By Samawia Naeem

Samawia Naeem is a 21-year-old student from Pakistan. She is pursuing a bachelor's degree in English Literature. She likes to read and write. But she prefers writing mostly on nature and love. 

"The flowers within her no longer blossom"

She doesn’t weep, she won’t cry, 

She is strong, no one knows why.

She is torn, she is broken

The flowers within her no longer blossom.

She’s depressed, she’s distressed,

Things she’s seen have left her heart oppressed.

But now she’s resilient, or maybe I’m mistaken,

For at times, her little heart crumbles and hands tremble.

At that instance, she loses her senses,

Into another world, she swiftly commences.

And in that realm, her troubles she can efface,

Finding solace in a peaceful, serene space.

 ~S.N

By Hannah Sophia Gonzaga

Sophie is an 18 year old Humanities student from the Philippines. Currently, she's a senior in high school and is just doing her best to get through it all. 

A truth settles in me as the sun settles in the west.

It blows over my skin, frigid as a winter wind’s kiss.

It burrows in my belly like a bear in its den.

The revelation hits me straight in the face:

I will never be as young as I am now.

Every step I take is one step farther from my birth—

Straying from the definite point of my arrival

And nearing the final point of my departure.

All that I am could end in the blink of a cosmic eye

And I would be none the wiser.

What do I have to show for my existence on this planet?

What will I leave behind when it is my time to go?

Who will I be in the minds of my grandchildren’s children?

Will they even know the name on my tomb?

How will I answer the universe when she asks

For tales of my time spent with mother earth?

The simple answer is I do not know.

I do not know now,

And perhaps I never will.

These thoughts will linger for the rest of my life,

But tonight, pyrotechnic paint splatters the sky

In rivalry with its stellar birthmarks.

I will smile for all I know, for all I’ve been,

And for all I’ll never learn.

By Regina Yap

I am Regina, a 16 year old writer and poet from Singapore!  I just started on my sci-fi, adventure and dystopian novel, Sarve. 

This a poem that discusses the curiousness and fickleness of perception in various aspects including sight, memory, feelings, reality and situations. I hope this spurs readers to reflect :)

Perception, perception

How curious it is!

A dress seen white and yellow

Yet is blue and black

A student as invisible as wallpaper

Becomes popular overnight

Once a perfect soulmate

Now a living ordeal

Being alone, being lonely

Perhaps the same, yet different

“Saw it with my own two eyes!”

Indeed a memory

Mirrors reflect

Do we refract?

In 2024, a dream

2099, virtual reality

Of course it’s happening in the head

Does it mean it isn’t real?

Perception, perception

How curious indeed.

By Ani Manners

Ani is a writer with a passion for experimentation in art, reading and life. She works majorly in poetry, flash fiction and article style pieces. 

The car ride home.

It’s a hollowing and tiring event that leads to delusions of the finest kind.

The sound of engines seeps into the sound of glaring music in headphones,

my sleep infested head rests on my rotting body.

The sound of the recently departed holiday echoes around the stifling seats as the reminder of home drowns out the wining of the memories in the camera.

The faded roads stare at my hungry soul.

The rain hits them like they hit me through windows opened to allow the crying sounds from the divinities we know nothing of.

And whilst golden sunsets and sugared seas echo in my past,

I know, don’t we know, of the tea spilt on the duvet, and the piles of books I’ve tripped over.

It’s the coffee drank in the morning, bitter and lasting,

But like the stain on the duvet, strangling and comforting, watched by those same divinities that screamed our desperations from above.

But the comfort caresses me.

I’m on my way home. 

By Christian Ward

Christian Ward is a UK-based poet with recent work in Acumen, Dreich, Dream Catcher, Dodging the Rain and Canary. He was longlisted for the 2023 Aurora Prize for Writing, shortlisted for the 2023 Ironbridge Poetry Competition and 2023 Aesthetica Creative Writing Award, and won the 2023 Cathalbui Poetry Competition.

Find me under the hushed blanket

of leaves, hidden in a rotting log

sporting a jacket of moss and lichen,

huddled away from the glare of cameras

in the company of ferns and fly agaric

bright like a clown's nose. Drag me

out to the light and I'll resist with bottle

opener horns – enough strength to topple

dreams. My ice axe legs will grip the earth

as I stop every effort to subdue me.

My wings are concealed in the cello case

on my back. Hard as toffee, they beat

when you sleep. Mine have always

been dipped in glue, tethered by voices

keen to catalogue me, pinpoint

every inch of my body's faults right

down to the parentheses and footnote.

By Neo Chiappe

Neo Chiappe is a bilingual trans masculine poet based in Montevideo, Uruguay. He worked as a content writer at Forbidden Verses. Currently, he is working on his first book, a poetry collection. You can find Neo and his work on Instagram @pansybits.

"to div"

as you paint brown leaves falling off tall trees and pull the drawer open to find that dusty cardigan / summer made you think you’d never wear again, i’ll be writing about how days are getting longer / and the bees, / and getting rid of my long pants.

i don’t quite remember when we started talking nor when did i let you take a glance at my heart. we grew so close yet remain oh / so far apart. days are short for us, we’ve been stolen eight whole hours and a half! / still

my dear dost, i will dream of you as you wake up, and i will gladly listen to you complain about the bad day that you had at work / as i eat breakfast before i head to school. all this to say:

you taught me that friendship is not measured in miles and that language is a bridge we build together, / rather than a barrier. i hope i get to hold your hand with sweaty mine and kiss your pretty face / someday.

By Jezabel Castillo

Jezabel Castillo is a poet from New York who has been writing poetry for 6 years. Her work explores profound, touching themes that hold a significant resonance. She aims to publish her poems with the desire to touch the lives of readers who can find a sense of belonging through her unique perspective in her writing. Her poem "Gods Tears" has appeared on Every Writer's Resource. 

I Am A Lily

Rotten thoughts 

fumes vainful ephialtes

in the dystopian hopes of 

tarnishing a harmonia soul.

I reckoned a mouthful 

of distasteful words;

“I shine like gold when I'm at my low”.

I wrecked 

a friend,

a body, 

a home.

This was the start of 

malevolence turbulence.

I tightly held

a fear so folly

of losing my riches 

if I weren't sick 

to the grail bones.

I'll call my chariot

out to the races

to reconcile the lilies 

i've abandoned in the garden. 

I don't want poison ivy 

to graze my skin 

when I look down 

on my blissed ignorance. 

---

Garden On Fire

I stepped into 

a heavenly garden

I grew meticulously.

Blood, sweat and tears

caresses my body. 

Then I found a 

crimson lighter,

I set the whole thing on fire.

I witness arson

as ice seeps in 

the crevices of 

my essence.

I tried to tamper

the wilted flowers.

When someone asks

“How are they flourishing” 

I say “Never better”. 

The stone of my mind 

is mystified… 

Am I a dying petal?

Or a fallen angel?

---

Running Through The AM

How many moons ago 

did I wish on the stars

for some love?

I have been missing 

the tangelo sunrises, 

but the sunrises,

have not been longing

for me. 

By the time I awake 

the worlds portrait 

will be colored with 

the palette of midnight seas.

What happened to the pixies? 

To the gleams of marigolds?

That were flushed with 

poppy yellows.

I asked Saturn 

“Why is everyone running off through the AM?

When I’m still stuck 

in a comatose morning. 

---

A Man’s Tears Are Made Of Blood

I once met a man

in a foreign land

abandoning his tears

down the den,

As he crawled out

on his raspy knees

we locked eyes, 

he said –

“God forbid I cry during daylight”.

I scrutinized 

his adam's apple

swallowing distasteful 

sorrows.

But the dark blue lingered

and burned his throat.

A knee jerk scream

escape his red tongue,

the madness robbed 

his melancholia.

He was riding on 

theoretical beliefs 

bred from conspiracies 

of a man's descent. 

The patriarchy's silhouette 

echoes in roars. 

A man's tears 

are made of blood. 

By Eugénie Baungaléa 

"Mentally complex. I have my head in the clouds far beyond this hemisphere. I have dreams of stars that have never been found. I would describe myself as an artist who constantly has to drag herself back to earth in fear of combustion."

Consumerism 

‘Do I consume or am I consumed? 

Do I buy or am I bought? 

Do I learn or am I taught? 

Who am I, if I’m not yours? 

Not in the objective sense but in the universality of this all. 

Who are we without the other person? 

Who am I and who are you? 

The rich need the poor to stay rich. 

The poor need the rich to stay rich. 

God made the humans alike itself, but who is God without us and who are we without God? 

What makes one important? What makes one useless? 

All in all, who is consumed to consume or who consumes to be consumed? ‘ 

I am still looking for the answer, but for now all I need to know is: 

“Are you consumed?” 

I wished that God was Listening. 

My knees are blue from praying, 

My lips dried from silent screaming, Haven’t felt this lost since my teens. 

Been looking for happiness in the smallest things, 

Have searched for love in useless beings, 

Longed for beauty in the perfect body, 

Looked for purpose in the wrong fields. 

Like stars not shinning in a cloudy sky, 

Like sparks of fireworks dying down, Like pools dried up in the winter. 

Always ever-changing weather, Lost for hope; She is stuck in the box. 

Pandora cannot find joy; she doomed us all. 

Golden spoon replacing the torch, 

The spark is gone but so is the purpose. 

Felt ignored for so long, I stopped praying for some hope. 

The voices had taken over, they made it into a sweet little home. 

The silence was so loud sometimes it felt like an empty home. 

Empty hope found on residing slopes. 

One day I prayed to find love in my own world. 

The next, I wished for the stars to take me to theirs. 

One day, I fell in love with the clouds then the next my spark died in the rain. 

One day it was a good start, the next it was a sad end. 

I wished that God was Listening Pt.2 

Once upon a time, Hope knocked at the door, Didn’t know who it was so I left it closed. 

You see mom always said to keep away from strangers. 

Never trusted anyone since the talk. 

Lost sense of focus to keep myself onto the right road. 

Hope waited for me to let the demons in, 

Entered like a thief at the party, 

My friends left the room. 

Empty again it was more than I wished for. 

The silent screams were too loud to keep them in. 

The music began to feed the walls. 

Nothing could get in before there was any sound of Hope. 

The first note was what kept hope breathing. 

The last note made us crave for the pain to go faster. 

One last breath before the next step. 

I wish I could tell you God was listening but, in the end, I can only hope for you to open the door to let your demons in. 

By Anonymous

"anxious, passionate & curious"

Senior Year so far (including

awesome stir fry)

Nov. 30, 2023

It's finally the end of November, which means the year's end is creeping on us. I started my senior year 3 months ago, excited to have a half schedule & multiple days off, but with graduation creeping closer by the day, I can't help but get emotional about leaving. It's not that I'll miss the people (I have no close friends anyway -_-) but the

environment & stability that school offers. You just wake up, prepare for the school day, do your work & come home. In most cases, the only task that's ordered by teachers is school work. So after 13 years of structured education, we are left to our own devices, which is terrifying.

Changing subjects, let me discuss what I ate today.

Up until I came home from school, the only food I ate was a measly granola bar of 100 calories. For context, my mom usually gives me & my younger sister snacks, but we eat them hours before lunch, plus they won't sustain us. School lunch is $3, so when we buy hot lunch, my mother complains about the debt that builds up, so there's many times where I abstain from school lunch.

When I arrived home, I walked towards the fridge, grabbed the remaining naan & the tub of butter, and toasted it. Salty & delicious it was, but that was just the starter.

I walked towards the kitchen & grabbed broccoli, red bell pepper & onions from the fridge. I then grabbed A pack of Indomie chicken flavored noodles in the kitchen drawer. Placing all my products in a designated area, I grab the kettle & fill it with water. Placing the kettle

on its holder, five minutes pass as I chop the veggies urgently & pour it in a bowl. Grabbing coconut oil & ground red pepper from the spicecabinet, I then turn on the stove & scoop oil out of the jar. Making my way to the fridge again, I grab a jar of minced garlic & teriyaki sauce. Pouring it in a bowl & hastily whisking garlic, teriyaki & red pepper in a bowl, I pour it on the pan, the oil bubbling & simmering from the heat. While adding the veggies in the mix, The scent is already infiltrating most of the kitchen.I heard the kettle click sound, reminding me the water has finished boiling. I pour it over the noodles & let it sit for 8 minutes. I pour out the water from the noodles, then placing it in the simmering pan, stirring it in, watching the noodles develop a caramelized color. I cracked an egg & scrambled it in the mix, for extra protein.

I poured the noodles in a serving bowl & took a hefty bite. Piping hot with steam blowing from my mouth, a sweet & spicy umami flavor accumulating in my mouth. Satisfying & filling, It’s everything I needed after a long day.

By Zoha Hasan

On a melancholy December morning, 

I planted a flower in the gardens of my heart.

One so bright yet so sad. One so beautiful yet full of so

contempt.

I planted you, regardless of how you felt. 

Regardless of what I knew.

This soil is perfect, perfect for a flower so fragile yet so 

frightful.

When I'm done,

I come to check on you,

to see how you are doing…

Fine, you are,

but little do I know how much you want out of the perfect 

soil.

Sabotaging everything given to you; including the flowers 

around you.

And even though you wanted out, 

you plant your roots so deep 

the other flowers could hardly breathe.

After an hour, you begin to wilt.

Was it the water? Did I give too much? I wondered.

You whisper "I gave myself more when you weren't looking"

I hear nothing.

Was it the flowers around you? Did they harm you?

You whisper "No, I hardly gave them space to breathe"

I hear nothing.

I think it was the soil, it was just too acidic 

You whisper "No, the soil is fine, I'm the one who gave up 

despite your care"

I hear nothing. not a word. 

A week goes by and I'm still thinking about it.

I shouldn't have planted it in the first place, 

the shopkeeper said it was of no use;

it would die in any case.

By Cait Roddam Jones

"Hi! I’m Cait, and I’m a seventeen-year-old actor, writer and musician. I’ve trained with the UK’s National Youth Theatre as well as performing at Shakespeare’s Globe in London, and have carried an innate love for literature ever since I could hold a pen! The themes discussed in my poetry primarily stem from issues closest to my heart, such as intersectional feminism, mental health and what it means to be a young person today. My biggest inspirations include writers such as Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson and Emily Brontë. I hope you like “Temple”,"

"I have always loved ambiguous poetry: work that does not spoon-feed the reader a specific message, so they have to work that little bit harder to utilize their imagination and make of it what they will. I encourage my readers to take from my poetry anything that means something to them - it does not under any circumstances have to do with what I had in mind while writing it. I love hearing people’s interpretations of my work that I never even thought of before!"

The more I fill advancement

Through inconsequential soil,

I find myself in surety of being

Half a creature,

Contributing half a psyche—

Forming one wing upon a kakapo.

I have a confession to make.

I find myself at times

Flirting with the line between

Stentor and oblivion.

The track I tread is a curious one,

Always leads me back

To the footsteps I first dared make

In a child’s cast,

When I knew less, and felt more—

And now it’s in reverse.

Still - this bad deed goes unpunished.

I sip the cold tea, braid my locks

And to bed I go again

To flirt with continuity.

We chide each other for the faults that aren’t at home.

Straitjacket - you say?

Oh no. It is a calling.

It is a brushing of tentacles across the cheek

And a hummingbird’s wayward tongue.

Their methods to take me from the dance—

To this heavy stance I mould into

Upon returning with no music.

I dreamt there was a piano with no white keys upon it,

Those I could recall were only major,

All I could bring myself to sing was a dirge or two.

Survival is an art, just as music is,

And I excel at both.

Recognised for one,

Haunted by another,

Allied - with neither.

This is true - I am but seventeen.

And with my own bulky tongue, do I offend you?

I have never liked people, and I am certain of some mutuality in that.

Ah good, this is starting something and I am on my way now.

There is no forehead to kiss but there is a soul, can’t you see it?

She’s small and has an appetite for roguery—

Hides behind trees and waits for cause to call her back again—

She’ll stay unless she’s commanded otherwise.

This is the same body per say,

And yet such, a different, brain.

No pain no gain,

Much pain and far more weight,

But what have I ever got out of posing bait?

I am a craftsman and a beggar.

Nothing special of me but the little white marks on my skin:

They tell you where I’ve been—

They spill the ink before I can

And flog the words to my poor hand.

I have as many years as I like to grow,

And when I do, do not dare think I will not come for you.

From this breaking cave,

I’ll flaunt a golden mane—

I’ll eat the fools who play my game.