As I walked up to the brick building in the sweltering heat of the summer, I stopped on the hill to take a look around. I was surrounded by busy French streets and the smell of a bakery torturing those who passed by. Looking at the building, I saw a sign that read “Auberge Internationale de Québec”. When I walked inside I was greeted by a building as warm as the heat outside and with a glossy wooden interior. The building, itself, was an adventure. With no signs, except those in foreign script, each room was a mystery. After checking in, there was a strenuous trek up three flights of narrow, wooden floors that creaked endlessly. I endured as my suitcase became heavier, heavier, heavier, and lighter, finally. That night, after having reached the end of the hallway and located my room, the walls became illuminated by only the city lights and the glow of the moon. The buildings seemed to breathe and come to life with their phosphorescence. And although I had to get up early the next morning, I saw on my bed that faced a tall window. Through that window, the city lights could see my legs curled up into me as I watched without blinking. A bridge cast its glare on the river below. As cars passed through the city, their noises were barely audible over the music that blared from a stadium nearby. The city spoke to the music, as it’s heartbeat became the pulsing bass that could only be heard by those who were truly listening. Warm summer air poured through the windows and my eyes couldn’t part from the current view. Hours passed and sleep still eluded me. But I did not care that I had to wake up at six in the morning, because I was with my best friends- the stars. I did not care that I had to wake up at six in the morning, because the city wanted to see me. I did not care that I had to wake up at six in the morning because I had found complete comfort in this youth hostel 945 miles away from my home.
Tag Archives: poetry
Through Their Eyes – Poppy Lam
Through their eye’s everything is magnified,
A light touch is a mighty blow,
A flick of a switch is a raging storm,
A small ember is a seething hell,
They feel the need to convert experiences into masterpieces
Be it photos, drawing, music or writing
It may just be a snap of a camera but it’s their way of capturing their life and seeing it from a new perspective
It may just be a few sketchy lines but it’s how they portray their emotions and discover themselves
It may just be a few notes but it’s their sole way of communicating with the world
It may just be ink to a page but it’s their emotions soaring over the white landscape
The need to fill the obsidian darkness which lingers within
To drop the mask, stand back and watch it shatter
So you go and judge but we won’t be the one’s coughing up the ashes of a burnt out flame.
The Artist – Brooke Safferman
16 colored pencils lay before your handsthey are trembling with anticipation;
you are trembling with anticipation
a masterpiece waiting to be revealed
but you are the only one who can manifest it
and make it come to life with the power of your genius mind
the clock ticks on and suddenly you shake your head
there’s too much pressure to do the things that must be done
but the desire of making, of creating, of bringing to life, has begun to overtake you
dancing, your fingers are dancing as they slide the pencils across the page,
shapes and shades being formed by the colors of passion rather than that of the lead
I, too, originated as one of your masterpieces – and for that, I am forever grateful.
I’m Sorry – Alexandra Mayer
I am from a defeated town
with deadbeat afternoons,
lawn chairs and lemonade,
and church clothes that cling in the heat.
Our bones are heavy.
I told you, I loved you like
the shimmering but separate rainbow fish swirl of oil in the puddles of asphalt parking lots.
And then I left.
You told me
you wanted to get closer, closer
so we could breath each other in.
And then, like that, three years went by
without you.
I was in Philosophy of Ethics when I read your facebook status:
“I LIED. AND SO I’LL BE FERRYING THOSE OF YOU I CAN WITH ME TO THE NEXT WORLD. I’LL POST A BRIDGE BEFORE I LEAVE.”
The Professor went on.
Heraclitus once said, “Everything Flows.”
Plato revised: “Everything changes.”
I called.
Your voice sounded like a meteor tearing into earth.
I heard wisps of gold cloud your eyes, when you said,
“I’m high. I’m high. If you don’t love me, I’ll hang myself from the rafters of hell.”
Silence dangled over us.
Later you told me you could feel it
wrap around your neck
like the noose used on your Grandfather.
I didn’t think of that.
I called the police.
I wanted you to be okay.
The officer was kind to me.
His voice sounded like velvet.
Then, for six nights, the stars dried out my eyes.
They warned me–
‘Only the dead shine.’
You called,
finally, from Silver Hill Mental Hospital.
It was your Mother’s Bipolar Disorder that got you there.
But it was your Father’s black skin
that made the officer with a velvet voice
think it was okay to hurt you.
I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me
he pressed his fists into your gut
and plunged his hands around your neck.
I’m sorry, you had to send me pictures. I still can’t believe you did.
It looked like Jupiter’s rings tried to split you in two pieces.
I’m sorry that I can still drag my fingers across your scars.
I just wanted you to be okay
because I saw a life like hydrangeas and summer sunsets in your eyes.
and I remembered the elm tree where we took branches for seats and traded secrets.
And I knew just segments of your soul,
but I could see you’re bursting with a history and a story.
I just wanted you to be okay.
But he just saw a black body,
said you were a ‘dangerous madman resisting arrest.’
Rainfall – Brooke Safferman
Some
Rainy
Days
I
Like
To
Look
Up
At
The
Clouds
Through
My
Skylight
And
I
Watch
The
Droplets
Fall
Like
Words
In
A
Poem
Sorta
Like
This
One
And
I
Think
Of
How
You
Used
To
Hold
My
Hand
And
Kiss
My
Softly
On
The
Tip
Of
My
Nose.
Perspective of a Man – Karlee Sanders
rain & i – Elena Barrera-Waters
it’s 5:56 in the morning
On A Delayed Flight to DC – Iman Messado
Something Like Freedom – Brooke Safferman
Hope in a bottle
Spilling out loudly
The sound crashes in our ears
No regrets, never regrets.
Shouting from rooftops, from birds’ backs, from the skies
Liberty is a thing that can be purchased
With determination and strength
We have things inside of us we never even knew we had to begin with.
Lean on back and close your eyes
The smells wander on in: fresh cut grass and gasoline;
Balloon animals and your dog peeing on the fence
Hey, it’s alright now. Hey.
That beautiful moment where you’re at a loss of words
Because you don’t have a thesaurus with you
That could give you another option, another choice for the word that means
Something like freedom.S
Smoker – Karlee Sanders
CIGARETTE IN HAND YOU TOLD ME YOU WOULD SWIM ACROSS OCEANS FOR ME
Inkling 