Author: Grace S.

This song makes me want to run and tell you all the beautiful things in this world
This song makes me want to wear beautiful rings and dance
This song makes me want to get my hair wet and cry wearing pink tulle
This song makes me want to look into another person’s eyes
This song makes me want to close my eyes and smile in the dark comfort of my room
This song wants to make me spin around and around, and make the world move in slow motion
This song makes me want to live
This song makes me want to write poetry
This song makes me want to walk through the halls of my school while the air conditioner inconveniently blasts just a little too cold
This song makes me want to put on a heavy sweater and sleep on the floor
This song makes me want to laugh outdoors
This song makes me want to have confidence in myself
This song makes me want to smile and call the people I love and care for
This song makes me want to drive in the darkness of night
This song makes me want to stare at homemade paintings
This song makes me want to sing in falsetto
This song makes me want to exhale all the negative
This song makes me want to saunter quietly into a cold pool
This song makes me want to run on the beach
This song makes me want to fly over the sea
This song makes me want to flip my hair and fall in love
This song reminds me of the day you kissed me

This is an accidental list of reasons to live, reasons to love, reasons to stay

---

Ann Richards School

9

I went to get some ice cream
I took a big bite
I savored the flavor
and felt all-right

I skipped
I was dancing
I felt amazing
My mom was worried when I started prancing!

I scurried to the playground
I went on the slide
I was amused
like I was on a big ride

I hurried to the swings
I started to sing
I was going so fast
my mom lost her wedding ring!

I drooped to the green bars
I started to weep
My sugar rush was over
And I needed to sleep!

---

Bryker Woods Elementary

5

Some say
I’m beautiful
Crashing against the cold, wet sand

by the smelling of the fresh air
and the salty water
I withhold the keys to the ocean

they’re feeling
the shells
on the beach

that by hearing
the rumbling
of my waves

they’re listening
to the birds
chirp, chirp

that by observing
the sun
rising up

they’re gazing
at the color
in me

that I am and
will always be
the ocean

Untamed
living spirit
of this water

---

Bryker Woods Elementary

5

All dreams are stolen we had no other choice but we gonna lift the whole damn world
I think of you when I’m evanescent in to the gun smoke going across my face I think of you as my favorite so arduous to let go when bullet went pierce her skin I conjecture my self as Im skating away I think of you and no other I don’t understand why people start hating but you got nothing on you I still think about you behind my black and white mask in the dark corner loading my 38’ being more careful while i’m getting cheese he’s cruising through dark blustery night when we show up in a black SUV no tags to its going down it’s going down keep it quite peace let there be peace in the east side next sunny bright day 6 am feels jubilant after his retribution and heads to the tattoo artist and interpret his outfit on his arm he’s going until he’s finished but misses her every night but he has no worries now.

---

LBJ Early College High School

10

Hey, there my buddy, friend, pal, friend, chum, pal, dawg, amigo, homeslice, bread slice, Dragonslayer, MLG player, my diddly darn dappy dawg.

I don’t mean to rudely crudely cut across you with this prewritten TED talk but I fail to find any other way to burn across this steaming hot message that you surely must see.

You see I must tell ya that I find that I feel
burning cold, freezing raw and dipped into the super ICE BUCKET CHALLENGE

when sitting next to a fire,

and I can’t stop it. This is mostly because I wanted to be a popular cool person I wanted to be coolio and stylish, fast-talking like the charismatic Youtubers!

My friend said talking to me is more tiring than drinking pure uncut Kool-Aid powdered bricks. People find that they would much rather fall Into bed than keep on “Talking” to me any longer.

Every talk feels more shallow than the last

My act continues to engulf me through each talk I give.

My positivity burns into them as an iron

and so they run.

---

James Bowie High School

11

Minnesota

Arrived on the 6th.
Our plane landed two hours South
A drive through miles of fields
With a scent so unmistakably green

On my way home:
To the family condo by the lake
Where sunlit days were spent poolside
And a citrus tinge of lemonade lingers

There’s more still,
The neighbors bring us treats,
Kathy and Jim,
Standing amongst the grass

Of the back patio
With their warm smiles and gleaming hospitality.
They say there’s such thing as Southern charm,
But from what I’ve seen it lives here.

Then we venture across the river
To a the state eastward
With a house of stone
Once inhabited by an architect

I’d studied in art history
His home,
designed by him
a mirage of low ceilings and stone

Days later, back to the condo
Again set out
To St. Olaf’s
Where I fell in love

With the stained glass of the cathedral
The ogival arches
And the tall, buildings
Reminiscent of a country across the pond.

Then there were, of course
The days spent on the green river
With the company of my family
Laughter and smiles from all.

My days there,
In a town, a state, of warm feelings.
All of it, a trip I can’t forget
I cannot wait to go back.

---

James Bowie High School

11

Droplets of rain keep falling, no matter how far I try to run.
The misty air grabs my throat, and I struggle to breathe.
I’m wiping my unseeing eyes,
failing to keep them dry.

But no matter who or what is in front of them,
my sight is no longer clear.
Fog has rolled in day after day,
and my thoughts are begging sight.

Ever since the storm rolled in,
no one bothers to stay.

My eyes are turning into tornadoes,
and it only gets more chaotic each day.
And the more the storm is ignored by others,
the more it will continue rage .

The thunder claps along to the song,
of my pessimistic heartbeat.
And each droplet against my shirt,
has me dancing around thoughts of isolation.

The only way to stop the rain,
is for someone else to hold my umbrella.

But why would someone want brave the storm,
just to provide me shelter?

---

James Bowie High School

11

is that a ghost
following you in the night
don’t look back

if you do look back
would you see the grim ghost
wandering around on this spooky night

boo! it’s darker than usual on this night
maybe you should go back
before you see the soulless ghost

go back, many ghosts are out on this eerie night.

---

Gorzycki

7

to the groups going out for nightcaps, he is nobody; a mere extra in the television show of their night. his presence only clouds their vision of the next bar, where they’re going to get drunker than a sot and slam pints of murphy’s.

by the performers, he is a listener; he entangles himself in the crowd of half-sober locals and apprehensive tourists losing themselves in the slippery fiddle and the bubbly accordion.

and in the smoke room, he is a therapist, someone who listens to the drunk germans and drunk italians pour like a tap about their grandparents’ health and how they’re being exploited at their jobs at the construction site. he kindly gives them back their pouches of tobacco they mistakenly drop on his table.

to the street-sellers, the jewelry-makers, he is an opportunity. they speak in their foreign accents and worldly tongues as they point to their creations of silver and stone. the street performers grill their guitars and puff their pennywhistles to the great beat and bustle of life all around and flash their ample smiles when he drops a crumpled euro into the tin can.

in the pubs, he’s a celebrator. someone whom you imbibe with, someone to shout with, someone that listens to the cries of “eirinn go brach!” and “pog mo thoin!” he becomes equilibrium in the coldness of alcohol and the warmness of people and his mind goes as foggy as dawn in the rolling hills to the western irish coast.

and to the nighttime, he is a drinker. the sound of music bleeds out of every pub like the block’s own merry, drunken symphony. the concoctions of guitar and fiddles, accordions and whistles mix together to make this grand cultural cocktail that inebriates him more than guinness ever could.

by the buildings, he is a seeker. he explores the rustic buildings with rigor, buildings that are older than his country. he finds all the hidden gems; quaint knit shops where the kind old women ask where he’s from as he puts a hank of lambswool on the counter for purchase.

to the city, he is an observer. he notices the beautiful plated fountain with the historical plaque providing shade for the lovers underneath. college students, newlyweds, and tourists bask in the sun in the park, resting on the crunchy emerald grass.

the horn honks of impatient drivers amuse him, because the thought of a tour bus slithering through grafton street, being slowed down by the great tumult of life, is ludicrous. the cries of “slainte!” worm their way into his heart.

to the city, he is many things, he is another welcome in a hundred thousand welcomes. cead mile failte! he is another character, another pawn in the great tale of the city, another set of footprints worn into the boundless cobblestone.

---

McCallum High School

10