Lost Picture Frame
My trust is a family picture frame lofted in a tornado. Once neatly and gracefully taken care of, displayed in a warm home, welcomed with a familiar sensation. Handled with clean hands with the right amount of protective layers, preventing cracks. Now swooped by a violent wind speed, suffocated. Trapped in a swirling dark column of air, surrounded by sudden unexpected darkness. Water droplets, dust and debris damaging the protective layers. A loved frame now fractured b
Julissa Galdames Sorto
2 days ago
The Man in the Mirror
I punch the glass. It cracks. Seven eyes seeing red. They cry. Teardrops reflect back the image. Look around. In a French torture chamber of gold and silk and a lion. The shattered mirror lies on the floor like Narcissus' broken reflection, his lungs full of himself, Who am I? What am I? Where am I? taunts the shiny glass of the bell jar, curving my face into the grotesques of a county carnival. Around and around I see the same form. The same face. But there are so many, I’
Frankie Mockler
2 days ago
Expression
Words are still words whether they sting or stab or warm or tighten the heart. Words are still words whether they are spoken from a teacher or a cop or a parent or a stranger or a spouse or a politician. Words are still words whether they are used to break up with somebody or to confess one's love. Words are still words whether they are found in a textbook or a treaty or a heartfelt love letter or an obituary. Words are still words whether they are sincere or petty or painfu
Emily Sharp
4 days ago
Regret’s Cave
My regret is like a grizzly bear preparing for hibernation. Consuming every fruit in sight, the bush left barren. Jagged claws grasp ripe blueberries, blessings from spring. The beast's muzzle, stained purple. Life bearing bush made obsolete. Shaggy fur like warm honey, the bees paid the price. Sickly sweet, the image sticks, ingrained deeply in my mind. The beast doesn’t care, it takes and takes; the forest will always give. Like regret, it takes from its host until desolat
Isabella Fleites
6 days ago
Lingering Smoke
Smoke is still smoke, whether it's a burning cigarette on the city floor. A fire burning out, On the shore of a beach. Smoke is still smoke, weather it's the cremation of a body. Or the blowing of ashes, on an empty beach. Or a firework fading out, on the fourth of July. Smoke is still smoke, whether its laughter on A 30 degree day. Or a cluster of clouds painting, shapes across a blue sky.
Katherine Macaluso
Oct 19
For A Life Never Lived
My exhaustion is a blank canvas in the dark of a dusty attic. Untouched and waiting for a spark to ignite but brushes remain stagnant. No paint to color its raw, white hide and no hands willing to bring dullness to life. Memories of cedarwood, of easels, of hope. Now become distant, from upon this grime-covered perch. The lacquered frame rots in the deep, dim, dampness, lonely, alone, aching for a rush of passion that will never come. Spiders find shelter in its aging crevi
Rowan Carfora
Oct 17
Blown Out
Smoke is still smoke, whether it wanders up, in singeing spirals, from the tip of a lit cigarette sitting on cold stone, or wet log tucked away in the woods, half mile from your home. It’s the same, spewing from parted lips and constricted lungs as it is on soft cushion, in your childhood home sinking in a dome of sweet singing, a familiar symphony, and the waft of warm vanilla cake by birthday-candle light, in sugary swirls, wick dipped in frosting, and licked clean, kiss
Violet Sarno
Oct 15
Letting Anything Through
A door is still a door, No matter what pushes, pulls or stands in front. No matter who holds the handle, or uses the sensor, The hinge will move. The door opens & closes for anyone or anything. Whether it spins, slides, or waves in. It invites anything. Inviting the bored child in the hotel lobby To spin the door. Inviting the adult that treads the tracks of life into the train. Inviting the carcass into the casket, closing,casket closing, Sealing it away from the clear day.
Evan Filler
Oct 13
The Voice of Ink
Ink is still ink. Whether we write a love letter, or a tearful breakup, or an inauguration speech or a graduation farewell, or a welcome letter, or a sad-filled goodbye, or a “get well soon” card, or a eulogy. Ink is still ink. Whether it sits in a pen, or in a bottle, or on the tip of a feather, or spilled on a desk, or dried on a piece of paper, or right under someone’s skin. Ink is still ink. Whether it’s used for aesthetic, or whether it’s used to fill an empty voice.
Valerie Ponce Ulloa
Oct 11
Happy birthday anyway
Screaming children and music all too loud, some suburban family home. A rope hung heavy in the doorway, in their faces, forever ignored. Frayed and flimsier at its ends, trampled and trudged through in the middle by dancing feet on the back garden floor. Adults choosing to pretend, speaking over the thought of the rope they left swinging, hanging, and forgotten.
Polaris Alessio-Pieters
Oct 10
It will always be
Glass is still glass whether we gaze through it or shatter it into a million pieces or make a mystical mural or hold red roses or clean thoroughly to take a pretty picture or search for on the beach or step on unexpectedly at a dark sketchy park or wash with sudsy soap. Glass is still glass whether it holds pink lemonade or vials of blood, bright green acid, a mothers warm tomato soup for her sickly neighbor or a sourdough starter. Glass is still glass cover
Giuliana D’Antoni
Oct 9
But I’m Okay
My confidence is a mirror in a fun house. Distorted, changing and uncertain. It transforms at each glance. Twisting and contorting. Subtle alterations setting off endless reactions. What once felt safe and calm, now feels dangerous and agonizing. As the mirror contorts and shifts, my thoughts get louder and louder. I look to the left of me, a shard of a shattered mirror lays on the floor. But there’s someone next to me, I watch as they stare at the broken image of themselves
Alexandra Brunner
Oct 6
Red San Francisco
The fading sunset over the city by the Bay. A hot cayenne makes a powerful statement. A Muni stops at Market Street. The scent of bark across from Marin. A cable car crosses Van Ness. The box of Rice A Roni on a stove. A bed of roses by the Wharf. The angry man stands with rage. A bright sea of taillights of commuters going home. The seat belt click in the roaring Mustang on Geary. A puddle of blood following a fired 44 Magnum. The awning over a Chinese Restaurant. An electr
Tom Galvin
Oct 4
Days
From Disney Fast-Play on the DVR To picking out a reliable car Monster High Dolls on a carpet floor 2am laughter muffled by a closed door Blunt bad jokes that shrug off life Slices of mango that slide off the knife Bitter black coffee with a bit too much sugar The crunch of a leaf and the wind that took her Pineapple scents from a curly hair routine Smiling as it finally feels like me Lively family dinners almost every night Dreams of a dorm room with warm fairy lights Paradi
Abigail Kaloo
Oct 2
A Delicate Bruise
Tides swayin’ slowly above the twinkling night sky. The serenity of the moon lit atmosphere fills me— illuminating the flecks of diamonds embedded in my hair. My pale skin and cyanotic veins glow. Midnight shines like a frozen glacier dancin’ with the lights, revealing the tear drops streaming down my face— I am a shattered vase. Typical bruises painted on my skin like Starry Night. Yet I blossom under the lunar glare, a translucent vessel exposed, just as petals who bloom
Lucy Chicas
Sep 30
I am
The butter on your morning toast. Honey in your tea. Fuzzy reflections of a candle. A type two ticonderoga pencil. The discoloration of an old books’ pages. Sunlight dancing through the trees. Hearts of daises. The lines you don’t dare cross on long winding roads. Unpredictable, confusing, Warm and sweet. I am a girl, But on these pages, I am more. I am sunlight. I am a flame. I am comfort. And apparently– Butter on toast.
Lilian Dwyer
Sep 29
