By Faith Collins
By Sophie Howard
You tell me a secret
You say I can never repeat.
But what if this secret leaves scars,
What if it bleeds,
In my heart?
What if it burns,
In my mind,
What if I have to tell someone in order for it to die?
Because I want this secret to die.
I want it gone and I wish I never heard it.
I don’t want to be a part of it.
Burning in my head, bleeding in my heart, scarring on my arm - I can’t take it anymore.
I told the secret you told me to keep, I feel better, and now I can sleep.
Sure I was an adult but you always made me feel like I was 15.
Lesser than you and lesser than everyone.
Why did you have to tell me?
Was it burning you too?
Was your heart bleeding too?
Did it scar you too?
Did I scar, did I burn, did I help bleed someone else now?
Maybe I should have left it be so no more people would have to bleed,
Would have to burn,
Would have to scar,
The way we did.
Never tell me a secret
That I cannot keep.
By Logan Roy
A deep breath,
And then out.
The warmth of sunbeams
Piercing the chill of a worried heart.
The passionate kiss of the extravagant sunrise
Painting the horizon.
The sweet brush of a warm breeze
Across an anxious face.
The sweet aroma of loved ones
Maybe far away, but always near.
The lovely touch of one special person,
Sending giddy electricity into the soul.
The ever so gentle aura of peace,
The calm after a fierce gale,
The serenity of a quiet lake,
The bristling of autumn leaves.
Oh how my restless spirit years for three!
Your World - Clara Monahan
Mellow wavy hair
Trickling down your spine
Messy coated desk
Of papers filled with lines
You flicker upon new tabs
Catering to your desire
Turn your head and think
Of all thou do admire
Your river eyes ever wander
Like a flowing soft stream
To universes strange
Only found in a dream
Though I cannot see
Your vision through your gaze
Your face twisted still
Says plenty to amaze
So I wonder steadily from afar
To see your mind contemplate
Something other than this essay
This world that you create
By Darby Hood
A scarred plane stretches before me,
Pale and sore,
Groaning under the burden of my gaze.
I make a bid to keep control of it,
To steer the suffering,
But the more I dig my fingers in,
The more it slips away.
And this strange landscape changes in front of me,
Aging beyond its years,
Suffering further under my sorry grasp.
My reach for a grip is fruitless,
And my hold slipping,
The furrows made by my flailing hands grow deeper.
I snap back, move away from the mirror,
And I cringe.
By Ella Goodyear
his voice is a burning fire
bright enough to blind you from the grass beneath your feet
fragile blades breaking beneath your leaps
they are the very strings that weave my soul
the child’s blanket at your feet
laying unraveled before you
but the glare is fierce so you don’t see the difference
when you reach for it it still touches you the same
maybe even softer now
as if it puts in all its warmth to call to you
i need warmth too
but flames crackle louder than you remembered
and you like it better that way
his voice is a burning fire
mine fades into the smog