In ancient lanes,
beneath twilight’s gaze, A girl wandered, lost, amidst scents of lavender blue. Her steps echo epochs, tales of old, Of kingdoms risen, but her story never told. In the maze of time, her voice rings, I’m here, are you here too? Amid the din and sting?” To a deity, once boyish, now lost in the lore. Misunderstood tales, blood and skin he never asked for. Gilded chronicles, of power and might, break the child, who once held his mother’s hands Is it Him, she wonders , or echoes of yore? That paints the battles, of wrath, and war. She pleads, “Little deity, where did you stray? Have you lost your way, Here is the shell. Is He here or is it just you? The boy who dreamt stars, before dogma grew. Amidst cobbled streets, history’s maze unfolds, Tales of fire and brimstone, of judgment bold and ancient. She doesn’t seeks vengeance, not doctrine or creed, it’s too late to save the many, so she finds the one. Lavender memories, of a world more true, before faith was armor, and beliefs grew askew trauma’s bitter taste, she searches for the child, erased in haste. For in his eyes, pure and unfazed, lies the solace, the end of the maze. Beyond the doctrines, the rituals, and the lore, she yearns for the boy, the God before. her table is now set and not due to Him, she doesn’t expect an apology or an invitation, she is here to extend a hand. About the Author: Neve Bonura Learnard is an avid teen poetry writer. They love to be in nature, bake desserts, and read books. And of course, write poetry above all.
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I'm unsure if I will ever meet God, if God is even there. Though if I were to, I think if I looked at
him and he asked me, "Why do you write?" I would answer, "I write because I cannot have something." I write because it is the closest I will be to having something Without having my fingertips even touch Its surface. "That is why I write about faith." I say. - T.A. Nava She looks so tired nowadays. The eye bags are becoming darker and heavier. Her cheeks
have sunken in and her normally dark skin looks almost ghostly pale. I often do my best to avoid looking at her, but scrutinizing her every flaw has become a part of my daily routine. How could I not? It’s the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night. It physically pains me to make contact with her sickly body. It’s been eight days. Eight days since I last saw her truly be herself. When I see her, all I see is the shell of a former beauty. Her golden brown eyes no longer shone in the sunlight; she refuses to go outside. Her eyes no longer wrinkle when she smiles and her hair no longer bounces when she moves, because it has recently taken the form of a matted pineapple. I can never stop the tears that well up in my eyes when I see her. She’s so pathetic. I couldn’t take it anymore and out of sheer frustration, I punched her in her stupid face. Hard. The brute force caused the simple, white frame to fall forward to the ground and shatter. A white-hot pain shot up through my hand and I shut my eyes tightly. The injury caused more tears to develop. All it took was a couple of deep breaths for me to open my eyes and stare at my fist. Blood was streaming down my wrist and several tiny pieces of glass were sticking out from my hand. It didn’t matter. As long as I no longer had to stare at her helpless features. I made my way to the unfinished kitchen, threw away the glass splinters and stuck my hand underneath the cold water flowing from the metallic tap. I couldn’t keep down a depressing chuckle when I saw my deformed pinky. That's going to hurt later. While waiting for the red solution to run clear, my eyes wandered around what was supposed to be a fun, summer project. The renovation of the kitchen seemed like nothing but a neglected, unimportant chore now. One I needed to get done but the task just seemed so overwhelming. Glancing over the stainless steel appliances, a pink piece of paper attached to the top of the microwave caught my attention. I stumbled over to it and took it up with my non-bloody hand. good morning sleepy head I've gone to the hardware store to pick up some more tiles for the kitchen floor. I'll be back soon so don't miss me too much lol I made you some breakfast before I left, it's in the microwave. Be sure to eat. Love, Allison Allison. That name has haunted me every second of the day since I got the call from the hospital. My still bloody hand made me hiss from the sudden pain it caused. I glared at the appendage and memories of that afternoon flashed in my mind nonconsensually. I remember seeing her tall figure painted in blood. There were shards of her windshield stuck in her body and I could hardly recognise her beautiful face. I wanted to reach out to her. I wanted nothing more than to hold her hand and tell her that she was going to be alright, but the doctors wouldn’t let me. They just wheeled her out of sight. What’s worse is, I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I shook myself out of my head and aimfully ran back to my room. I hoped I still had it. I began digging through several drawers until I found it. A month-old polaroid of my beautiful Allison caught halfway through a laugh. She hated keeping pictures of herself around the house so I had to hide this one after promising to throw it away. Her nose was scrunched up and her eyes were smiling. Her short hair stuck to the sweat on her forehead and her top lip curled up, exposing her pink gums. She was always such a happy individual. Why did the universe take her? Why couldn’t it pick someone else? Why my Allison? I clutched the polaroid and the note to my chest and started to sob. My knees buckled underneath me and I ended up kneeling before the broken mirror with a crumbled picture and post-it hidden in my palms. Tears were falling from my eyes and my throat burned. I could feel myself hiccupping as I finally broke down. I bent forward and finally tried to come to terms with my situation. I know I should, but it hurt to acknowledge the fact that for the first time in a long time, I was going to be alone. About the Author: Anjurié Nugent is from Jamaica. She first wrote this story when she was 16 years old and had recently discovered a passion for writing prose. While poetry is her primary focus, she enjoys exploring diverse literary genres to further develop her creative potential. Raindrops fell from his hair
His curls are all a mess He walked up to the lone yard Feeling not so present He smiled to himself One rose in his hand And reached for his pocket For something very special A ring in a box And so the man came up Right in front of the stone And got on one knee And asked the burning question Will someone like you Want to marry me? But she couldn’t answer. Raindrops fell onto the tombstone. -------------------------------------------- head against the rumbling bus murmurs throughout the euphoria-colored sunset closed eyes but a racing head telling me all of which is wrong with me and it seemed that my mind told me more than what I’ve said in sixteen years -------------------------------------------- everytime I look into the refracted glass I can see a lifetime of regrets for every time I'm not with you or make you proud of what I am or to see your brightened face I imagine a time when you aren’t around and know I will live full of regrets -------------------------------------------- Fumbling for your hand in the darkness A wave of relief goes and comes over Feeling your soft and solemn hand -------------------------------------------- As he threw the blanket covered in stitched stars onto his bed And only thought of his loving mother Her nimble fingers using the needle The needle dancing through the midnight sky of cloth And as her fingers led the way She hopes to make something for her future sailor Through the waves and stars And to have something to remind him of her when he sleeps Even after she sleeps forever -mother -------------------------------------------- There’s something about a book It’s simply just ink on paper And I could get addicted to anything But I chose this I enter this world of words That doesn’t seem that far And all the events that occur Are just right here after all There is no separation of paper and thumb And rather I’m somewhere else My mind is occupied, somewhere else And I escape from who I am And as I follow this world of words I realize what this is Yes, this may be a page I turn But it’s also a getaway -------------------------------------------- About the Author: Riya is an aspiring student who started writing poetry as a part of the International Baccalaureate program, which has kindled her joy in writing poetry. In her free time, she enjoys reading and hanging out with friends. She is most definitely a cat person. She currently resides in Nebraska. |
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