“A head full of flames” A spell of rain Wash the smoke rings from my brain I hope, I know Let the floodgates overflow Through my veins What remains? Of dust and ash 'lectric wires, broken glass Concrete, pale heat And an empty plastic seat Cant maintain, can't complain How long can I delay? Not another day It's gonna get easier I've spent some time alone I'm glad I've always known It's gonna get easier Five years have gone And my life flows on and on  What a dream, what a dre

Timers   Understand this. It is an error to think that One need obviates another. Picture the parts  Of yourself as a row of egg timers: differing Amounts of sand are left, your job is to watch, but Realize,  You cannot watch them all. Some Will fall,  Regardless of your attending to them, or not, Some demand more. This one, which Happens to contain some deep, essential Grain of you, it scales The same fascination with down as the rest - Watch for a time, observe how quickly

We sat on the park bench together, on opposites ends, in silence. The birds swirled around our heads and played tag. Flowers danced in the breeze and showed off their beauty. Kids played in the dirt. Dogs chased their tails around and around. Kites soared higher than I could ever get them to go. We only spoke to each other once. It was simple and to the point, never over complicating the situation. After 24 words were spoken, we got up from the bench and parted ways, never to

game boys when we’re young  we ask our parents  if our friends can stay  one more day for play when we’re older  we ask our lovers to stay a night longer –  one more round of games the press of A button we used for controller –  now updated: the newest version of two men together:  shooting and reloading –  before entry into  the next level grape hyacinth  more holy than Bethlehem sage  are these bells atop their steeple.  the first coming of the garden –  Eucahrist of higher

Robert M. Zoschke was raised in and around Chicago, where he was a winner of the Chicago Sun-Times essay contest on Best Neighborhood Bars.  He co-edited and contributed writing to the anthology Reflections Upon the 50th Anniversary of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road.  His 2008 book of fiction and nonfiction—Door County Blues—was recognized as a Number One Bestseller in Door County, Wisconsin, where he lives and writes. 

How informal to be so normal In a world where no one is defined As such, because a definition Can’t be a summation, If the meaning changes As frequently as it does How mutual to be so usual During a moment when originality Gets lost in between everything And no one is willing to improve What’s been done anyway In order to make it new today How habitual to be so typical While standing in a room Holding a crowd of familiar beings Engaging in a dialogue That can’t be above it al

Nevaeh Phillips has grown up in a small town, and they still have a lot of growing to do. His poetry is inspired by the people he knows and the natural earth around her. She has some amazing friends, and they’re all incredibly supportive. They run a podcast with one of their best friends (Authorized Staff Only on Spotify) and they’ll continue to write poetry in the future. You can find them on Instagram @the_poet.the_artist

glass glass isn’t sincere;  sure, it’s clear,  it’s as breathtaking as kashmir,  but it jeers,  it’s damage is cold and precise like a spear, and it’s bound to hit you, no matter where you steer.  it has already got to me,  slicing the faint skin o’ my soul,  the shards know their position,  to rob, to abduct –  they take everything except my ambitions.   i’m left with that,  for what?  well, glass is a reflection after all…  so is my ambitions all i have to offer?  the glass

It started when the viewer was young. Too young.  Urged to ingest death as a trooper,  or a spectator to gladiatorial games,  only with a laptop computer.  Brothers laugh hysterically, “let's show the kid,”  a video of a woman being stuffed full of squid.  Full screen, “how about that other one?”  A roadside murder with a shotgun.  Head exploded like a watermelon — this is something new this New Colosseum offers quite the view!   Now let's try to sleep,  a day started with ca

Rebecca Harding is a 23-year-old aspiring writer and poet who is a recent English Literature graduate. In her spare time, she likes travelling, meditating and long walks. Rebecca enjoys incorporating themes of nature in her writing and feels that by exploring the relationship between humans and the environment, we can learn more about ourselves and our inner nature. She also likes to encourage readers to appreciate the world in which we live.

i … with dirt twixt his teeth.  I give him a once over  pour him a gin and tonic.  He asks for a triple. I make him a double.  Last shot’s mine.  I ask if he knows how it got there.  The dirt, mate.  He isn’t sure he remembers.  He worries its been thur’ as long as he’s had teeth. Holds his glass in his left feg in his right  looks at peace.  Makes me want to scream.   ii … smelling smoke.  There's a symptom of a stroke, so.  Aye. Depends. How long has this been  allowed to g

kerry rawlinson is a mental nomad & bloody-minded optimist who gravitated from sunny Zambian skies to solid Canadian soil. Winner of Princemere Poetry Prize 2024, honorably mentioned in Proverse Press and Fish Poetry prizes and placed in others, e.g. Bridport, Canterbury; Room; National Poetry Society and Palette

Age Of Wonder   Time and time again I wonder if I’m meant for something greater The age of discovery and  breakthroughs past,  and every land’s been found at last Is there anything left for  me to find? Anything to leave as a legacy, behind?  There are things to  discover, alright In the ocean of stars, beyond the realm of flight   Cycle I wish for an adventure, one like no other Instead I’m left dreaming, stuck in a trance I wish to leave my mark, in this world Instead I’m s

M.S. Blues is an 18 year old multiracial, queer, and versatile writer who has been writing since the age of seven. Her work revolves around the darker pieces of humanity society tends to neglect.

E.J.M. is a poet/writer who loves putting her soul into her poems. What inspired her to share her work with the world was the hope that her words could help people as much as they helped her. She has always loved leading since she was young. Now, she is writing various books and is excited to have people read them.

Massachusetts Without Me You cherished the pilgrim state delighted in its colour its limitless appeal its end-of-the-world feel. You were the kitten to Rockport’s cradle- it pushed you off course shifted your perception of what you considered an idyll. It was the good Doctor Jekyll, not the belligerent Mr Hyde whom you left behind. Salem smiled, Boston beamed and I faced east, ill at ease that you were content without me. A Strand of Hair The strings that linked us have b

Hello After Anthony M. Kwavah When a poem finds me in the midst of people, I bend my body to trap it and scrape its surface. I go with a few words—anything enough to exchange pleasantries. To find its delight. To let her know me. When I bend in my welcome, I give her my hand, like paying off a public transport fare, and I ask, How far can you take me? She smiles rather shyly, like the sun using clouds as her cover. What gives her light away must be the wind. I allow myself to

Shape shifter  This would be the first time I’m saying that every opposing side knows their rights and has their lefts stashed in courage. Just like people at the end of the war will see six out of nine, it’s the same way no one can convince the others that it is not nine they are seeing. I’m writing from the middle of disagreements, understanding that I can never be in the shoes of anyone or point fingers at their shortcomings.  In class, I argued for the people who upheld