Author: poetry_3ksn2y

Jake V. // THE PIE OF A POEM

A poem should be like a pie.
From the surface, its bland.
It can be any color.
It will always smell divine.
But it’s what is on the inside
That make it fine.

A pie can be sweet.
Or It can be sour.
It needs some some wheat.
It needs some flour.
It can be hot.
It can be cold.
Maybe eat it a day old.

A poem is like a pie.
You dont know whats inside.
Until you cut it up
And take a slice.
Eat it slowly,
It will be nice.

After you take the first bite
Then
you know what the pie is like
A poem is like a pie.

Jimmy S. // ROMEO’S WILL

Church is the only place
Where I can decide my fate.
But the last time I walked into it,
Everything looked fake.
The coldness Here, the end of our date.
Don’t tell me whom to trust
And what to shield-
I am tired of ironies and will!
I will follow my own path now.
There’s nothing more I can feel
Nor protection I can give.
I am almost home for you…

Athena M. // COST OF CANDY

Im sorry.
I truly don’t know why I did it
I will give it back
Back onto the shelf
Slipping the candy down out of my sleeve
Crinkling like leaves
Until they blow away, busted

I promise
I won’t do it again
One thing
Led to the next
My mascara and heavy eyeliner painting my face

Forget it
I don’t know why You’d believe A girl.
Like me anyway.

Im sorry.

Alyssa Zhang // IN EVERY LIFE, A CANDLE BURNS

A dutiful match begins its ritual. Draws a flame with a scratch,
And a spark tags the wick. Shedding rings of light, the candle Consumes itself inside out, Leaving only a lucid puddle, a pool of smoke, slathered in waves.

You peer over. For a moment, you see your foggy reflection
Before its waxen memory solidifies, With your image locked inside. Even in darkness, it has known your face, Even extinguished, it remembers.

Adair Treadway // UNDERNEATH THE LAYERS OF A POEM

Words flow across the page like a jet plane in the sky,
leaving behind a trail of wispy clues.
It does not stick like a car in the mud,
unable to move.
What’s on the other side of a cloudy sky?

One relishing bite
into the delicious peel of a red apple
reveals the white underneath
Leave it like an iceberg;
don’t let them below the surface
into the deep.
Lock the door.
Hide the key. What’s on the other side of a cloudy sky?

Dress it up nice
like its winning awards on the red carpet stage.
Let the bubbles fizz out,
until only few are left.
Unpopped.
Soak in the sound of the symphony as it serenades you.
Water it,
watch it grow
What’s on the other side of a cloudy sky?
That’s for you to decide

Caleb T. // WELL-ROUNDED

Poetry is circular.

You can
think you are going somewhere, but
there is no set destination,
endless edges, endless exits.

You can
look through a glass of water
and see what is on the other
side, but
It is blurry.
It is distorted.
It is altered by the contents of the circular glass.

You can
ride on a bike
and the circular wheels will move, but
only if you steer
and spin the petals.

Poetry is circular.

Helen T. // WHAT A POEM SHOULD BE

A poem should be like the view
of the ocean from the shore,
Ending, but endless.

An ambiguous blob,
of words,
engraved in paper,
or manifested in speech.
of silence,
an idea, just waiting.

Like a child,
Understanding, expressive.
Yet wordless.

A poem should be like the sky,
Seemingly empty, but full.

That’s what a poem should be.

A shapeless identity,
Made from
The shadow-like
fragments
That was once a whole story.

Like the color Black.
One color.
But a mixture of all.

It should be like a flower shop.
Containing not some​thing​,

But something ​more.

Maria P. // SNOWDAY

There is no better feeling
Than crawling into your warm bed
Late at night
Knowing that the next morning,
The ground will be blanketed
With snow up to your hips,
And school will be cancelled,
And the roads will be closed,
And everything will be quiet,
For an entire day

Evren Arif // EYES IN THE WINDOW

I see them coming through the window
They patrol the streets at night
They stare at me…
The soft purring scratches the air like a claw on wood

They patrol the streets at night
They sit there. Waiting…
The soft purring scratches the air like a claw on wood
They clean the alleys of their prey

They sit there. Waiting…
They march to the beat of fear
They clean the alleys of their prey
They claw the carrion of the uncaged birds

They march to the beat of fear
There is no escape from their sight
They claw the carrion of the uncaged birds
Their control is complete and utter.

There is no escape from their sight
They roam the streets at night
Their control is complete and utter.
They walk up to the house without a mutter.

They roam the streets at night
They’ve come to take me with a haunting. Colorless. Grin
They walk up to the house without any mutter.
They put their gun to your head if you stutter.

They’ve come to take me with a haunting. Colorless. Grin
They stare at me…
They put their gun to your head if you stutter.
I see them coming through the window.

Sam G. // THE MUSINGS OF A MISUNDERSTOOD MISCREANT

BIG, BAD, WOLF.
That’s what everyone calls me.

An aggressive antagonist,
Terroriser of fairy tales.

I often wonder what the author thought,
When she put a wolf with pigs.

I get hungry sometimes,
And I have sharp teeth, pigs don’t

I cannot understand why nobody realizes,
I am just an animal.

If they build a house,
Too right, I’ll blow it down.

A predator never stops hunting,
follows you around like the darkest shadow.

And besides,
its natural selection.

If you build a house out of wood or straw,
You deserve to be eaten.

There is no structural integrity,
no, architectural finesse.

I’m just doing my job,
I’m an instrument of evolution,

Trying to rid the world,
Of delicious pigs.