Poetry

Still, The Cup Steams

by Sunwrita Dastidar

Cosy and warm A fire blazing A cup steaming Luxury unbound Yet demands More and more lives Given to save Ten thousand here Twenty thousand there One by one they drop Still the cup steams The fire blazes Futile tears are shed No meaning, no feeling Just for show While those who really cry Are

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My Dawn

by Richard Guzman

Stuck between two roads One of light One of dark I must make a choice with heavy heart What to do Should I move? Can’t I stay? No! A choice They ask and it must be clear Both roads call Each in one ear But sick of both I finally scream Neither! Just let me

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The Big Apple Is a Poem Itself

by Niti Majethia

Coldness had tiptoed into New York City as the winter bird had begun weaving its nest. It let out chirps in the air and I swallowed them in, my tummy tumbling. I walked through the neighborhood of New York University, my heart bustling, just like the city. It was November 11th, 2012, and of course,

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Carry On

by Will Livingston

Yellow pants, yellow shirt, black boots, red heart. Trapped with burning limbs that aren’t his, He wears no cape, just a breathing apparatus, And adrenaline levels higher than a skyscraper. With no complaints and no questions, He submerges himself into a pit of hate, Facing an enemy that will never give in. An enemy that

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God

by Zeeshan Andoh

  Striking hope in believers’ hearts, A fragile flame, Corrupted by the slightest touch, Causing raging wars, deaths, Beliefs torn apart … to shreds.   Zeeshan Andoh  

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The Waiting Room

by Isabel Bautista

The lightsome little toddler across the waiting room was fixated on his lofty structure composed of bold, slightly used, plastic building blocks. He grabbed another piece from the modest bin in the corner that lacked exciting gadgets and gizmos to keep an ingenious young mind entertained. Yet the child was still able to see the

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Backyard Woods

by Isabel Bautista

The woods — a still atmosphere Yet teeming with life under the surface, The gnarled tree branches, The moist ground underneath, The decayed perfume fragrance, Tumbled in the breeze. We moved forward, No direction in mind, Following a course that was not predetermined, Shoes barely making a sound, On the slippery glistening leaves That did

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Mailman

by Akash Mehta

When they come, they come in boxes. They’re do-it-yourself kits, packaged with batteries and styrofoam, Goody bags the siblings get at birthday parties, perhaps, Or the dog the family eagerly promises to love and take care of forever— Go fetch, they say, the red rubber ball a blur against the blue background.   First, he

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This Year

by Alexandros Hubert

Life and death, the main events, The moon, rising up out of the midnight sky. The beach with all of its happiness And stars way up high. Shadows lurking in the distance You their final prey, And colors fill the sky and earth Every night and day. Falling in the midst of nothing Through the

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Forgetting

by Sofiy Inck

The grime. And the concrete. And the ripped posters. And the broken benches. And the trash. The 2 whizzes by marveling in its own speed and grandeur. It sends anything into the air. Newspapers. The bottom of coats. Chip bags. My hair. It all floats down and for a moment silence. And then the doors

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