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November Poetry Collection

November in Drapery

By Allison Stein

in this weather, everything

is thin fabric. the sky is cotton weave

with holes between the threads for

the stars and in the rain, you & i & every

building turn dark and don't dry

for days. somehow, this is nothing like

we imagined, the blowing in heated wind,

the softness of the sidewalk beneath

pinky fingers until we have rubbed it

raw. every tree and lamp with a pink draped

veil bunching up at the ground, home for

moths and newborns. everything

descending into shapes, so you wouldn't

know a thing without touching. somehow

still there is a glow and a smoothness and

we can walk through the air sweetly

opening our eyes against the cloth.

By Farzeen Rashid

Never ending torment, like a thousand blades darted at me, for the stamp punched on my forehead, this system gifted me. Erupting laughter and objectionable glances, jabs me till I bleed. Your bundles upon bundles of envy that you hurl at me concealed behind that word, digs deep into my bare skin. They leave behind wounds. But when I make an effort to become you so I can amuse you and your parallels, you fire another bullet and call me a wannabe. Raising my palm in class for all the answers magnetizes your resentment, cloaked behind the bullets that sit on your tongue. My admiration for education is granting me hostility instead of praise. Detrimental destruction is achieved on my end of the bullet, it’s more than just a label, sticker, or a foolish petty name. I’m broken all because of you and your stupid phrase.

St. Peter’s

By Cheyanne Beaumont

My body creaks,

as the winter breeze,

blows down the last foundations,

of a home I had made for myself.

The architecture of my body,


Veins raised,

I hike my fingernails across the skin,

and the scars I leave,

are stained-glass windows,

made to be peered in.

The kaleidoscope you see,

harbors the very soul,

that pours into me,

that violent, overzealous, crimson,

murder scene.

The sins within this church,

have damned me to hell,

like when I let somebody touch me,

and how I hide the secrets they tell.

It’s foul,

that stench of gluttony, greed, pride,

wrath, and envy,

how it burrows itself within the mind,


with the breeze,

lift, fly,

and scour my body,

to find places to root and then die.

This cycle of life,

within the bones of the only home I know,

hopefully will withstand the ferocity of winter,

s for the many, many sheltered within,

St. Peter’s Basilisa.


By Ai Jiang

You've forgotten the colour of the sky,

and replaced it with the blue of illuminating glass.

You've forgotten the scent of flowers,

and replaced it with the smell of stale air behind covers.

You've forgotten the voice of others,

and replaced it with the static, robotic, smothered sounds.

You've forgotten the nine to five struggle,

and replaced it with late mornings and even later nights.

You've forgotten the warmth of smiles,

and replaced it with digital photos that pale in comparison.

Soon, you will also forget yourself,

and replace it with only a helpless fragment of the past.

Mea Maxima Culpa

By Nana Opare-Addo

Mea Maxima Culpa;

it is my most grievous fault.

Bounded by childish naivete,

I foolishly believed the masses.

Only dreaming about life, as if it would

be Utopia, my thoughts consistently

flooded with illusory aspirations.

Mea Maxima Culpa;

it is my most grievous fault.

If the misfortune dubbed as “reality”

wasn’t enough, transgression fulfilled the job.

As if I had just opened Pandora’s box,

life’s afflictions had poured out unexpectedly.

Like ebony ink splattered on a clean white sheet,

it’s nearly as if the splotches of hardship

stained me. Stained my life- unrelentlessly.

Mea Maxima Culpa;

it is my most grievous fault.

I don’t blame myself for anything I’ve done,

but rather my gullibility.

My gullibility when it came to believing the

magnitude of “good” in this world.

Stars and scars

By Shiv Dixit

I sit down to write my heartache.

The blood seeps through my pen

tainting the white hearth of the page.

The ink then leaks.

My fingers graze the drop.

The dot is smeared.

I scratch and smudge

each one of them

till the scars turn into stars

and ethereal is defined

around my broken words.

My House

By Theresa De Benedetti

Theres girls they want scars

to hang like a photograph

where I just want a fresh coat of paint.

These holes in my walls aren't pretty

yet damage like mine is desired

All the shame buried beneath this wallpaper

is replicated by others and called art.

Years and years I've spent fixing up this house

yet others choose not to finish building.

My windows are shattered from weather and storm,

she'll throw a rock at her own.

This house is beaten down and old,

but I have to choice but to live here.

They'll move every month just to throw a housewarming party.

I plant flowers in my yard for appearances,

I mow my lawn so nobody asks questions.

But these other houses,

purposely in disrepair

just to get more nocks on their door

I'm living in hell

and you're living in splendor.

Why would you want a house like mine?

By Farzeen Rashid

What will I feel when I let you go? Will it be cloudless relief or regret, When the vibrant paint melts from the rainbow? Our meshed hands will disengage and yet, I don’t know if I will ever forget, Your version of love, tied to utter greed. You gave me more than I could ever need, But is heartfelt love immaterial? I could bear this love and cry till I bleed, Or flee and be my life’s imperial.


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