Poetry

By Peacock Secrets Don’t hate me because I am beautiful Looking hijab-ulous for Allah, devoutly dutiful Shaking your head at me ‘cause I cover Wouldn’t take you nor your wingman as a lover Glaring at me like crazily ‘cause I’m veiled An ocean of chastity you’ve never sailed And you’re all alarmed ‘cause I’m devout I’m hijab-tastic! Not even a single toe is out! You can quit catcalling me too, ‘cause I’m chaste Ain't no welcome sign wrapped ‘round this waist Trying to peer pre

By Decorian Morgan  will not be able to be the same me I cannot change what happened Never again will I be brave She will never forgive me No matter what she says I can never look myself in the mirror again I’m not the person I thought I was I will not be able to protect my family She will always remember I failed that day, she can never forget it I was not prepared for what happened. I could not have made a difference I was not strong enough I will not believe the only perso

By Decorian Morgan Why am I not good enough? Why can’t I be like everyone else? When I look into the mirror Why don’t I see a perfect me Why does the mirror display all my flaws? How is it able to break my confidence?   There is never enough Enough liquor, drugs, or anything else To help me escape the mirror At the end of it all I don’t like me I guess this can be added to my list of flaws Added to my loss of confidence   I want to be enough Enough for someone else But it alw

By Decorian Morgan She looks at him afraid   She asks, “are you ready” Ready for what  Ready to be a father  A father to a child  A father at eighteen  Seventeen not even an adult  Seventeen with a responsibility  Responsibility to someone else  Responsibility to provide  Provide for his child  Provide for her Her mind is numb Her face is blank  Blank face  Blank stare Stare at the floor  Stare at the walls Walls around him  Walls between them  Them means a family  Them means

By Decorian Morgan Who is the true you? An object we wear A question for you When we are scared To ask To know  For times you are blue And don't feel like you A mask You wear around your crew Who knows the true you? The mask By Decorian Morgan

By Decorian Morgan The boy makes his way to his room He solemnly wraps himself in blankets Looking for the warmth that was lost that day Tears slowly streak down his face Each one hurting worse than the last He reflects on what he did Or rather, what he failed to do He shivers, trying to convince himself Convince himself it’s only because the room is cold But in the essence of his being he knows the truth He hears his name being called, but the sound is far away. Muffled by h

By Decorian Morgan Life tells a story What story will yours tell? One of adventure, love, confidence, despair? A story of fear, love, or guilt? A story filled with questions: “Why me?” or “Why God?” A story that no matter how you try you can’t start over One with relationships, emotions, regrets, and insecurities? A story of action, narrated by that voice in your head The one that speaks when your mouth refuses to The voice of doubt The voice of reason    Does its story match

By Tara Gira Candlelight exposes its blank canvas- taking a breath From the breeze, lifting it for a moment- Before laying it down before the pen. Black ink floods the page, With no destruction, But constantly, Fervently- If its bold enough- Lapping over her lines. She likes it best when it inches slowly across. Guessing the next rhyme, verse, metaphor, Keeps her on edge. And spurred by the author’s whispers, Infused with all the sun-pierced colours, Coffee bitterness, Liquor

By Tara Gira It’s a lucid dream happening in real life- The shadows remain, Nailed. But gold trickles down the wooden post− The glory of gaping wounds. Descends Towards me. But I back away− My feet filthy and scarred. My silent plea for that glistening river to not touch me, Attempts to drown my desperate need. A dragon- Small and bejeweled, With garnet and sapphire eyes, Floats behind me, Breathing smoke. Silver whisps of divine ecstasy Escape his nostrils. Enveloping me in

By Tara Gira I can still hear the drawn-out wails Of peacocks From across the valley. They call for danger or love. Or both. The meaning of their message becomes lost to me, Amongst the sweet and sorrowful boxwood notes. Melody and harmony, Long lost souls, Embrace each other through their escape From their hollow, wooden chamber. They waltz through the maze of feathers− The emerald, golden eyes Still visible, Through the storm of white. The old woman constantly fluffing, Dus

By Tara Gira Under her blue, veil armour, She grows pale, As life drains from her face. The earth shifts− In submission to her slow treading. In her throat, Stone turns to mountain. Tightly caged, Like the protective hands, Knitted closely over her stomach. Twitches itch across her fingers- Trembling As she draws near to the wall of thorns− Spear tips weaved into the dark, bitter ropes. “A crown fit for a king,” it hisses, As it strikes, Pierces, And tears. A pomegranate lays

By Tara Gira In the candlelight, He searches for me With those gentle, golden eyes. Amongst the symphony of angels’ sighs, And when I see That unmistakable flicker, That possessive amber Penetrating the glow, My quivering lips fall open with my cries, At the sight Of those piercing golden eyes. By Tara Gira

By Tara Gira He stands there At the altar. Dressed in gold, Shimmering ivory.  So soft- ever sweetly and gently From Him exuding. I wonder How to best Exalt. Could I  Ever satisfy? I’m dressed in red Satin. Drowning in the many layers. Will I  Even make it to Him? I shift  On my heels. I draw blood. He sees. Knows.  The elevator In my throat plummets to the last floor. His hands Are covered in gloves. Made from a silk of love. Priceless- And His fingers reach. I’m standing ha

By Tara Gira I desire a blondie square- Sparsely drizzled with caramel. More collecting in one crevice than in the others, And burnt flakes scarped from the bottom of the pan. They’re still sweet-  Even if they take a curled fist to the tastebuds, Rather than a velvety caress. I want it all. Sprinkled with a dash of salt − Hard Himalayan.  Again, It’s so simple. So specifically simple.  The blondie I want, Is a corner piece. With rounded edges− Two sides molded by the tin it

By Tara Gira A wide-open door, Underneath, its candy red and white signage Might seem welcoming at first, Until that restlessness stirs everything inside me so quickly, I cease to think. Everything moves in me, But my legs. God forbid I don’t blend in with the rest of the starry-eyed consumers- Vultures- Stepping to the calm pace of their false hunger. My irises bounce between the couple thousand sweets, And kaleidoscopic vending machines. I’m looking for something- It’s so s

By Rishika Tipparti She is the reason why when i look in the mirror i see a dream in progress and Her worst nightmare. the expression i love and spunk i pride are anomalies in what could be the portrait of the – Her – /perfect daughter./ She is the biggest reason i look at the future with hope because i know that / She’ll follow me / wherever i go / so / i’ll hold Her hand / and take Her with me / to see the dreams / She gave away / so i could have mine. i am the /monster/ Sh

By Rishika Tipparti Words. Only twenty six letters In the English language Form over 200,000 words. When I was in 5th grade, I read the dictionary cover to cover, Drinking in word for word, Because the melanin in my skin seemed to scream “ILLITERATE” to the outside world. Because even if I’ve read the dictionary cover to cover reciting spellings and definitions like a devoted lover I’ll still be stupid Because epi-tome is pronounced “epitome.” Because even if I spend hours St

By Rishika Tipparti Studio lights at 5 in the morning Shed light on the surgeon's hands Cutting into skin already leathery and doused in retinol As they try to ignore the smell of hair burning Like the acid of the empty stomach And the taste of bile in the baby-tooth lined walls Of the hollow cheeks' caves. Sunshine at 5 in the morning throws light on bruises Under the eyes, smears of late night scrolling Because you need to plan your diets and craft your next workouts Cut me

By Nix Carlson Force me into the kitchen, order me to knead bread, churn butter. Find rosemary hung from rafters, chicken bones strewn upon the hearth. The broth warmed to feed your swollen bellies – my death sentence. When you bring a meal to your lips,  your skin will boil and bubble,  slough off like onion paper flakes. A good wife submits to her husband. Meets him kneeling on shards of rice, mouth open, eyes lowered.  Praise my tongue by candlelight, now testify – my flue

By Nix Carlson I am harvesting stunted tomatoes / shriveled peppers / and thyme / only this season isn’t romanticized / cottagecore cabins / saphhic euphoria / dancing through violets and sourdough recipes / it is / blistered palms / fruitless self-reliance / meager mutual aid / tending thyme / until the target / locks on me.  I am coordinating my google calendar / flamingo-pink work / metamour game nights / sage-green for dinners with my wife / replace meditations with crash