By Fehmina Siddiqui 

"The piece is written in such a manner that people can relate to their lives and fluctuations are part of life but enjoying those ups and downs is mesmerizing."

Fehmina Siddiqui, the founder of Elysian Pens, an author, enthusiastic writer, is from India. She has worked in different writing communities and publication house and now she has started her own publication house. She's fond of poetry, pottery, literature and art.

Falling,

Crumbling,

Collapsing,

100 pieces of colossal waxed blood,

And I'm on the 101.

Is it a black hole? But can be a loophole too.

It's December, but August is no lie either.

Maybe it's the first page, but it has remaining pages too.

let me run with my bare feet in the mist and feel the liveliness of life,

Inhale the emerald blended air at 5:00 am, Or just try to capture the illimitable blues in my limited eyes, 

Because I don't know how many breaths are there, it can be several or only a few.

By Kelsey Taylor

Kelsey Taylor is an accomplished American poet, fashion model, content creator, and classical crossover singer. This anthology marks her debut in the realm of published poetry. Currently residing in both Las Vegas and London, her work reflects a unique blend of artistic pursuits and cultural experiences.

"In Sanguine, the writer becomes an artisan of emotions, sculpting verses that evoke the depth of the supernatant human condition. The inked revelations, an offering to the reader, invite them to traverse the landscapes of heartache and ecstasy painted in hues of spirited crimson. Each sentence, forging; each paragraph, a magnum opus. And so, in the quiet sanctum of creativity, where the union of pen and emotion transpires, the act of Sanguine becomes a ritual — a communion between the writer, words, and the eager heart of the reader, all bound together in the sacred art of storytelling."

When stripped of         my rags

                                               of spine and lies

                                                      maybe you can see who I am

               I am                              a rotting  

                                                                     young       thing

      human         decay

  fingernails       used               as               picks 

All my rage

 hate

 and anger 

    I already feed to the cruel beast

         of my solstice soul

                        I bleed through the spillways

of no return

put back on my mask

and pack your pride                  unto my back

                                            like I am your little suitcase

                                                        and carry me home

                                     Maybe you don’t mind who I am 

                                                                    or who I was

                                                     or who i am becoming

                                   Perhaps you found yourself in me

                                a mirrorball waiting to dance 

  We hold each other and bleed art

   and fall delicately 

     into the orange

                    /yellow/flames/of/fire/fancy/

By Nidhi Agrawal

Nidhi, who grew up in India, focuses on issues of emotional and physical trauma in her poetry. She strongly believes that poetry is a source of joy, pain, and wonder—a tool that keeps her going in life—and is driven by the intense physical and emotional trauma she encountered through her medical condition.

Nidhi’s writings have been featured by Ars Medica (Literary Journal sponsored by 

Mount Sinai Hospital, Humber School for Writers, and the Program for Narrative and the Healthcare Humanities at the University of Toronto), Laurel Review, Altadena Libraries (Altadena Poetry Review 2024 Anthology), University of North Dakota, Project Muse sponsored by John Hopkins University, Hobart Books, Writing Center at Washtenaw Community College (WCC), University of Illinois at Chicago, BYU College of Humanities and the Department of English, The University of Pennsylvania, Quadrant Australia, University of California, Riverside, Chicago School of Arts, Lewis Clark State College’s literary journal, St. Francisco University, Xavier Review Press, California State Poetry Society, The University of Tennessee, Chronogram Magazine, Letters (Yale University), Anodyne Magazine, Setu Journal, South Asian Today, Indian Periodical, Garland Magazine, Muse India, etc. She is the author of 'Confluence' and an esteemed contributor to the 'Suicide Volume 2 Poetry Collection' & ‘Anodyne’.

WAVELENGTH

Stargazing is mind-numbing.

I am done with the

Drudging stories about the constellations,

Moonbeams through the black tree leaves,

The caliginosity,

The sleepless, anxious and crapulous silence.

Cold secrets moonlit,

Hideous realities hiding in the yards of wavelengths,

The heart has departed,

Eyes seal the deal with the night.

BLACK MOON

Soaring into the unbounded depths of the macrocosm,

Plasma ripples underneath the heart,

Like the roaring ocean gyre

It catalyzes the babel.

The howling planets,

The whistling helium,

The rustling stars on the skin.

The atmosphere has floating desires,

Tonight, lovers are separating

Tonight, the moon will rise and set with the sun,

Overwhelming itself in the mighty glare of the sun.

Tonight, it’s the night of the Black Moon.

By Reonda Thompson 

"Hello, I am a native of Kansas City, MO. I am 37 years old, and a mother of four. I love expressing myself through the written word." 

The sun is on the Eastern horizon. 

Good morning.

Look at this full spectrum of color. 

Orange, yellow, red, some white and blue 

Up so high not hiding anything. 

The snake in the grass devouring its prey. 

Green, black, red 

Colors of strength 

Gray 

Color of the victim 

Life being squeezed out of it. 

The sun on the Eastern horizon. 

The sunflower, the daffodil 

The creeks of water 

Where there is nature’s music 

The deer gallop. 

The frog croaks. 

The owl howls.

the caterpillar becomes the butterfly. 

all under the majestic sky. 

The spider weaves its web of deception.

The fly gets caught in the middle. 

A photographer comes along with a camera, trying to capture it all. 

A nature’s eye view 

Oak tree tall, 

Maple sweet 

Worker bees buzzing about. 

Honoring their Queen

The sun gets a glimpse of it all. 

By Frankie Gold

Writing this piece I had gotten inspiration from the world around us, the good, the bad and the neutral. I had talked inspiration from punk-rock music, specifically from the band X-Ray Spex, and used that to write this spoken word.

"I am a Queer teen from based in the UK who dreams of capturing memories and showing them to the world, to my world and making memories that will last a lifetime. A queer teen who loves photography, TV and Film and both wants to work in the Film industry but also doesn’t know what to do with them self."

The art of posing is amazing,

I pose all the time.

We allow the world see different parts of us,

Some personal, some exaggeration, some dramatic, some not even entirely yourself.

I am posing.

You will be called a poseur,

In some way or another, 

For things you control and for things you can’t control. 

We put on a play for the world and let them see whatever we want them to see. 

But no matter how real or fake you may be, 

We are poseurs. 

Posing is nothing bad,

If you’ve mastered the art of it. 

Or even if you haven’t found your feet yet,

Well still stand,

Well will still be called a poseur. 

The art of posing, 

It’s wonderful and vibrant. 

Why?

Becuase posing is an art form. 

By Alex Patras

"i’m 18 and a senior in high school, hoping to pursue a career in writing. thanks for taking the time to read my work!!!"

"written for my best friend:)"

practice does not make perfect

practice makes permanent 

it makes perseverance 

most of all i think it makes 

perfectionism.

as a child you were constantly 

told by your parents, 

teachers,

friends,

family

you were “such a perfectionist!”

a joke to them but it follows you

like your shadow in the summertime 

you see the scene is set for you and you 

must be

nothing less than perfect. 

ScienceDirect.com notes it is 

often accompanied by tendencies 

to be overly critical of what you see

when the mirror is finally cleaned 

you stand in that mirror 

lean in and fog up the glass

with your breath 

in the mist it tells you

“perfect does not exist”

and yes it knows you’ve heard 

that phrase time and time again

but i think it’s time you finally listened 

hovering over the sink 

picking at your nose and cheeks

bright pink blush in hopes they won’t see

but i see you

i see your heart 

you wear it on your sleeve

next to the tear stains and 

colorful paints and pottery clay 

she knows this but not 

in the same way 

i see the scars but under them 

i know is her

a breathing person with a pulse 

with kind eyes and infectious smile

a laugh that fills the room 

and is contagious like the flu 

i know she loves me,

and i hope she knows

i love her too

By Margaret Gathenya

Margaret Gathenya is an author who mainly writes poetry and fiction. Born and raised in Kenya, she developed a passion for storytelling at a young age and honed her craft through years of reading and writing. 

In addition to her writing, Margaret loves reading and draws inspiration from a wide range of authors and genres. She also loves traveling and is always seeking out new experiences and perspectives to inform her writing. When she's not writing or traveling, Margaret can often be found spending time with her family or simply enjoying the quiet of home.

I’m not living

I’m stuck in a never-ending loop

Of love, happiness, frustration and devastation

I go through them like phases of the moon

Unable to break out from the circle

The motion propelling me around

And round and round and round again

A shell of my younger self

Swallowed up by ambition and need

Are they even mine?

I don’t remember wanting all this

I don’t remember getting here

It’s no longer about me but what I bring to the table

What I bring to the world

I've forgotten how to live

How to embrace the little joys of life

I'm always in a rush

One of the masses laying down the foundation

To make it strong from my years of sweat and tears

So others can stand tall

On the shoulders of broken dreamers

By Jeahnelle Garcia

Jeahnelle Garcia is a 17 year old writer from Trinidad. She has been a writer for as long as she can remember (no matter how questionable the quality of said writing was). She loves to make weird art, listen to music, and play with Beans, her beloved cat.

Innocence (Time Will Tell)

In the early hours of the evening,

Four young boys

Play out in the street.

One in red, one in green,

One in blue and one in yellow.

They do not have a care in the world,

Nor any responsibilities.

Yet.

They run and chase,

And push and pull,

And fight and quarrel.

The boy in blue falls, and scrapes his knee,

But he does not cry

For he is a big boy of seven

And his friends would laugh.

All four boys

Decide to race in the street.

The danger of it does not cross their minds

And youthful luck keeps them safe.

The boy in green trips the boy in yellow

And wins the race.

The boy in yellow is not as strong-willed 

As his friend in blue,

And so, he cries at the graze along his skinny little forearm.

The boys point, and laugh,

But ultimately, the boy in red helps him up

And his friends clap him on the back and tell him not to cry.

Ignorant and young as they may be,

They know physical pain.

A little later,

As the sun sets further behind their houses,

And the sky darkens to the colour

Of bruises not yet formed,

The boys come across another creature

Quite like themselves.

The boy in yellow hears it first,

A quiet crying akin to the cries of his little sister

When he plays a little too roughly with her.

The boy in red, and his friend in green

Pick up sticks

And drag them along the concrete,

Poking and prodding and hitting each other

As they search.

They find it quickly.

A little puppy lies licking its wounds

Behind a garbage can.

It is frightened, but cannot run

And is without its mother.

The four boys know this,

And they know the difference between it and them

Is that they have their mothers

To put plasters on scrapes

And kiss away bruises and fears alike.

And so, 

Quarrels and fights aside,

They decide, without a word

What to do.

The sticks are replaced with fabric

Torn from favourite shirts,

The fists replaced with a touch

As gentle as their mothers’,

And the shouts replaced with whispers

And words of comfort they are so used to hearing.

They are not yet aware

Of the evil that could have been done that evening,

And is so often done

To innocent creatures.

Innocence recognised innocence,

And they did what their mothers would have been proud of.

The pup may grow

Into a dog with a limp,

And the boys may grow,

To keep (treasure) that innocence.

Or the dog may die,

Of infection, or a later evil,

And the boys may become cruel.

Only time,

And their mothers,

Will tell.

By Jeahnelle Garcia

Jeahnelle Garcia is a 17 year old writer from Trinidad. She has been a writer for as long as she can remember (no matter how questionable the quality of said writing was). She loves to make weird art, listen to music, and play with Beans, her beloved cat.

Rose-Coloured Glasses

Pink.

All my life,

I've only seen the colour pink.

The first thing I laid my eyes on

Was my mother’s flushed face.

From the baby blanket in the hospital room

To the breast I nursed on:

Pink.

I grew up

In rosy hues,

Bundled in cotton candy

And bathed in milk and rose petals:

Pink.

Even now,

A bunch of roses sit on my bedside table

In a porcelain vase

Gifted to me by my grandmother

With a handwritten note:

“Always look at the  world

Through rose coloured glasses.”

Always.

I recall a time

I heard that every day.

But the roses have begun to wilt.

I have always seen the world

In shades of pink.

When I look in the mirror,

To pick apart my features

With fiddling fingers

And pearly nails,

That's all I see.

I see the blush 

That creeps beneath the skin,

Cherry blossom persistence;

And the roseate imperfections.

I am reminded 

Of pigs.

And when I sit within myself,

I know it’s all there is:

Pink.

From the soles of my feet,

To the meat on my bones

And the brain in my head:

Pink.

It makes me want to vomit.

I want to tear away

The rotting petals from the roses,

Drain the blood from beneath 

The flushed flesh,

And claw the pink

Out from within me.

I have always seen the world

Through rose coloured glasses.

I have always hated the colour pink.

No matter how hard I try,

There is nothing I can do.

The lenses do not sit on the bridge of my nose.

They are already embedded

Behind my eyes.

By Sashi Tandon

Sashi Tandon is a young creative from Perth, Western Australia. Studying film and creative writing, she works across the mediums of poetry, film and photography. Sashi aspires to provide a refreshing and humorous view of ordinary life. She aims to make poetry accessible, absurd and entertaining, revealing the beauty and horror in the everyday. She has also written multiple finalist and award-winning short films. 

a postcard afternoon

the clothesline turns,

the magpies croon.

a postcard afternoon

with burnt-beige lawn

and saltwater

snivelling down my wrists. 

the children cling 

to the rusted wire

in their bathers

as the westerly totters and stirs. 

do the kookaburras know

we are laughing

at Uncle Tim’s terrible batting? 

or do they have an inside joke of their own? 

salt stains of

a thousand summers around our eyes

and the rims of our caps.

and when we dry

may the sprinkler drench us all over again. 

By Arianna Kanji

Arianna Kanji is a fourteen year old writer from Toronto, Canada with a love for prose poetry.

here is a startling resemblance to something colorful pressed near the bend of your neck, and it festers like the eye of a storm painted shimmering pink with mascara. Of course there’s nothing better than the children that gnaw at her stomach with the anger of hyenas, skin cooking on prairies they were always built better for, shattered hallways caked in mud and blood and guts. There is always a kind of laughter built into the lips of the one-armed doll with the gouged-out eye and the scrawled-on face sitting in my dresser, because there is nobody around to judge tainted plastic skin. When the wounds near your throat start to sink and sob through the flashes of pink strobe lights digging calluses on anonymous Post-it notes, you’ll chuckle with the faceless sea creatures casting shadows on the window. She’s always been a little too young, alarmingly simple joy built into her tears. Rainbow face paint along her creases and fluttering wings at her heels. Silver strings twisting bars around her soul like brittle metal ribs.

Click the arms back into place. Smooth flowers drip from pudgy flesh like fingers down a drain. The twinkling lights burst, sparks staining the walls black and chemicals burning tantalizingly against her nostrils. They bite into your face, now - nothing else concerns the wandering except leashes of smoldering dove feathers. When I sink into the glass and my features scrub themselves away to nooses shaped like tentacles, I wish almost to be burnt on the wood that once held my young, raw body. She’s kinder than she seems, all smooth tips and golden teeth, but there’s an infection slithering near the bend of her neck. When the red runs down your lips, however, you’ll almost be thankful. The taste of the pomegranate juice will lick your insides clean.

By Ishita

"I'm a young writer, who would like some exposure for my book. I might send an extract of part part the book if it goes well. My favourite hobby is writing, and its important for my career as a girl wanting to be a lawyer."

My spotlight (it was a blackout) 

.  

If every star in the sky were part of the runway lights, we'd have a blackout the moment I came on stage. Even then, you wouldn't even try using your ears for finding my voice - you'd chop them off, you'd blame it on tinnitus. That was my voice to you. 

You wouldn't dare use your hands to search for me, you'd put on gloves. However, you'd be revolted from the first lingering touch of the filth of guts and blood itching at your skin, through the laced fabric. Your guts and blood, mushed into a piece of shadow art. Something that mustn't be seen. You must've washed your hands for days, to rid the pictures in your mind and dressing rooms of me - but I remember it. I remember you. 

You took down all the stars, so no one would ever remember me again. I am the spark of yours that went out because of the candles you had everyone blow put for me on my many birthdays. Every cake was a new dream, a new me, and you blew it out. Time and time again. It was only when you reached the 8th candle, that you realised my stardom was for the directors and dressing rooms after all. And we all know how that turned out. Now, I'm the remaining carbon dioxide, shamefully floating around what you wanted me to be. A spark which was never blown out.  

By Nischay Chinnam 

"Hi I’m Nischay Chinnam, a blooming young writer and poet, with a unique mind and creative thoughts. 

I am a classical dancer, a violinist, a part-time singer, and also a polyglot. I currently have too many projects in my docs, but the best thing about me is that I don’t give up easily so they’ll be out for you to read in a good couple of years. My poetry pieces have been published in several online and print magazines, and i am the editor of an online literary magazine Expressionism. When I’m not writing, I visit delusion, contemplate my life decisions, and gets told i have about ten different mental disorders."

I want you to be free.

I want you to be with me.

I want you to show me a side of you,

who nobody saw before.

I want you, all of you.

I want the child you,

the insane you,

the broken you,

the wounded you.

I want you,

only you. 

I want to take the missing peices,

put them back together;

and make you whole again.