Poetry

By bAkU (Jakub Krzysztof Jedrzejewski) I've spent so long trying to impress others that I kept forgetting - the first person I should ever impress is myself. To become a better version than the one from a day, a month, a year ago. To grow beyond the one I once hated - the one who carried so much hate for me. I've forgiven everyone, yet still forget to forgive the old me for drowning in that ocean of pain. But I feel it was for a reason - like everything I'd like to thank him

By Marcus Jones The flute was his granddaughter's Who's resting in her grave A precious belonging That's three hundred miles away Inside of its case That's inside a travel bag He's inside his truck And he's burning up gas No more junk in the attic They're shipped, given, gone The flute was an accident He drove off at dawn An old photo in his wallet Her face can always be seen No matter where he goes A memory of her at fifteen Holding her birthday gift With a smile that touche

By Diana Dang When I was seven, a parcel came — Its corners soft, its paper plain. Inside, a hush of humid air: Scarves folded like deliberate poems. Each line of wool a measured breath, Each color speaking under death. Back then I wore what I was given, Not knowing warmth was also heaven. Now grown, I take the needle’s weight, And time becomes deliberate fate. Knit, purl, breathe — The mantra hums. The yarn resists, the pattern numbs. I drop a loop, I mend, I fail, Undo the

By Ella Hilderbrand We all have them. A pair. Ten fingers, two palms. Knuckles that can bruise and calluses that can form. Veins that supply blood to the flow of our souls. Hands express, create, hurt, and scar. They’re a reminder of half of what you are. Hands can conflict, or heal. They can pray, or shake a fist out at the nearest thing. Hands. They’ve scared me since I was a kid. I look at my own not recognising what to do with them. You never know what they will do next.

By Ella Hilderbrand I told myself a hundred lies, a thousand times. Just to try and believe a millionth of you. I wish it wasn’t as easy as it had been, but my soul still remained quietly stubborn with you. By Ella Hilderbrand

By Ella Hilderbrand You knew everything I needed to live, to feel how I felt for you. Everything I gave to you, you couldn’t reciprocate. Everything I wanted from you, I gave to you from myself. Without realising everything I wanted from you, I could provide myself. Everything felt so dramatically and distantly close, you found things similar to what you knew I deserved. Shoved it down my throat, called it the truth. Lies are so sweet, but you were bitter. And your words tast

By Ella Hilderbrand I’ll never forget hearing your motorcycle park up on my driveway. Or how you came running in, to save me. Holding me in this early morning, from the problems of last night. Throwing up the feelings of agony, you holding my hair. “I’m so sorry.” Was all you could whisper as I painfully held onto the brim of all I could feel, the edge of the counter. The only kindness I could feel was your hands gently stroking my hair. Wiping my tears away. Hearing you draw

By Sylvester Wong Dearly Beloved, How are you? I finally met you again. Isn’t it funny? We were ten when I sent you the first letter, and even now, I am still writing to you. Well, I managed to retrieve the letters I have sent you over the last ten years from your room. Not to worry, I will be sending them to you again along with this letter. I will first send you the ones that contain some of your favourite poems, okay? Yes, you will see some new ones that you never got to r

By Sylvester Wong Daffodils in Spring She speaks of life with bitter aching, a heaviness that pulls her through her days, and though the world around her feels like breaking, she doesn’t see love bloom through spring’s first rays. She talks of shadows, skies turned black, of how she’s fading, losing pace, but he still sees the light that cracks like daffodils in grace. Her laughter’s soft, a fleeting sound, yet in his chest, it lingers there, a warmth beneath the frozen groun

By Sylvester Wong I have written you a letter I would never send. The words carried too much weight; heavier than anything I risked. I hid the letter in the soil, as the flowers watched me toil. The dandelions found it funny, and promised to bring me you if only I would set them free. So I made a wish upon their seeds, and sent it to the breeze with a gentle baby’s breath. Merry goes (Marigold) the cottons as they laughed, and I knew it was futile as they rose. Who am I tryin

By Sylvester Wong “There she is, as pure, graceful, and beautiful as white doves of peace that have just taken flight ... and here I stand, a murder of crows, cawing in unsightly madness upon a festering mess of maggots, decay, and death.” Sitting in the meadow, hidden under shadows, wondering if she knows how she sets the world aglow. As she dances among the stars, I quietly look from afar, it truly is bizarre, to love her and not be par. As an abhorred crow who symbolises w

By Sylvester Wong I smiled and said I’ll let nature take its course, let the river carve its path, let the stars decide which hearts align, let silence speak what words cannot. I hope my smile seemed calm  for my hands still tremble from moving rubble, turning every stone, digging every ditch, only to realise that I am powerless to change the tide. I held that smile, quiet as the shore  knowing it’s not peace that keeps me still, it’s the weight of learning that all I could d

By Sylvester Wong You wanted less- less weight, less worry, less hands reaching out in the dark. You spoke of quiet like it was a wish, like love was noise you couldn’t sleep through. So I stepped back, folded myself small, left room enough for you to breathe. Yet in the stillness, you still disappeared. No slammed doors, No grand farewells- Just silence where once I was held. I wonder if the hush comforted you. If the mornings came softer without my voice threaded through t

By Sylvester Wong In a village carved from frost and stone, they crowned me beauty, cold as throne. My skin near-snow, a breath less white. Too fair for mud, too prized for blight. I only asked to run and race, to scuff my shoes and smudge my face. But Mother said, “ No, love, not there. You’ll bruise your cheeks and mat your hair .” Perhaps she’s right. Dirt is for those with skin less pale and plainer bows. My friends were loud. I stayed indoors, and learned to smile behind

By Sylvester Wong She was young, her tail still slight, voice like waves that kissed the light. He found her near the coral bed, and whispered songs that turned her head. " Up above, the air is bright , with painted skies and starry nights . The world beyond is laced with grace , not like this cold, forgotten place ." He fed her dreams of silk and light, of dances held in halls of white. He brushed her scales, he kissed her cheek, and taught her how to crave and seek. She swa

By Sylvester Wong They called me sin, all lust , no grace. My mother’s hips, her harlot’s face. Spoiled by greed , with idle hands, A sloth , they claimed, who made no plans. " You’ll never be more than soot and shame ," my stepmother spat, with spite in her name. " Just like your mother, coy and sly, with pleading lips and wandering eyes ." She never said her name aloud. My father did, but not so proud. And when he died, I bore the cost a bastard child, a daughter lost. I sc

By Sylvester Wong I walk alone on this forest trail, shadowed upon by a beast of tale, With a package to deliver, I cannot fail Yet its footsteps echo close. “ And where are you going today, my dear?” said the malicious wolf with a sneer. I veered around to a hound so near, with bright green eyes and a smirking leer. “ Through the forest and far beyond here,” I answered with my voice still clear, “ But a wolf so mere would stand before me, don’t blink now, for that may be the

By Mita Sajeev am i just the bloom? just the colour they want— not the roots that hold not the threadwork not the embroidery nor the lines etched in green. i want them to see it— hold me to the light trace the patterns veins and shapes and the stories inside but they never do. they forget the soil they forget the breaths i take not to live—to serve. we let them live. still, they take, still, they leech as they please they touch, uproot, trample over me. they never ask, they t

By Rebekah Booth at the end of the world, there will still be life. we will make homes in the old structures of the past; overtaken by new growth and creatures that will come after. i can see it now: the clouds will turn poisonous, for a time, so we will adapt. make our own sun. make our own light. and once the poison recedes we can come out again. the air might not be so fresh anymore, nor the water so clean, but everything will be okay so long as we rebuild together. we can

By Rebekah Booth IT IS ONLY 7 P.M. I WAS GONE FOR MAYBE TWO HOURS. HOW IS THERE NO PARKING? HALF THE CAMPUS GOES TO LOTS AND GARAGES. I PAID OVER  ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR A PASS. AND YET THERE IS NO EMPTY SPOT TO BE FOUND. I CIRCLE AND CIRCLE AND  CIRCLE BUT ALL I FIND IS RESERVED: HALL DIRECTORS MAINTENANCE TRUCKS STAFF  VISITORS-ONLY HANIDCAPPED PAY-TO-PARK— I PAY TO GO HERE. I WILL BE IN DEBT FOR YEARS. AND YET THERE IS NO SPACE FOR ME HERE. I WAS ONLY GONE FOR MAYBE TWO H