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,
cathedral.
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,
seedlings,
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.
REPLACEMENT
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.