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"I'm a 19 year old writer from Upstate New York. I'm currently studying Creative Writing. I hope to create something that can give back. The feeling that words, art, and living give to me." Instagram: @Jewlishious Coming Back, Lunar Who am I, in the face of all of you Strings and the softest of finger picking But nothing saves me, ever Too many infinities fill me up for the Gregorian It is faulty and flawed So I am coming back lunar Me, and all my phases kissing cavities, fuck it there is more in crevices than anything whole You are beautiful, color of my bedsheets Bleeding you become both like my lifeblood and like scalpel bladed fingernails against the gentle Salty goes that floor who heard your first ‘I love you’ Rotten turns the walls that knew we fell short I want all the beginnings, and all the ends Though the in-betweens still look like an understanding not yet mine What belongs to me, I know not There are horizons where my moon begs for expansion Filling in that form You are In the Silence, In the Noise
Shutting down the sounds—yes you and all the ways you are They lick me up all over into the prettiest shades of weekday independence and Saturday Sunday soaking (clean it up, your parents will read this) No one knows craving like I know you Am you become you want you whole Capitalize every adjective while my eyelids kiss each each other closed With you it is perfect Earthly, but still of the sky Mornings are never looking the same but always feeling like they should And during nights without you I’ll burn myself into photos we’ve taken while keeping the pillow case wet Greenest eyes, I can’t help but always say it You are rare and only Endlessly metaphorical Metaphysical in your touch Mine, within my body Mon Cheri, you can’t help but always say it And I can’t help but hope you always do
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"I’m a young poet and visual artist from LA. I get inspiration for my work from everything to surrealist short stories, medical mysteries, and baby dolls. I love creating little worlds in my pieces that are both foreign but familiar touching on the twisted image of beauty that many things portray." THICK LIKE HONEY ACID RAIN
"I am a teenage girl living in rural Maine, and am greatly inspired by the beauty of the natural world around me. Apart from writing poetry, I like to spend time reading, drawing cartoons, playing violin, or dancing while cooking. " Instagram: @rachel.b.sf Tides Minutes form hours, form days, form a cycle, and begging for turning tables turning tides turning into something -- someone else you perch, periwinkle-like, memories sprawling — eating up a twisted granite altar — flat-out fumbling delirious on that bare bedrock watching the waves predictable and yet — imperceptibly, infinitely different — the water is a paradox, one iconic mystery — salt seeps up into the spreading cracks, crevices, creeping lines across your eyes, eyelids, islands, leaving a story in the sand, along that same silent shore — retelling tattered tales with worn-down words circling in closer, closer, but minutes morph into hours, into days, and you’re still wondering why everything feels the same when nothing ever is Expectations
What does she want you to do – to know how to handle cadillacs or candles or crying in the street How do you combat expectations if what she expects could be five hundred things to her – or you Is everything subjective or is everything so simple it’s a joke Because you cry at a hole in the sidewalk and laugh when you’re disappearing up in smoke "I have moved around quite a bit in my day, living in Arizona and Los Angeles during my formative years. I’m currently living in Chicago, where I am studying the music business. I founded the queer collective Bad Egg. In the past, my artistic focus was geared more towards marker drawings and journaling. Recently though, I've taken to writing poetry as a way to externalize my internal thoughts, feelings about myself, and my environment. I have not been educated in the arts or creative writing other than general education. I feel that this has made my work more personal since it's what I want to make the way I want to make it." Instagram: @stableykubrick how many ghosts does it |
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"I am a 21 year old undergraduate student at St. Edward's University in Austin, Texas. I made the move to Austin by way of New Orleans after graduating high school. Growing up, I always sat at my parents' clunky old PC writing stories, visited the library every Saturday, and filmed videos with my friends doing ridiculous stunts. When I got to college, I spent my first two years as a biology pre-veterinary major. After taking a literature course titled "Literature and the Uncanny", my passion for English and the creative process overtook my passion to become a vet. I love to create! My goals are to one day film documentaries and write my own poetry book."
Instagram: @_chef_boyarbre_
Thoughts While Drowning
Last minute questions to ask while drowning.
Last minute considerations, time allowing.
Is this really how I end?
Will anyone miss me when I’m gone?
How much time did I misspend?
What goals should I have acted on?
Would my children have gone on to be successful?
Did I finally kick that smoking habit?
Were there inner demons I forgot to wrestle?
Why didn’t I put on that damn lifejacket?
Each thought pours into bubbles that float from my mouth
To break to the surface where they couldn’t hear me shout
Where they couldn’t see my head dip below the waves
Where I raised my arms high hoping the sea wouldn’t be my grave
But still I sank.
I sank.
I sank.
With no one but myself to thank
And no one but myself to talk to
When you’re dying what else is there to do?
Time no longer a possession
Thoughts reaching their final session
Last bubbles float to air I’ll never see again
Here is my forever in the depths and then
Last minute questions to ask while drowning.
Last minute considerations, time allowing.
Is this really how I end?
Will anyone miss me when I’m gone?
How much time did I misspend?
What goals should I have acted on?
Would my children have gone on to be successful?
Did I finally kick that smoking habit?
Were there inner demons I forgot to wrestle?
Why didn’t I put on that damn lifejacket?
Each thought pours into bubbles that float from my mouth
To break to the surface where they couldn’t hear me shout
Where they couldn’t see my head dip below the waves
Where I raised my arms high hoping the sea wouldn’t be my grave
But still I sank.
I sank.
I sank.
With no one but myself to thank
And no one but myself to talk to
When you’re dying what else is there to do?
Time no longer a possession
Thoughts reaching their final session
Last bubbles float to air I’ll never see again
Here is my forever in the depths and then
Smoke + Mirrors
Wᴉɹɹoɹs
Fake.
My brain. I need a break.
Fake.
The time. Like rabbit. I’m late.
Fake.
My mouth. Words hidden. Padlocked.
Fake.
The pen. Trail off. Mind block.
Fake.
My pinky. Broken promise. Broken trust.
Fake.
My eye. Salty Tears. Turn to rust.
Fake.
My smile. Painted on. No art.
Fake.
My feelings. Cortisol numb. Fall apart.
Fake.
My feelings. Like you care. If I hurt.
Fake.
My smile. Make progress. Revert.
Fake.
Wᴉɹɹoɹs
Fake.
My brain. I need a break.
Fake.
The time. Like rabbit. I’m late.
Fake.
My mouth. Words hidden. Padlocked.
Fake.
The pen. Trail off. Mind block.
Fake.
My pinky. Broken promise. Broken trust.
Fake.
My eye. Salty Tears. Turn to rust.
Fake.
My smile. Painted on. No art.
Fake.
My feelings. Cortisol numb. Fall apart.
Fake.
My feelings. Like you care. If I hurt.
Fake.
My smile. Make progress. Revert.
Fake.
Olivia is currently a student and is Jersey born and raised. She is familiar with writing, but fairly new to sharing it. Writing is Olivia's outlet to express thoughts, ambitions, and discoveries. Her philosophy is to always continue changing, experimenting, sharing, and learning.
Instagram: @oliviaamilan
I am maybe a little religious, but only in that byzantine church in Croatia
Fingers locked together,
Not unlike that romantic affiliation,
But untangled,
Pure, they rest with potential energy,
Cool cathedral limestone.
I am finding my finger nails purple
Over white,
Reflecting that ancient mosaic.
The art on these walls,
Sunken and broken,
Remade, admired again,
Reflect and capture
Little ancient tiles acting on new shoes
And displaced air
And new fingers.
Humid and by the harbor,
The air is one thousand years old,
But it circulates,
And I breath it in and out like any other.
Fingers locked together,
Not unlike that romantic affiliation,
But untangled,
Pure, they rest with potential energy,
Cool cathedral limestone.
I am finding my finger nails purple
Over white,
Reflecting that ancient mosaic.
The art on these walls,
Sunken and broken,
Remade, admired again,
Reflect and capture
Little ancient tiles acting on new shoes
And displaced air
And new fingers.
Humid and by the harbor,
The air is one thousand years old,
But it circulates,
And I breath it in and out like any other.
Indefinite
Like the sunset
Captured in a square photograph,
Walking home in worn sneakers
That fit better than anything else, you
Make the world yours,
Each space transformed from minor to
major,
Words and silence dancing
To the strumming of your guitar.
Here, are blue-green mirrors
And careful drawings,
And unrestrained joy, teary-eyed and honest.
Like the sunset
Captured in a square photograph,
Walking home in worn sneakers
That fit better than anything else, you
Make the world yours,
Each space transformed from minor to
major,
Words and silence dancing
To the strumming of your guitar.
Here, are blue-green mirrors
And careful drawings,
And unrestrained joy, teary-eyed and honest.
Sarah Al-shimary is a 17 year old girl living in Las Vegas, NV. Her work is drawn from personal and shared experiences that are twisted and wrung out soggy on paper. She has been featured on several other magazines and craves to contribute. She hopes to create a feeling of uneasiness and shock that is reflected in her work.
Instagram: @sarlsh.
Butterflies go South during Winter
Gauze fitted over eyelids; heavy and inauspicious. When I move around it slathers on me with some despondent pragmatic I’ve known before. Muffled voices, screeches deafening to the ear if the bandaid had not been covering it. With every vocal chord hymn comes a lick to my arms. A lick that raises the skin like gutted innards of a newborn. I am deaf. I am blind. I am unspeakable and loud. Shuffling near whatever I am laying on. Slab of metal underneath me. Cold-cut salmon, I am the fresh catch of the day. The paper blanket given to me lacks coverage on my feet. A morgue. Butterfly hand touches my own cautiously. Do I terrify? Do not waver over me. Touch me. Skin onto my coarse, unforgiving flesh burns something sound in me. When did I last touch? Muffled voice speaks to me. I nod in complacency. Tell me what I do. I nod for an answer I know I’m afraid to get. Movement around me. Same hand touches the bandaid on my forehead. Lifts the perverse skirt. Continue. The light begins to gleam through the fissures of the white cast, my eyes shut tightly not used to this freedom. The last layer on the onion, the one that makes people cry. My head is bobbed back over water and I am still blind. The lens focuses and I look around me. Faceless. Blank. White. Where am I? I didn’t ask for this. Who are you? What am I? Give me a mirror. Give me something. I look back into myself and all I see is pitch void. I look at Butterfly Hands and nothing stares back. No face to fabricate an emotion, no motherly gesture to soothe. I am not from here. I am not from these people. Slimy grey hands catch my body and restrain me from moving. Please let me leave. Let me escape. Let me scrape my limbs against the shattered tile if it means to leave from all of you. Let me run, run far away from this place.
Gauze fitted over eyelids; heavy and inauspicious. When I move around it slathers on me with some despondent pragmatic I’ve known before. Muffled voices, screeches deafening to the ear if the bandaid had not been covering it. With every vocal chord hymn comes a lick to my arms. A lick that raises the skin like gutted innards of a newborn. I am deaf. I am blind. I am unspeakable and loud. Shuffling near whatever I am laying on. Slab of metal underneath me. Cold-cut salmon, I am the fresh catch of the day. The paper blanket given to me lacks coverage on my feet. A morgue. Butterfly hand touches my own cautiously. Do I terrify? Do not waver over me. Touch me. Skin onto my coarse, unforgiving flesh burns something sound in me. When did I last touch? Muffled voice speaks to me. I nod in complacency. Tell me what I do. I nod for an answer I know I’m afraid to get. Movement around me. Same hand touches the bandaid on my forehead. Lifts the perverse skirt. Continue. The light begins to gleam through the fissures of the white cast, my eyes shut tightly not used to this freedom. The last layer on the onion, the one that makes people cry. My head is bobbed back over water and I am still blind. The lens focuses and I look around me. Faceless. Blank. White. Where am I? I didn’t ask for this. Who are you? What am I? Give me a mirror. Give me something. I look back into myself and all I see is pitch void. I look at Butterfly Hands and nothing stares back. No face to fabricate an emotion, no motherly gesture to soothe. I am not from here. I am not from these people. Slimy grey hands catch my body and restrain me from moving. Please let me leave. Let me escape. Let me scrape my limbs against the shattered tile if it means to leave from all of you. Let me run, run far away from this place.
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"I am 19 years old from Argentina. I'm studying Hotel Administration & Public Relations. I speak English and Korean. I've been writing since I was 13 years old. I really enjoy reading so I began getting inspired. I like expressing myself through my texts, I also enjoy writing long stories."
Instagram: @woutyous
I am who?
sometimes i tend to lose myself
and i am out of control
it’s hard to find the way
when i’m here on my own
i don’t know who i am
either who i want to be
please help me to find
a way to discover me
In another world
people like to talk
and i can feel those hurtful words
they say i’m doing wrong
and i can’t understand the world
they say i’m doing good
but i close my eyes and
i find myself and i REALIZE
i’m not doing what i want
in another world
i know that i could
be a girl who none
would break her walls
Corinne Bates is an Austin-based singer-songwriter, who spends her free time writing, reading, and going to shows. She is a member of Womxn in Music Austin, and is a fierce feminist. She is a senior at St. Edward's University and is studying English Writing and Rhetoric.
Twitter + Instagram @thecoreycorinne
Steeping
There are a few peaceful moments every morning
Before it comes
I lay in silence
Listen to the birds
The cars on the highway
My breath filling the room
Then it washes over me
A fog rolling in
It creeps into the cracks
Labors my breathing
So I lay in sadness
Let it steep
Dyeing my insides
Finally I scoop it out
Wrap it up
Put it in a box
Place it back inside my chest
It’s no longer steeping
Just sitting and waiting
As I go about my day
The box leaks sometimes.
The latch breaks
It begins to seep back out
I patch it with glue
Putty
Tape
It holds a little longer
As I smile at strangers on the street
And laugh with my friends
But the moon draws it back out
Like it does the waves
Pulls it from within
Places it back on the center of my chest
Begs me to feel i
There are a few peaceful moments every morning
Before it comes
I lay in silence
Listen to the birds
The cars on the highway
My breath filling the room
Then it washes over me
A fog rolling in
It creeps into the cracks
Labors my breathing
So I lay in sadness
Let it steep
Dyeing my insides
Finally I scoop it out
Wrap it up
Put it in a box
Place it back inside my chest
It’s no longer steeping
Just sitting and waiting
As I go about my day
The box leaks sometimes.
The latch breaks
It begins to seep back out
I patch it with glue
Putty
Tape
It holds a little longer
As I smile at strangers on the street
And laugh with my friends
But the moon draws it back out
Like it does the waves
Pulls it from within
Places it back on the center of my chest
Begs me to feel i
| D.W. Blake resides in in Orange County, CA. When not attempting to spell, he fakes guitar in music organs such as Daryl BlakeTM and Grinning Ghosts. True blue shy-ster and One Piece enthusiast (but only the manga), he enjoys pretending he is a wizard. | Instagram: @d.w.blake Twitter: @krakenhearts |