Poetry

Relief is retrograde for the next few.
I dream
of blood now. I don’t
Know if it’s mine. I don’t know if it matters.

The feeling fails to subside. Hours drip by.
School is sharp and draws out like piss like
What lands on your eyeball at

Three in the morning
As cars rush by
In acid rain.

 

Pelumi Sholagbade is a high school senior from Washington DC. When not writing, Pelumi can be found reading, playing the cello, or failing to fall asleep at night.

 

 

 

It is November. And I don’t want my life to be
This kind of perpetual autumn.

my riot is that there are countries in our world where my smile is
a sexual invite. countries i’m so close to where my bare shoulders render
me a piece of meat.
my riot is that there are far more countries where i can’t speak up against
men, where i can’t scream, where i can’t let my voice bang against
everyone’s ears; my cries a whisper “set me free, set me free…”
my riot is that my fingernails have turned into claws and that pepper
spray has glued itself to my hand; a part of my body now.
my riot is that no existence outside of my body exists for me; no existence
without the meat i carry.
my riot is my unheard voice, my dreams, my ideas; against a world that
has rendered my existence illegal.
my riot is the words i speak, my sentences; slipping out from between my
clenched teeth.
my riot is my very existence. and my will. my womanly, female will to
continue that existence.
my riot is my will and right to life and freedom; against the chains, against the walls.

 

Esin Nizamoglu is a Bulgarian-Turkish poet from Istanbul, Turkey. Aged sixteen in a city bridged between cultures, she writes in order to organize the chaos of an uncertain life. She also enjoys composing songs for the piano, traveling to foreign cities and learning above all.

 

Modern day America is such a disgrace
History is repeating itself, we’re not winning the race
Innocent people are being killed everyday
Black men are the most common prey
Y’all shouting all lives matter
But what race has their blood in a scatter
Y’all wanna know what’s really messed up
You got young kids fighting out here
It’s the violence that they fear
They know the reality
Of the Brutality
That messes up the mentality of their people
They are scared to walk outside
Knowing the hate that is applied
Scared a gun might be pointing to their head
Hear a pop and all they see is red
Scared their dads and brothers might be dead
Cause they’re not in their beds
This world is cruel
Hatred is its fuel
It’s time to stand up and fight and do what is right
We can’t stop till justice is won
From there we’re still not done
Innocent lives need to stop being taken
The lives that have been forsaken
Until we get equality then all lives may matter
But for now our voices will remain in a chatter
We will speak up and protest
Until there are no more bullet holes in our chest

 

Niara Davis is seventeen years old and has always loved reading, hearing, and most importantly writing poetry because it gives her a way to express how she feels. Poetry is like an outlet for her and she loves it.

Driving with your knees—
look Ma, no hands!—
as Supergrass screams happily about
youth and destruction and cleaning up
spilled milk after car crashes. Did
you know I’d invent a car
slash
boat hybrid just to sate
your hunger? Just to see you delight
in all the sky’s self-harm and
-transformation. Let’s go back to where
it all started, our necks sprouting
from stuttering sunroof, hazarding
amputation but more likely
bird shit. Conflagrations smudging
the background, teeth and temples
crowding the fore. Deer always nearly
being hit but never actually
experiencing impact. How lucky to be that
lucky, to escape devastation so
often, and through no effort
of your own. Let’s do that,
okay? Meaning, let’s traverse the country
all dirt-kicked and lawless—
let’s move everywhere
without intention. Without
strategy. Please.
You have no idea
how much I miss Pangaea.

 

 

Sarah M. Zhou is a Chinese-American undergraduate at Columbia University. Her work appears in COUNTERCLOCK Journal, Bombus Press, and Vagabond City and has been recognized by the Poetry Society of the U.K., the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and the National Council of Teachers of English. An avid fan of rock music and films about childhood, she can often be found wiping out while skateboarding or laughing at a dumb joke that “really isn’t that funny.” Catch her on Instagram @sarahmzhou.

The milk’s smudged expiration date
not warning enough to stop me roughly
yanking it from the crystallized shelf.

In the center of Smith’s, white lights
formed a halo around my head.

My tongue was young, almost angelic,
ignorant of lemons and curdled
dreams. Back home, mom moaned

about planting dead seeds, and
embracing clouds in vain. I knew
you would leave in two months,
and yet I kissed you anyway.

 

 

Alixa Brobbey spent portions of her childhood in both The Netherlands and Ghana before traveling to study English at Brigham Young University. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Canvas, The Blue Marble Review, The Battering Ram, and the Albion Review.

Maybe we are blind butterflies in the breeze.
Maybe the sun flares sharp blue at its edges.
Maybe the beagle has a beautiful voice.
Maybe the dandelions belong in the garden.
Maybe the world is on fire.
maybe we are kindling.
Maybe the best stories should be hushed until they become legends.
Maybe the glass slipper doesn’t fit and the Ash girl keeps sweeping.
Maybe stars don’t die.
maybe they open up like oysters and spill pearls upon the earth.
Maybe we never find it,
gilded realization that we see mist.
Maybe we never get to unfurl it,
punch away its festooned clouds.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
maybe our eyes are enough.
maybe this is how it should be:
blind butterflies in the breeze,
fluttering to oblivion.

 

Gia is an eighth grader living in Newton, Massachusetts. She often uses poetry to reflect on her observations about everyday life. In her spare time, Gia enjoys reading, writing, and watching Netflix. She has previously been mentioned twice in Stone Soup Magazine’s honor roll.