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People Aren’t Medicine – Alexis Robson

You were broken when you were five,
It’s no wonder you were struggling to survive,
When your only support is a crutch of self-doubt,
How can anyone expect you to figure yourself out?

You lack the tools to fix yourself,
So you tend to turn to someone else,
To hold and guide you,
Always coming to your aid,
You forget the loneliness you felt when you were eight.

But using people as crutches is naïve,
Because eventually they get tired and leave,
And now you’re ten, but left again,
Struggling to figure out how to fit in.

People come and go,
But you become wiser and grow,
Soon you’re sixteen and have loyal friends,
And you realize there’s no point in trying to “fit in”.

The years fly and you turn eighteen,
And realize time has floated by like a dream,
You’ve learned to be your own crutch,
And that you used to overthink too much.

But life has taught you a lesson,
That you cannot use people as your medicine.

-a.r

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poem, Prosetry

Little Rectangles of Hope – Brooke Safferman

Little Rectangles of Hope

 

Anxiety.

It drips from your lips

Like some toxic saline solution

You always preferred for me to be the sweet one.

 

The unknown: the sun not yet risen, the butterfly still in his cocoon

I am suffocating from the words you will not say

Nervous and afraid, with those sweaty palms I love so much

Commitment was never really your style, no matter how painfully

I wish it was.

 

Worrying so strong, it becomes a tangible force

Quicksand, you laugh as you sink deeper within

I’ll play the role of the caretaker, you, the needy child

You throw your medication out when I look the other way.

 

Dull and numb, you say

You shake your head when I shove the bottle back at you

Commit to them, I plead

Commit to me, I plead

You shake your head when I shove the pressure back at you.

 

Whoever knew that an enemy could take the form of

Little rectangles of hope?

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Poetry, Prose, Prosetry

Can He? – Bianca Stelian

Ode to the poet

Whose wretched insides

Ache to create symphonies

Concertos of rhyme, seasoned with reason

But keeps it a secret.

His voice, a flame

Of passion and vigor

Vinegar

Rubbing salt in the wound

Makes a particular thickener

Raw with anticipation

Elation

The creation of patience the world’s friendliest patron

Sensation

But if he calms down or slows then nobody knows

For the pros who use prose are just masked by the blows

Of the older yet bolder visionaries with line breaks

Oh shit, there’s no rhyme

He scribbles and scrabbles till he comes up with one fine

Enough to make sense without being too bent that no heavenly sent angel likes what he’s crying

Dying

A dead profession

Parents said doctor or lawyer et cetera

But his mind is awash with the words it’s a plethora

Line after line he debates if he’s trying so hard that his eyeballs might pop off their retinas

But he’s not a slacker, a cheat who’s insane

He’s just a poor kid with too much right brain

He yearns to make words that will serve all his purposes

Verbages swirling all over his surfaces

Fortresses built with the strength of a circus kid

Everyone hates how his nerves give him worthlessness

Murderous curses so urgent he swerves into learning concerning new tactics for perfectness

Fervently churning away what he’s working on

Soon he’ll be ruler of burnouts and mirthlessness

STOP!

His fingers won’t work, they’re refusing to write

He curls up alone, all his demons in sight

He needs to get help before his psyche ignites

A torrent of pain and percussion alike

See, he’s just a guy with way too much to fight

He knows what to write but just not what is right

So sad but he won’t give up, laugh but he won’t trip up, slipping and skipping is not for what he signed up

Sickly, he mixes the words of his wisdom with intimate diction so smooth it needs no clean up

Finally found it, his voice that resounds it so fine he’s astounded he’s no longer grounded,

It’s a fight, it’s a battle, a kick in the asshole, a call to the action that makes him an animal

Now he’s on top of the world he’s a natural

Maybe the fame will make his voice speak national

Rationally tactical, tactically radical

Practically casual, casually masterful

Now he’s infallible, crazy, unflappable

Not giving up was his key to the capital

Till he collapses his mind will spit rhapsodies

Badder than travesties, synapses snapping the

Aura of more than can ever be scored rushing in through his system so sonic it’s alchemy

Finally here, he’s made himself clear, there’s no turning back and no, nothing to fear

A life filled with obstacles, hardships galore

Has turned him into something he’d always hoped for

And so, when he sits down

He knows there’s no shit now

He’s on the right path, yeah, his life is his wits now

Dying had made him much more of a man

Immortality nearing, all part of the plan

A symbol, an idol, as big as the Bible

Survival his life goal, a poet’s last stand –

A poet, he knows it, he’s broke it, he shows it

From boyhood to manhood, he can do it

He can.

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Poetry

Depth – Ian Dean

I hope that any recent bouts of bravery have shown that I am not so shallow.

To you, whose soothing voice is aloe.

I’ve never been one for simple phrases or words that don’t fit well together, so I leave sweet nothings to the romantically diabetic because it seems I have been using them forever.

 

I find myself here because I discovered a few months ago how I felt for you and I feel as now though beauty can be a medium for humor and intellect. Making me feel like less of a lost cause and bound to some benefit. You who could make me feel less like crucible for sorrow but conduit of confidence.

 

I still marvel at the mystery of you  who was clever enough to make me, proclaimed beast with no chains, feel different somehow I like have to explain my innocent cause and hope that you would value my worth of my name because I’d do the same.

 

The same whose beauty is greater than damned damsel distressed and more compassionate than softest drop of water forming on the bud of a desert flower. She is often so busy but if I could contest that hundreds of hours awaited your attention

And now I’m feeling its power.

 

I don’t care for boasting and seeming so mighty

I’ll show how I care and ever so slightly

Look to your eyes

As you gather your breath,

And ask you a question

While gauging their depth.

Prom?

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Poetry, Prose, Prosetry

Blurred San Fransisco – Casey Miller

In the earlier hours before the gates are open and lights are on
He stays back near the ocean, avoiding the sting of solid ground
But slowly he must creep forth, and envelop those beyond the bridges
Into the city before dawn, creeping down past Maiden Lane
Surrounding the chatty store owners of the Embarcadero
Confusing the seals, who look around for their mates through the haze
Then past the city, onto the mainland
Cargo loading dock crew members shout through his mist
And men on their way to work must push through his gloom
Can he make it over the Oakland Hills today?
But yes, he must push past Berkeley and climb the uneven mass
Traveling along the highway, he forces himself to settle dew upon cars
As young drivers struggle to make their way to school
But he must continue, on to Mount Diablo
And when he finally reaches the foothills
The fog knows he has done his job.

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Poetry, Prose, Prosetry

Fallen In Love – Elena Barrera-Waters

fallen in love

 

i’ve fallen in love

a few times, i think.

 

the first, with my 8 year old birthday present.

that puppy,

selfish and golden both in spirit and in color,

saved my life. when my second grade self

suddenly had to be the terrified person i shouldn’t have had to be,

i had a baby dog to remind me i was still a baby human

and i’d be just as ok as he was.

 

the second, with a boy.

a boy who didn’t care, and who convinced me i didn’t care,

that he loved a lot more people than just

  1. a boy who made us code names, because

that’s all we could ever be to each other. a boy who knew every

inch of my soul, until he didn’t anymore.

 

then, guess what? another boy.

i can’t say if it was love for sure, i only know it felt like it

once it was over. once i was listening to that song

and pretending he hadn’t called me all of those things,

over and over and over. then forgiving him and then hating him

and forgiving him. finally telling myself

that even if it was love, it wasn’t the good kind.

 

i fell in love with school.

with binders full of study tips and summer reading lists created entirely by myself,

because school doesn’t go away.

with reading everything i could get my hands on,

with reading everything and letting the idea of college carry me.

i fell in love with working.

finding as many internships as i could get my hands on,

because all these people i worked with were as in love

with it as i was,

their lives just as wrapped up in balancing work and school and

life as mine.

 

i fell in love with happiness.

middle school wasn’t happiness, so once i’d found it again,

i was in love. yelling songs at the top of my lungs

like you see in those movies and having a group of friends

that felt like forever and ever

and baking cookies for fun like i used to love to do.

but as in most love stories, that goes away.

friends go away.

happiness has to go away so you can feel it and know it

when it comes back.

 

and it does come back.

most recently, i’ve fallen in love with you.

the one who told me that if you ever acted like boy 1 or boy 2,

that I should just be done with you.

the one who helps my world perception clear,

the one who listens and really hears.

and even if tomorrow this one decided it was no more,

at least this boy loved me like they hadn’t before.

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Poetry, Prosetry

Generation Y+Z= Love – Ugonma Ubani-Ebere

 

But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?
It is social media, and Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram is the sun
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious Myspace
Who is already sick and pale with grief.
That thou her maid art more fair than she.
Love they said. It will make the world go around they said.
In a world where chivalry is replaced by thirst.
A virgin now wears a Scarlett Letter with a V, because she is a rarity in society
Sex is as casual as a conversation.
Body counts are the new public relations.
A relationship status means more than “I love you”
While some are content with just being a side chick or boo.
We argue through 140 characters instead of actually talking it out.
And words can only be expressed through texts instead of our mouths
Flirting has now evolved into multiple likes on Instagram.
Intimacy is shown through FaceTime.
It is now easier to find a hot date on Tinder in the palm of your hand.
Self pleasure comes from a selfie as we kiss ourselves through lenses.
Waves of materialistic pleasure wash away our expenses.
No longer do we value relationships, but put our hopes in “situationships.”
Social media is becoming a sanctuary, where we worship celebrities as Zeus and Aphrodites.
Morals come from Worldstar, as we wish upon it to make us famous.
We are walkers, walking dead in barren land of lost authenticity and insincere affection.
Social media has become our generation’s predilection.
We have fallen truly, madly, and deeply in love with our soul mates.
If you listen closely, you can hear the soul chant:
Oh Social media, Oh Social media! wherefore art thou Social media
Deny thy maker, and refuse thy name;
Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love
And I’ll no longer be a Human.
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Poetry, Prosetry

Our Now – Harika Kottakoka

Now, we must stand!
     stake our lives
for equivocal things
that our hearts certainly
   Revere.
But our gazes steady,
our triumph ordained in diamond
     even the finest
edges of terror
         Will shatter.
Now, we must choose!
        between eternities
embalmed with reticence
or seconds of compassion,
a sparkle of
          Fulfillment.
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Poetry

Old Friend – Alexandra Mayer

Fuck. It’s happening.

I’m feeling again.

 

Splayed open on the grass,

the sun makes my lipstick stick

and my dress cling.

 

And Old San Juan is cracking.

Paint stripped from Cafe Cola’o

digs beneath my fingers.

 

Let this place burrow inside of me.

Let the tourists trickle back to sea,

they’ll remember the pastel colors.

 

And my pink undies, lined in lace

peak out at the sky.

This isn’t about sex.

It’s about laughter.

 

I am the best friend.

Look back on what I’ve done and crumble

in awe, I am in love

with everything.

 

Flowers and vines won’t stop bursting from my eyes.

And he feels like home– like coffee rings on the old oak table,

on loose leaf paper, on my mother’s piano compositions.
I wish I could draw music.

It’s all just lines anyway.

 

like the dutch  horizon,

threaded with tulips and crimson.

or the angles of a new york city corner

or the way night soothes the ocean.

 

I scribbled notes about what I’ve learned and how I’ve changed

on the train home from London.

Funny how an old mental institution with crusty yellow walls, and five locks turned to family.

Sometimes, I even miss that quivering light.

And I miss the electronic beats.

And biting my lip till it bled because I couldn’t feel my mouth.

And the wobbly bike and that damned quivering light.

 

I’m fluent in Spanish, but only when I’m drunk or dreaming.

 

He snatched my hand,

tore my bones away from the party.

Collapsed in a puddle and screamed.

“Scream with me.”
I did.

 

And rips of yellow, that crusty yellow, scattered the sky

And I started crying just because present always turns to past

And that’s the only thing I know.

 

“Are you okay?”
I am.

 

—

 

I tried calling the other day.

His voicemail recording is still the same:

“you are not dreaming.”

And the automated lady was curt when she said “goodbye.”

 

And the butterflies sleeping in my stomach finally woke up,

They stirred a bit, before flooding my lungs–

Only some tore their wings in my teeth on their way to the world.

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Poetry, Prose

I Pick Me – Brooke Safferman

 

I longed for the days we used to have

Back when we were free from our shadows

And the things that existed beneath the surface

But quite subtly but yet so boldly all at once, you had

Changed.

 

You were always my favorite escape

Until I knew all there was to know about you

Or so I thought.

Or so I thought.

 

You imprisoned me, kept me in a cage with steel bars built of your emotions

Some metallic alloy composed of your cruelty and my acceptance of something Primitive and unforgiving

Your rules were Creed and Scripture and Rhythm

Every word you spoke dictated the very substance of my life,

All actions traced back to you.

 

But could you blame me, really?

Spellbound by the authoritative way your lips moved across my own

I lost myself somewhere

In between the “I love you”’s and the “You’re the best”’s

I knew who you really were:

A ruler and a tyrannical dictator

Control was your elixir, Power, your mighty Pandora’s Box

 

As much as I crave you, sublime in all your mercilessness,

There is something I must tell you:

I Pick Me.

And I must walk away.

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