Forewarning: To keep the amount of pages to a minimum there are A LOT of poems on this page
Included in order: Winter's Daughter, First Love, The Inkwell, The Old Guitarist, Deadlines, A summer Two Years Ago, Hitchhiker, There's Art in Destroying a Soul, Variables and Constants, Her Body, Starve, Prelude to Creation, Mornings with Fowler Administration, Fat, Withering, The Little Boy Who Could, A Rainbow of Grays, Senioritis, A mouse Chasing a Cat, The Flickers, To and Fro
First Love by Kierra Coutts
We danced.
I felt the soothing rumble of his deep voice My head against his chest as he sang along
Lips mouthing romantic words of acceptance against my hair
Like he was singing to me about loving my curves and my imperfections
We danced.
My head couldn't rest in the crook of his neck, I was far too short
So I settled for his shoulder
I buried my face there as my lips moved against it
Mouthing the same words he sang into my ear through all my hair
I was singing to him, desperate to make him understand
I loved him
We danced.
My arms perched at the top of his shoulders, meeting behind his neck
I recklessly let my thumb caress the skin just below where his hair ended
He pressed his cheek tighter against the side of my head
We danced.
I couldn't help but feel I was meant to be there with him
To the perfect song,
We danced.
We danced.
I felt the soothing rumble of his deep voice My head against his chest as he sang along
Lips mouthing romantic words of acceptance against my hair
Like he was singing to me about loving my curves and my imperfections
We danced.
My head couldn't rest in the crook of his neck, I was far too short
So I settled for his shoulder
I buried my face there as my lips moved against it
Mouthing the same words he sang into my ear through all my hair
I was singing to him, desperate to make him understand
I loved him
We danced.
My arms perched at the top of his shoulders, meeting behind his neck
I recklessly let my thumb caress the skin just below where his hair ended
He pressed his cheek tighter against the side of my head
We danced.
I couldn't help but feel I was meant to be there with him
To the perfect song,
We danced.
The Inkwell by Seth Turnage
Likes raindrops pulled into the arms of the Earth as God cries away the sins of man,
Washing away drought and breathing fertility into these forgotten lands.
Watery ink weaves together a story that flows through every vein,
Every artery,
Every pore from which life seeps,
Coarsely written like chalk lines on a concrete sidewalk,
Few understand the words that flow from my rough leathery bindings,
The sovereign messages of lightly spilled ink and chaotic voices,
Entangled among the skewed minds of the doubtful,
Beaten down by the screams of angered men,
The skeptics too afraid to look past the surface,
Perplexed by the oddities infused with my familiar words,
Many of them lose their meanings.
Just as a faint puff of powder blown into the air by a pair of gentle lips,
The saga of words dissipate into the open expanse,
Too afraid to learn what lies beneath the tattered pages.
Likes raindrops pulled into the arms of the Earth as God cries away the sins of man,
Washing away drought and breathing fertility into these forgotten lands.
Watery ink weaves together a story that flows through every vein,
Every artery,
Every pore from which life seeps,
Coarsely written like chalk lines on a concrete sidewalk,
Few understand the words that flow from my rough leathery bindings,
The sovereign messages of lightly spilled ink and chaotic voices,
Entangled among the skewed minds of the doubtful,
Beaten down by the screams of angered men,
The skeptics too afraid to look past the surface,
Perplexed by the oddities infused with my familiar words,
Many of them lose their meanings.
Just as a faint puff of powder blown into the air by a pair of gentle lips,
The saga of words dissipate into the open expanse,
Too afraid to learn what lies beneath the tattered pages.
The Old Guitarist by Tatum Mann
(Inspired by the work of Pablo Picasso) The old guitarist sits curbside, blue, asking help from every passerby with the echo of metallic percussion; the song of Change thrumming inside a beaten plastic cup. The people call him Roof, just as the suited man’s wife calls him Love, because in this world we like to name each other for the things we live without. The man himself is silent, but writes harmonies of peace on the flesh of his cracked hands, embedding indigo ink into his palm prints--tracing the Life line, the Head line, and the Heart. When he sleeps, his restless bones to creak like old furniture accepting a body, and when he dreams, it’s of red canyons, of something hollow and vast enough to hold every grain of sand and drop of ink that resides within him. When he was a child, his father would pluck a brassy, mellow song on the strings of the Spanish instrument, a reverberating sound that rumbled within each of their chests like a heartbeat or a gentle storm. His mother would hum along as she sliced plums and peaches in the kitchen, putting her knife down only to teach the boy to dance; to show him how to use the woven harmonies to make something beautiful and honest from his body. Now the man’s throat resembles the beaten neck of a guitar, strung out but proud--often strumming a strange, wordless melody as his weary frame bends toward the pavement. Depending on the angle at which he is observed, his hunch resembles the slumping burden of a dying home or the ease of a final bow, to mirror the closing lilt of his tune. If you are brave enough to ask him why, he will tell you: the weight of the love I have felt is moving and crippling, and I must bend to the Earth to thank it for all the ways it has strained me. |
Deadlines by Anna Biddle
You say “this is it.” You’ve hit rock bottom hard, this time. Crying alone; it’s 1 am and you have a paper due tomorrow – the one assignment you hoped would pull you out of this tumbling sink hole. But anxiety hit right when you didn’t need it-- hit you right in the heart, where you held on to that last strand of hope. Your mind is a series of dark caverns but you’ve never wandered this far into the blackness before. There are no directions on the walls, no bright exit signs telling you How to escape this asylum you didn’t know existed. Only strange symbols, written in a language you can’t read, tempting you towards the last resorts you never thought you’d have to face. Like Virginia Woolf you remember that if nothing else, there’s death. There’s always death. Searching through your arsenal of last-minute remedies you concoct a poison so potent that even the most experienced medicine men wouldn’t have the magic to save you. But you’re going to need something to wash this dagger down with… You walk into the kitchen, reaching for a glass of water, you see last year’s family portrait. It stops you. Your running momentum ceases and you’re forced to slow down and stare for a while. You notice your father’s bright blue eyes and how they perfectly match the sea foam shade of the coastal ocean backdrop– the same ones he gave to you and your brother. That was the best vacation you’d ever had. It’s when your mom first taught you to apply mascara, when your dad taught how to you to dig for clams, and when you promised yourself you would see the world someday. So far you’ve only been to ten different states – plus Disneyland but that isn’t even close to the thumb-tack filled world map you originally had in mind. You wanted to go to Brazil, to stand in streets of Rio de Janeiro during Carnival. You wanted to hike through the Ural mountains and taste real Easter Babka, not just the kind your cousins try to recreate on the holidays. You think of all the cityscapes you haven’t seen, all the rich roasted coffee you’ve never tasted, and all the oceans you haven’t dipped your feet in … every memory, like the long-lost relative you never got to meet. You have so much time, yet -- so many years to grow, and people to know and places to explore. The world is a lot bigger than the kitchen you’re standing in, and there are so many ways to go forward that don’t involve downing a bottle of anti-depressants. They aren’t the easy or the only way out of here. You choose to leave them on the table. Able to breathe again, you walk upstairs and go to bed. You will finish the paper tomorrow. |
A Summer Two Years Ago by Condor Hall
The centipede who lived in my kitchen for fifteen days, across the room and above the granite countertop, with a stillness nearly like moss, crowned me Tsar of The Cesspits in a quiet coronation right before nine. In the morning after being ordained, I drove out into the country through waves of orange noise, letting my nude arms float against the breeze, attacking the world with a larvicolous apathy. My lover, a yellow-tongued woman, (the one who greedily gobbled the sun) joined me that day wearing a cloud of turpentine perfume. Waiting for the man in the moon to hiss a tired tune, by the river, we planted dozens of azaleas for the Earth to eat. And we serenaded for the forest fires, we nightingales loved only by worms – who bent our pulp to the beat of the swaying trees, anticipating the second we rip off our talismans and tiaras of salt to rally with a confetti of blue-buzzing flies. An Island in the Caspian Sea by Condor Hall When I fell out of the sky, I entered some pit of triviality, a muffled void. The Imp of Rods struck me and I became a grain of sand. Now it is time to fade into the air alone to that island in the Caspian Sea, a place where the wind is dastardly and a distorted evening makes the crow croak, with treason seething in her blood, a handful of teeth, and a pocket full of gold. Our flesh peels off to the sea against the animated waves. We camp on the eroded rocks, in the stench of the salt and death. That night I saw a cricket die, without struggle. It sprung into the bowels of our fire, its sweet song to be silenced forever. At our feet, the sea tempts us with its pearls and silk. Marooned under the four winds, we lie homesick and wishing we could fly. |
Hitchhiker to Idaho by Matthew Presite
If my thumb is out it means I've given up and need a lift to the nearest gas station or a zoo, or maybe that cheap mall along the highway where none of the rundown shops take credit cards. I'd love a job there, counting cash dollar by dollar and counting mistakes penny by penny. I'd be rich in no time. If my thumb is down it means you've given up on me and all the flowers I picked that were really just dressed up weeds are defunct so it's time to drown that green thumb in a bowl of cool soup and trace the noodles like a roadmap to a better town with nicer girls. I'd be cool as Elvis on his first tv appearance. If my thumb is up it means my luck's finally changed and the rabbit's foot I found in the bottom of a dryer at the laundromat's still got some good left in it. I've hitched it to the loop on my jeans and let it work its magic. Time to button up my shirt and slip that deck of cards out of my back pocket. All aces and kings in my palms. I'd be a full house every time. |
There’s Art in Destroying a Soul by Kristian Cooper
These words are lonely remnants of forbidden fruit That drip and dribble from the bow of my lips. I ask you if you understand, My love, you have to understand... I am no longer the Eve that fell in love with you I’ve been tormenting myself night and day with the same questions: Do I want to be with someone else? Or be with someone else? I tell you I’m not so sure about the tree, the fruit, us. I tell you that I’m not so sure about soulmates anymore And it’s in that miserable moment the monsoon graces your cheeks, That I realize there’s serenity in destruction. I am your calm before the storm and your storm before the calm. From conception, God’s plan for you was the complete obliteration of peace. My love, I am so sorry that this is how you will remember me. |
Variables and Constants by Griffin O'Hagan
All the lives I have led, have led me right to this moment.
Every decision, life or death, or what color to wear.
Constants and Variables.
The sun and the moon, the ocean and the forest, the last and the first.
Now, reverse all of them. What are you left with?
I’ve waited for you forever, and I'm still waiting somewhere
Or, someplace or sometime.
There are thousands of versions of what just happened
Except, every single one ends the same
You leaving me.
The moon and the sun, the forest and the ocean, the last and the first.
We are left with the choice between having no choice at all
And not having asked the question in the first place.
Relativity is a sensibility.
And the theory a reality.
Two roads diverged,
And I took the road traveled by thousands.
And it’s made almost no difference.
All the lives I have led, have led me right to this moment.
Every decision, life or death, or what color to wear.
Constants and Variables.
The sun and the moon, the ocean and the forest, the last and the first.
Now, reverse all of them. What are you left with?
I’ve waited for you forever, and I'm still waiting somewhere
Or, someplace or sometime.
There are thousands of versions of what just happened
Except, every single one ends the same
You leaving me.
The moon and the sun, the forest and the ocean, the last and the first.
We are left with the choice between having no choice at all
And not having asked the question in the first place.
Relativity is a sensibility.
And the theory a reality.
Two roads diverged,
And I took the road traveled by thousands.
And it’s made almost no difference.
Her Body by Ames Williford
her body
cosmic warfare
courses through her veins
galactic clots
building borders
capped with barbed wire
and shattered mirrors
battles waging
between
intellect
and anatomy
a paradoxical temple
trapping her
she crouches with impotent hands clasped in invocation
attempting to plead with the divinity she can’t rely on
her frame straining
to replant and regrow
the adoring blooms
destroyed by every vile flare
fragile roots only beginning to take hold
slashed by an astronomical sword
subconscious lacerations
materializing
tearing away every ridge
crippling legs that boast bruised craters and rose scars
silencing a fractured voice
before it can utter the three words
an ecosystem obliterated by internalized hostilities
a deteriorating soul
comprising of two radioactive parties
continuously destroying her vitality and their only mean of existence
all that remains
of this extraterrestrial war
is a mouth packed with star dust
and veins gushing dark matter
her body
cosmic warfare
courses through her veins
galactic clots
building borders
capped with barbed wire
and shattered mirrors
battles waging
between
intellect
and anatomy
a paradoxical temple
trapping her
she crouches with impotent hands clasped in invocation
attempting to plead with the divinity she can’t rely on
her frame straining
to replant and regrow
the adoring blooms
destroyed by every vile flare
fragile roots only beginning to take hold
slashed by an astronomical sword
subconscious lacerations
materializing
tearing away every ridge
crippling legs that boast bruised craters and rose scars
silencing a fractured voice
before it can utter the three words
an ecosystem obliterated by internalized hostilities
a deteriorating soul
comprising of two radioactive parties
continuously destroying her vitality and their only mean of existence
all that remains
of this extraterrestrial war
is a mouth packed with star dust
and veins gushing dark matter
Starve by Brooklyn Norrell
I’ll worship you.
Good God I’ll starve.
I’ll sacrifice myself,
To keep your sunlight.
I’ll drain my sins,
To my lovers knife.
I’ll love the deathless death,
To demand your innocence.
Good God I’ll starve.
I’ll worship you.
I’ll worship you.
Good God I’ll starve.
I’ll sacrifice myself,
To keep your sunlight.
I’ll drain my sins,
To my lovers knife.
I’ll love the deathless death,
To demand your innocence.
Good God I’ll starve.
I’ll worship you.
Prelude to Creation by Kristian Cooper
Adam
–Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness.
-Poppy Z. Brite
Lately,
When I rise before the sun,
I linger between the drywall and framework.
A comfortable place,
To wrench flesh from bone.
Eve
–I have called on the Goddess and found her within myself.
-Marion Z. Bradley
I’ve found it increasingly impossible to recollect Myself.
The last person I remember being was tucked between the folds of a sofa,
enraptured in violent convulsions A voice resembling divinity ask me
if I’ve fasted. Tells me, What needs to be revealed will, in due time, reveal itself.”
I go thirty days and thirty-one nights without sleep, swallow swords,
and brave warm coals. Near the end of my cycle, I begin to levitate.
Trees
uproot,
clouds
part
to make way for the second coming of Christ.
Sabbath
–What we encounter in works of art and philosophy are objective versions of our own pains and struggles, evoked and define in sound, language, or image.
-Alain de Botton
Following sanctification,
did She look upon the earth
and see Herself?
Is She able to recognize deficiency?
Adam
–Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness.
-Poppy Z. Brite
Lately,
When I rise before the sun,
I linger between the drywall and framework.
A comfortable place,
To wrench flesh from bone.
Eve
–I have called on the Goddess and found her within myself.
-Marion Z. Bradley
I’ve found it increasingly impossible to recollect Myself.
The last person I remember being was tucked between the folds of a sofa,
enraptured in violent convulsions A voice resembling divinity ask me
if I’ve fasted. Tells me, What needs to be revealed will, in due time, reveal itself.”
I go thirty days and thirty-one nights without sleep, swallow swords,
and brave warm coals. Near the end of my cycle, I begin to levitate.
Trees
uproot,
clouds
part
to make way for the second coming of Christ.
Sabbath
–What we encounter in works of art and philosophy are objective versions of our own pains and struggles, evoked and define in sound, language, or image.
-Alain de Botton
Following sanctification,
did She look upon the earth
and see Herself?
Is She able to recognize deficiency?
Mornings with Fowler Administration by Fran Bixby, Priscilla Perdue, and Sue Hench
Orange. Orange. Orange.
There’s general joy in the hallway.
Mrs. Perdue is here.
I don’t have a dealer
You have a dealer
A car dealer?
Shut up, no way!
Stop looking for her!
I love Crayola Markers and Sprinkles,
I had a dream you were a werewolf.
And that is how our days begin.
Oh wait.
That’s not Panic! At the Disco
Nevermind.
Orange. Orange. Orange.
There’s general joy in the hallway.
Mrs. Perdue is here.
I don’t have a dealer
You have a dealer
A car dealer?
Shut up, no way!
Stop looking for her!
I love Crayola Markers and Sprinkles,
I had a dream you were a werewolf.
And that is how our days begin.
Oh wait.
That’s not Panic! At the Disco
Nevermind.
Fat by Victoria Waring
I don’t know why they hate me
They pinch me, pull me, and try to lose me
As my existence defines theirs
As if my persistence destroys theirs
I give them energy to live laugh love and fight
I make them soft to cuddle with on a winter’s night
I absorb shock and keep them warm
Yet no matter what I do they want me gone
Such stigma such disgust clings to my good name
I’ve become something terrible people wish to tame
Those who have done everything to get rid of me
Should be looked upon with great sympathy
I mean no harm, the opposite in fact
As long as you keep me safely in check
No need to worry how much of me you have
I promise I’m really not so bad
I don’t know why they hate me
They pinch me, pull me, and try to lose me
As my existence defines theirs
As if my persistence destroys theirs
I give them energy to live laugh love and fight
I make them soft to cuddle with on a winter’s night
I absorb shock and keep them warm
Yet no matter what I do they want me gone
Such stigma such disgust clings to my good name
I’ve become something terrible people wish to tame
Those who have done everything to get rid of me
Should be looked upon with great sympathy
I mean no harm, the opposite in fact
As long as you keep me safely in check
No need to worry how much of me you have
I promise I’m really not so bad
Withering by Emma Stephens
You look at me with eyes I don’t recognize The threat Of your manic thoughts exploding in your desperate brain Terrifies me Because it excites you. I do not know who you are anymore When you look at me with those eyes I don’t recognize And the fragile, possessed mind That I used to admire When I knew who you were You get elated Then frustrated When you inflate like a balloon With irrational dreams of unbridled futures With no rules Then we deflate you Because there ARE rules Because you need to survive And because we know those wild promises Are lies to yourself You want To fly away from your life You want To run away from your own war And the irreconcilable damage That your poisoned brain made you believe Was happiness When in reality Your poisoned brain Started a war That nearly killed you That nearly killed you in me I can still remember when My biggest problem was self-confidence It was back then When our arguments were about the radio, And the weather, And about your haircut that was too short. That was a long time ago Now we don’t argue Now we don’t speak Because I am afraid of what you’ll say I’m afraid That the person I used to understand Is really gone That the things we will argue about Will have to do with life And choices But I’m not ready. I am not prepared, to face the reality that You chose a plant and a pill Over 18 years of values Over 18 years of trust And over me |
The Little Boy Who Could by Kalysta Bush
At 9 months he realized he could walk At the age of 1 he realized he could talk The world was at his fingertips as he discovered something new Like how to walk or even how to tie his shoe At 12 he learned to ride a bike At age 13 he met his best friend Mike With each passing year came new knowledge At 15 he hoped to go to college At 16 he watched his father beat his mother He realized it was his job to protect his brother He stood up with his fists and voice steady At 18 he realized his father had to go This was the hard truth he forced himself to know That night after his dad walked out And he watched as his mother begin to shout He realized it was up to him to be the man He realized it was up to him to take a stand At 20 he worked hard to support his mother At 21 he had to be the father to his brother He wouldn’t, couldn’t let him grow up like he had But he wouldn’t, couldn’t let him grow up without a dad At 26 he watched as his mother slowly died He watched as his brother collapsed and cried The pain that he knew at such a young age The pain that he knew would eventually morph into rage At 29 he watched as his brother went on his first date He reminded him not to be out too late The advice a father should give a son He realized just then, it was he who won. |
A Rainbow of Grays by Ellen Diehl
Sitting by a road of yellow brick makes me wonder of all the colors, why? and if the sun looking down wished it could frown to see a speck stolen from the sky. If the sun had a brick for every time it was made to grin, it would be a long road, indeed, but even a thousand smiles couldn't build a long enough road To happiness. The other side will always be more green, the Cities more keen, and the grass always sharpened to an Emerald prick. "Rainbows have nothing to hide." Yet that which disappears is always mystery we call it history because we have such a hard time reading the past. You told me once to read an emerald book, but it was less green than I thought it would be. The insides were browned, some, and it aged me some too. I wonder now if you asked so that I would gain some gray and I did. I now see gray everywhere- under the furniture in the sky in places where it could be dark but the light won't give in and I see now when things are not so black and white why the Witch was green with jealousy when she lost her sister's shoes. |
Senioritis by Eric Harris
Senioritis is The true silent killer. You don’t see it coming. Freshman year flies by And then junior year takes it out of you Senior year hits you in the face, and you suddenly become lazy. Some prepare for class But unless you’re in the running for valedictorian, you don’t. Senioritis will kill you Eventually. Like getting the X-Grade and dropping out. Senioritis is me writing this 5 mins before class starts. Senioritis is my GPA dropping from a 4.0 to mid 2s Since my motivated freshman self. Senioritis is being too lazy to even |
A mouse Chasing a Cat by Olivia Boyd
It's like a mouse chasing a cat. That's how this cycle feels. The innocent fell in love, with the killer. You, my dear mouse, don't know, you should stay far away. I'm a killer, I'm evil, I'm nothing. You're full of beauty, sweetness, and innocence Stay away. All I'll do is damage you. I can’t control myself. The monster inside its cage, it tries to free itself from me. Sweet mouse, Stay away from cats like me. |
The Flickers by Anonymous
they flicker. as if the room is experiencing a thunderstorm. on and off in a cycle that gets shorter and shorter. they live in the wires. deciding everyone's times. like a hand passing through a candle they give warnings only you can see the casual flicker of light no one else notices. as the room plunges into darkness for a microsecond you ask. no one answers you want to hear. you need to have some reassurance. you need to be certain they aren't coming. but they are. and the flickers happen more and more frequently until snap. it all ends. some don't make it to the end. for some it's too much. the blinking no one else sees. slowly driving them off the cliff of sanity. they go clutching their heads with a mad look of despair. no one sees. no one believes. not until they too are experiencing the flashes of darkness. not until they too are in the grips of insanity. the ones in the wires decide. when will they come? where will they come? but then there are some. who pass through the flickering and survive. the few that do see the blinking get more and more frequent. the few that do know pain. and the few that do end up in the dark. |
To and Fro by Anonymous
All together like forks in a drawer We enter what opens at the end. My mind is at home but my body is travelling And I enter a world of surreal suspense. It is influenced by the beat of the path, But in a heartbeat the world is gone, Annoyingly replaced by a shrill broken record. I turn to see the flashing landscape Only to see a desolate wasteland. The draining monotony unveils anxiety And the hours of idling are pointless So as the fog engulfs us, I wait. Are we there yet? The time passed like sand in an hourglass But what was coming would infuse life in me once more. The time has come at last Where we enter what was once open It is no longer a prison, but a welcomed escape. A place of happiness and excitement. No drowsy bears in this world, No annoying flies, No more fog or rain or bumpy path, Instead sunshine caresses my face And fills me to the top. Deep down however The dread of the journey lingers. I recognize that all good things end And nature will bring back the pain, Though on this glorious day, We are finally there. |