Poetry

Holiday Cheer by Savanna Zachau (Winner – Creative Writing Contest: Hope for the Holidays)

“Twas the night before Christmas”
At least that's when we say.
That everything’s bright,
And merry,
And gay.
But spreading the cheer,
You can do everyday!

You don’t need to give presents
Or start up a fuss.
Just pass a big smile,
From you unto us.
It’s really quite simple,
It’ll fill you with glee.
Just try it, just try it
Soon you will see
Holiday cheer starts
With you and with me.

Poetry

Untitled by Gabrielle De Guire (Honorable Mention – Creative Writing Contest: Hope for the Holidays)

Our love reminds me of a picture 
A picture can say a thousand words but could also leave a mystery .
But our love is like a picture, beautiful with so many stories untold 

A picture that could never be copied or replaced 
It’s crafted especially unique, perfectly complete even though it isn’t complete or upon its final stage of completion

Our love reminds me of a vintage book .
The authenticity and value it holds alone is irreplaceable .
It’s one of a kind basically, something so you unique you wouldn’t want to share it with anyone else . It isn’t something you could find easily or the next day .

It takes a lot of soul searching and heart breaking to finally find something so precious and
perfect and in one piece.
It takes a lot of patience and care taking to understand

what you’re worth or appreciate and
accept what you deserve .

That’s the thing with our love though , it’s seamless and ever flowing . Adaptable and genuine, something I can’t resist . Still find it hard to believe it still exist but I’m glad it does because it’s a vibe I’ve been missing I didn’t even know would really be there for me

I started to give up on my idea of love and what I wanted it or well expected it to be . Yet you came along took that chance , took my heart , and made me fall for you hopelessly like the biggest fool .
I think it’s the Buddhist that say if your heart beats faster when you’re with someone they aren’t the one for you , but once I met you my heart didn’t race or feel out of place . So I’ll believe we’re meant to be .

You’re something familiar , something I’m afraid to lose any day. It’s as if you were mine in the past life and found me again in this life , probably find me again in the next life . Just to repeat this love I have for you over and over again would be a blessing in this life so I’ll forever be grateful for you 

I’ll love you seamlessly and unconditionally to the end of time, even through the hardships we may face in the life. Forever is a long time but it’s the endless journey I’m willing to take with you because you see me for me and my soul, my substance that I hide . But you’re taking the time to uncover and find .

Poetry

Okay by Savanna Zachau

It’s okay
No its not
Has your soul ever started to rot?
Has it withered away like a neglected flower?
Or crumbled and fallen like an abandoned tower?
You think it’s okay?
God bless the day when that statement is true.
Although the last person to understand would be you.
What’s it like living in your own little world?
A place where evil never unfurls
A place where nothing ever starts to rot
A place that I have long since forgot
Yeah it’s okay, for you
Not me
I hate it here can’t you see
No you can’t you’re blind as a bat
In my mind your worse than a rat
How dare you to pretend to see
When the only one who can is me
I don’t think I’ll last another day
I’ll give god my life on a silver tray
I’ll never again see the morning sun
It’s okay for you but my demons won

 

Poetry

Fighting the Dark by Savanna Zachau

A long tunnel of darkness stretched far out before you

So far that you can’t see the light

As the darkness seeps in, into your bones and your blood

You look back and you know that it’s too late to run

For the entrance is gone, now there stands a wall, and it glares at you, tall, black, and dreary

Now the darkness seeps in, choking out all the sound

Suffocating and squeezing you, making your head spin around

It takes hold and blinds you, doesn’t allow you to see

Nor hear, or feel, or even breathe

It beats you down

Brings you to the floor

Makes you not want to fight anymore

And as you lose your will to fight

You are now, yet another, victim of the endless night.

Poetry

Unseen Words by Dustin Pfeiffer

Though these words speak of a joyous song,

Of angelic harmony they may seem,

To powers unforeseen by human eyes.

No matter the occasion that we may live,

Our lives are of a truth not yet known.

Captain to our lives we maybe,

Ever walking with a mask of lies,

Shell of a human we exist evermore,

To the lies of an admirals breath.

A fools errand guides our discourse,

So that our blame is on others and not thyself

Knowledge only to those who control.

Only half truths we may know,

Though the only constant is disparity

Quite our voices are of the already known.

Of futures will never see truth.

Of a 100 years lie of man

All of humanity gathers in its own ignorance

As a pig wallows in its own filth.

Those who speak of an ever growing tower of lies

Speak only of the unseen words

Poetry

Eight or Nine Things I Know about Him – A Prose Poem by Mandy Berry

Inspired by “7 or 8 Things I Know about Her” by Michael Ondaatje

His Mother’s Drawings

When his mother died last year, they found at least three hundred drawings of different band members in her dresser drawers. Most of the drawings were of the members of Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance.

“Wow,” he said to his younger brother. “She was a really good artist, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh. So that’s why she named us Patrick and Mike – after Patrick Stump and Mikey Way,” his brother replied.

He rolled his eyes. “Just be glad your name isn’t Gerard.”

The Home Library

A woman who lived on the ground floor of his apartment building had more books than she could ever read, so she would let the families in the building come in and borrow some of them on the weekends. He went down there every Saturday, from noon to three, and always picked at least two books about space.

The Street Performers

He was in fourth grade, and his class was on a field trip in Harlem. He didn’t remember a word of what his teacher said about Langston Hughes, but he did remember the four older kids on the street corner, and the dark green Polo shirts that they were wearing. The lone boy played a guitar, and the girls harmonized “Bohemian Rhapsody” better than the members of Queen.

First Criticism

He was playing with some hats in a room next to the therapist’s office. He was pretending that the hats were sentient planets, and that they were talking to each other. He didn’t hear the therapist say, “Your son definitely has Asperger’s.”

The Moving Truck

It smelled like old carpet and puke, according to both him and his brother. He begged his parents to let him sit in the U-Haul with the furniture at every rest stop. They refused each time.

Listening In

“I’m from New York. Just because I’m white and I get straight A’s and I’m quiet doesn’t mean that I won’t whoop your punk ass behind the school.” Spoken to the wrestling captain at lunch, fourth period.

Confession

“I would probably be a stoner if I knew where to find decent marijuana. I’m not going to even get close to that fake K2 stuff.”

His Fantasy

“Do you ever wish that you could just run away and go to a place that’s completely hidden and nobody will ever find you?”

“Yeah, Pat. I do sometimes.”

“I wish that all the time. I don’t want people to look at me like I’m insane anymore.”

The Birthday Present

Our school year ended yesterday, and he turned sixteen today. I picked him up around sunset and drove to a wooded path that’s right in the middle of the city, in a small valley created by a small stream. It runs under a few streets, so not many people know that it even exists – that’s why I love it. And from the way he’s smiling and looking up at the stars right now, I’d say he loves it, too.