
each individual getting us to saturn.
To the moon, the stars,
to pluto and mars.
You are original, special, despite the million of your kind,
You add to the world a memory of your mind.
One who has shapes, sides, and corners untouched,
and a snowflake whose ideas will never be crushed.
Substantially different, something you cannot find
Falling from the sky, raining, perusing, gleaming through the night.
Every impact that is made, adding to the snow glaze in sight.
They reign the trees, the streets, and all of the ground
Gleaming from the moonlight that leaves others dumbfound
The beliefs the myths of a clean winter sheet
doesn’t stop a 1 am passer by and the steps of his feet
One, two and three craters created
Ruining the perfection of what has been stated
It seems ruined
Forgotten as though it never existed.
A clean sheet of heaven laid down and I missed it.
Why me, why him, Why do any of us feel?
These desires and wants, that are unreal.
The choices and possibilities that are so outreached,
that only those with money can ever preach.
The convulsion of thoughts,
disguised as soughts,
of things I need,
and desires to my breed.
My brethren, my family, all I respect,
deem me nothing more than a speck.
One who has shapes, sides, and corners untouched,
Whose always being is always being seen as “not worth that much”.
So then why must I feel these convulsion of feelings,
since it seems they go against society’s teachings.
But that is not true, no not at all.
You are a speck of million that begin to fall.
Raining down in a slow pattern,
each individual getting us to saturn.
To the moon, the stars,
to pluto and mars.
You are original, special, despite the million of your kind,
You add to the world a memory of your mind.
One who has shapes, sides, and corners untouched,
and a snowflake whose ideas will never be crushed.
Quiet
by Nikhil Kulkarni
Purple skies, blended together like a smoothie
Or so I imagine as I eat my canned food
Purple raspberry, cherry cola, and a burger
A joy I will always remember.
Breath.
One, two--wait.
I wish--
Stop
You can’t wish yourself back
You can’t keep trying
I wish--
Don’t go down this path Nikhil
It’s only darkness.
I wish--
No feelings
I wish I could say...
POP!
“Should have looked where you were goin’ motherfucker!”
I’m an American Sniper
Nothing more, nothing less.
I stand there shattered
Not my legs nor my glasses
But my heart
Thrown down the pitch by the stripes that I rep
Swung and battered
It’s dark
A black emptiness consumes me
I lay in uniform, hands across my chest
Military boots still on, but they are no longer dirty
They are clean and polished.
Beside me lay my medals, all three of them
Priceless, they say
But my life was to give
And now I lay in darkness.
a flag draped over me that will soon be caressed by my wife
And by the third day, given to my son who will only then mourn in solitude
Because he never saw me
Just a child
Him, and I.
“Hi, how may I help you?”
I’m only a pon in the game of executive warfare
A tax dollar’s expense
A name on a wall
No longer a family man
nor a father,
a coach,
a grandpa,
a husband,
a friend,
a classmate,
or a role model.
“I’ll take 2 McChickens.”
“Will that be all sir?”
Can you wash the blood off my boots?
Or take away the medals I received for killing the innocent?
Maybe reverse the fact that I have to take pain medication for an infection from a foreign land?
Or take away the guilt for leaving my beautiful wife?
“Yes.”
“Your total will be two dollars and seven cents, but I’ll make this on the house. Treat yourself to
a drink and we thank you for your service”
Repayment.
Or so I imagine as I eat my canned food
Purple raspberry, cherry cola, and a burger
A joy I will always remember.
Breath.
One, two--wait.
I wish--
Stop
You can’t wish yourself back
You can’t keep trying
I wish--
Don’t go down this path Nikhil
It’s only darkness.
I wish--
No feelings
I wish I could say...
POP!
“Should have looked where you were goin’ motherfucker!”
I’m an American Sniper
Nothing more, nothing less.
I stand there shattered
Not my legs nor my glasses
But my heart
Thrown down the pitch by the stripes that I rep
Swung and battered
It’s dark
A black emptiness consumes me
I lay in uniform, hands across my chest
Military boots still on, but they are no longer dirty
They are clean and polished.
Beside me lay my medals, all three of them
Priceless, they say
But my life was to give
And now I lay in darkness.
a flag draped over me that will soon be caressed by my wife
And by the third day, given to my son who will only then mourn in solitude
Because he never saw me
Just a child
Him, and I.
“Hi, how may I help you?”
I’m only a pon in the game of executive warfare
A tax dollar’s expense
A name on a wall
No longer a family man
nor a father,
a coach,
a grandpa,
a husband,
a friend,
a classmate,
or a role model.
“I’ll take 2 McChickens.”
“Will that be all sir?”
Can you wash the blood off my boots?
Or take away the medals I received for killing the innocent?
Maybe reverse the fact that I have to take pain medication for an infection from a foreign land?
Or take away the guilt for leaving my beautiful wife?
“Yes.”
“Your total will be two dollars and seven cents, but I’ll make this on the house. Treat yourself to
a drink and we thank you for your service”
Repayment.
Fine
by Paul Liu
"How are you?"
"I’m fine."
fine, fine like mother’s china,
breaking with a touch.
fine, fine like a fair maiden,
for whom only tragedy awaits.
fine, like the thread of life,
flimsy and anxious.
I’m fine,
thanks.
"I’m fine."
fine, fine like mother’s china,
breaking with a touch.
fine, fine like a fair maiden,
for whom only tragedy awaits.
fine, like the thread of life,
flimsy and anxious.
I’m fine,
thanks.
three in the morning
by Paul Liu
It's three in the morning when
the cat curls in my arm,
snoozing away the sores of the day.
It's three in the morning and
the tick of the clock pounds.
It's funny how everything is louder when
there's not a sound.
It's three in the morning when
I can be alone,
sometimes with you.
It's three in the morning and
the blackness envelopes me.
calm and soothed.
madness is all that's left.
It's three in the morning
and I'm confused,
Amused,
and half in love with you.
the cat curls in my arm,
snoozing away the sores of the day.
It's three in the morning and
the tick of the clock pounds.
It's funny how everything is louder when
there's not a sound.
It's three in the morning when
I can be alone,
sometimes with you.
It's three in the morning and
the blackness envelopes me.
calm and soothed.
madness is all that's left.
It's three in the morning
and I'm confused,
Amused,
and half in love with you.
Incomplete life
by Ryan Yi
There is no perfect life
Looking in from the outside everything looks like
sunshine and rainbows
But there is a fear inside
Stuck in a realm of expectations and reputations
Locked in a room of pressure
The fear of failing yourself and those around you
There is no perfect life
The fight that never ends
Never ending judgement and second guessing
The holder of the fear is the biggest enemy
Challenges, set backs, hardships all shape the best
There is no perfect life
Conquering this fear may seem impossible
But one step leads to another
Till there are no additional steps needed to be taken
The abyss, the unknown will always be ahead
the escape, the leap
Take the leap and see what's to come...
Looking in from the outside everything looks like
sunshine and rainbows
But there is a fear inside
Stuck in a realm of expectations and reputations
Locked in a room of pressure
The fear of failing yourself and those around you
There is no perfect life
The fight that never ends
Never ending judgement and second guessing
The holder of the fear is the biggest enemy
Challenges, set backs, hardships all shape the best
There is no perfect life
Conquering this fear may seem impossible
But one step leads to another
Till there are no additional steps needed to be taken
The abyss, the unknown will always be ahead
the escape, the leap
Take the leap and see what's to come...
build a bear
by Sabrina Kim
i want to
write something profound about
two a.m. on valentine’s day but it’s
okay if i don’t. i thought these tears were
flowing for something in particular,
something like
the greatest sadness in life is being
eaten by your own mother—just look at her
legosmash your happiness, these
towers built with toddler hands.
but the greatest sadness is that
no one is here to pull you
heartbeat-close and whisper
you’re beautiful even in a thousand plastic pieces.
i don’t really know
why i’m like this. i don’t know shit—i’m
sixteen years old. i want to
write about the rain falling hard in february,
icicle fingers and my phone
dying. it’s beautiful to cry in the rain,
saltwater plus freshwater just the
same in the end—on the cement
cuddling with wilted leaves. fall is
over. it’s winter, doesn’t look like it. i thought it was
always sunny in california but then i realized
the night comes everyday, idiot.
why aren’t humans nocturnal--
are we running from something? we all
dream at the same time and
isn’t that just terrifying? and then i
think about my dreams and
holy shit so many of them are about the
same dumb guy. isn’t that kind of
funny, how we build towers out of people,
isn’t it kind of funny how i
literally have to leave the house to breathe, funny how
humans take every goddamn thing so
personally when none of it’s personal,
we all just want the best for ourselves,
kind of selfish, kind of lost in the
expectations we
build.
write something profound about
two a.m. on valentine’s day but it’s
okay if i don’t. i thought these tears were
flowing for something in particular,
something like
the greatest sadness in life is being
eaten by your own mother—just look at her
legosmash your happiness, these
towers built with toddler hands.
but the greatest sadness is that
no one is here to pull you
heartbeat-close and whisper
you’re beautiful even in a thousand plastic pieces.
i don’t really know
why i’m like this. i don’t know shit—i’m
sixteen years old. i want to
write about the rain falling hard in february,
icicle fingers and my phone
dying. it’s beautiful to cry in the rain,
saltwater plus freshwater just the
same in the end—on the cement
cuddling with wilted leaves. fall is
over. it’s winter, doesn’t look like it. i thought it was
always sunny in california but then i realized
the night comes everyday, idiot.
why aren’t humans nocturnal--
are we running from something? we all
dream at the same time and
isn’t that just terrifying? and then i
think about my dreams and
holy shit so many of them are about the
same dumb guy. isn’t that kind of
funny, how we build towers out of people,
isn’t it kind of funny how i
literally have to leave the house to breathe, funny how
humans take every goddamn thing so
personally when none of it’s personal,
we all just want the best for ourselves,
kind of selfish, kind of lost in the
expectations we
build.
this is how i feed my soul
by Sabrina Kim
i’m not the best runner but
feet against concrete,
trying to kiss the earth.
mental health in cursive
swimming around the dots of my journal because
if i need help, i will be fiercely unashamed.
the only two hands i’ve ever held are
my left and my right.
and i’ll be honest--
i’m a leaky faucet of affection
but i will never
leave you gasping.
i’ve learned how to
politely refuse the antipollen of others:
move on to the next tulip,
the one that’s
been in your front yard all year long.
it might look like an
easter egg swing or
the fingernail of a thumb or
a chest inviting hands and chin in prayer.
but trust me on this one--
and know,
when i run around the neighborhood
and my feet are
trying to kiss mother earth,
i only ever stop to chase words.
feet against concrete,
trying to kiss the earth.
mental health in cursive
swimming around the dots of my journal because
if i need help, i will be fiercely unashamed.
the only two hands i’ve ever held are
my left and my right.
and i’ll be honest--
i’m a leaky faucet of affection
but i will never
leave you gasping.
i’ve learned how to
politely refuse the antipollen of others:
move on to the next tulip,
the one that’s
been in your front yard all year long.
it might look like an
easter egg swing or
the fingernail of a thumb or
a chest inviting hands and chin in prayer.
but trust me on this one--
and know,
when i run around the neighborhood
and my feet are
trying to kiss mother earth,
i only ever stop to chase words.
Last Night
by Shreeya Moharir
Its 5:42
I killed the headlights
I did not know what to say
We filled the 7/11 bags with trash
As if the past 6 hours had not happened
Spray paint, the last mountain dew
My brain raced with fatigue.
The bags made it hard to hug her
I could feel her on her tiptoes
“I will miss you”
Her lips so close
She raised her eyebrows
And smiled
I killed the headlights
I did not know what to say
We filled the 7/11 bags with trash
As if the past 6 hours had not happened
Spray paint, the last mountain dew
My brain raced with fatigue.
The bags made it hard to hug her
I could feel her on her tiptoes
“I will miss you”
Her lips so close
She raised her eyebrows
And smiled
Your Songs
by Shreeya Moharir
I'm sorry that I never knew
How to dance to your songs
I could never memorize the steps
It took to match the beat
I tried to show you
How I moved
To my own harmony
But that just made me
a fool
Oblivious
Free of rhythm
How to dance to your songs
I could never memorize the steps
It took to match the beat
I tried to show you
How I moved
To my own harmony
But that just made me
a fool
Oblivious
Free of rhythm
The Art of Music
by William Lum
Every note is beautiful
There is no room for error
Make every note vibrate
and resonate through the air
You thought yourself the best
With talent and skill galore
But now it’s time to face the facts
And throw ego out the door
Practice, practice, practice
And become better than ever before
Let go of the frustration
The bitterness in your heart
Remember the joy of music
And make a brand new start
Make every note beautiful
More beautiful than ever before
There is no room for error
Make every note vibrate
and resonate through the air
You thought yourself the best
With talent and skill galore
But now it’s time to face the facts
And throw ego out the door
Practice, practice, practice
And become better than ever before
Let go of the frustration
The bitterness in your heart
Remember the joy of music
And make a brand new start
Make every note beautiful
More beautiful than ever before