The hot air balloon gets blurrier
with each slide until It becomes
clear again; with a brilliant resolve
that leads to brown circular frames,
No matter how much you
wipe away the anxious
fog that creeps like a vine
with the edge of a cotton shirt,
The bright green
hills are still visible
but the truth is not.
Because the answer
to the universe
is not merely 42,
and betrayal cannot be foreseen
even through clear lenses
Or from the vantage of a hot air balloon.
Category: 11th
Why
Why
By kahshanna kingston
Why, why do lie ? why do we make up stories til we’re 6ft under the in a hole, a big grave filled with LIES. why do we cry feel sorrow and hurt ? is it because we’re happy,sad,and mad.
Why do we laugh , i know why i laugh, because i feel the love. Why do we love ?
Because, the more we love the less hate there is.
But, when you grow and your young child asks “mom why do we hate ?” because some do not know what they do, so we FORGIVE. “Mommy why do we forgive ?” so, we can forget.
L.C. Anderson High School
11
When Will People Realize?
When will people REALIZE?
Realize that abandoning someone hurts.
When will people feel REMORSE?
Remorse for leaving someone behind.
Shutting, shutting, shutting doors
BAM.
Another tear cried.
Another child abandoned.
When will people HURT?
Hurt for the pain they’ve caused before .
When will people THINK?
Think of the trust issues they’ve caused.
A child’s cry to their mother.
When is daddy coming home?
Never the mom replies holding back tears.
He chose to shut that door long ago.
A child’s cry to their father.
When is momma coming home?
Never the father says through clenched teeth.
She couldn’t put down the needle.
The drugs shut the door for her.
Shutting, shutting, shutting doors
BAM.
Another tear cried.
Another child abandoned.
W. Charles Akins High School
11
One More Time
One more time
One more hit
I said I would stop
I said prison changed me
I said I would do it for the kids
I said I would do it for my family
Now I sit begging for another dose
Heroine
Meth
Speed
Cocaine
Why do you control my life?
One more time
One more hit
Sirens blare
Police men yell
My instinct tells me to run
My instinct tells me to hide
On my knees I sit
On my knees I am cuffed
4
5
6
7 times
How many times will I visit prison again?
Heroine
Meth
Speed
Cocaine
Why do you control my life?
One more time
One more hit
My eyes roll
My eyes close
Overdose takes over
Overdose takes me
Now I’m gone
There won’t be another time
There won’t be another hit
W. Charles Akins High School
11
If childhood had a flavor,
It would not be this: Scraping
shards of glass into a dustpan
Dim lightbulbs
spit out a
warm light. Sticky, sour,
fermented lemonade
mixed with sweat,
a bottle shaped dent
In the dirt-brown tile.
It would be: Blue
buttercream frosting
sticking to your tongue, swallowed
sodapop still fizzing,
fingerpaints still staining hands,
even after three or four washes,
like the faded glow
of a nightlight
you’ve already turned off.
Still, I can’t get
the bitter citrus out of me,
Even after three washes.
James Bowie High School
11
Suburbia
There’s something
no one ever talks about when
they’re in suburbia.
It’s supposed to be a
flawless middle class union, half
metro, half marsh,
but steel edges
of silver silos and skyscrapers
teeter on tearing
the fragile fabric
of the starless almost-city sky.
You hear it most
nights when the
street racers wrench through
pitch highways
and the crickets
punch the identical houses’
plywood shutters.
You hear it when
there’s yelling next door, one
half matrimony,
one half the
inescapably loud swarm
of change.
James Bowie High School
11
Unearth
I don’t want to pray for forgiveness
like I’m pinned by the wings
to God’s corkboard.
But when the iron in my blood
is towed toward the magnet that is
her in her
sunny Sunday best, I don’t stop myself
from choking on the
Lord’s Prayer.
Instead,
I indulge my shame.
Like a sleepy child
I’ll never want,
it yawns
for frivolous things,
like fragrant rose bouquets,
or monotonous love.
I ignore the tired requests that
I need to answer.
Only I can unearth up my roots, hidden
in the tangled churchyard.
Only I can sever the rubber bands
that I tentatively snap against my heart,
but I have lost both
the shovel and
the patience.
Trying to dig gets me nothing
but dirt under my nails and
empty hands. Stubborn
(or maybe even divine)
intuition
say that if there is
anything left
of who I am inside,
it is years
from being covered
by wedding gowns and
tiny, blue swaddling clothes. Still,
what I wouldn’t give for a frivolous thing,
like a sham love,
or a heart
that didn’t want to hide.
James Bowie High School
11
Memorobilia
Observe how he
presses his hand on
her lower back,
guiding her through
their shared workspace.
See how she hands him
her tattered sweater and
he stops shivering,
even though
it’s filled with holes.
If you squint,
you can see it in him,
carrying her
bobby pins in the front pocket
of his shirt at a party
while she dances
with someone else.
Think about these things.
Feel their weight:
the gentle palm,
the striped sweater,
the copper pins.
Feel their weight
and know:
Love is not things,
you do not carry it with you.
Still, find this
secondhand embrace in
the memorabilia of
someone else’s love.
James Bowie High School
11
For You
To your mother –
your father –
your sisters.
To me.
Your soul enlightened each and every day.
A soul too eager;
too intellectual –
too beautiful.
I saw the way you felt;
about life –
graceful, everchanging.
About the universe-
unsuspecting, unreasonable.
You cherished
creativity through voice.
Your expression,
determination.
We used to talk
talk about things we barely understand:
nirvana –
love and happiness –
sadness.
We agreed:
we had no idea where
we would end up.
It didn’t matter.
As long as there was
love,
enjoyment;
in every fiber of our being.
Through every action
of every day we lived.
You loved the idea of
starting over.
Moving on to a new life
encompassing contentment;
hope.
You let yourself fill with
discontent,
indignation.
Only seen,
if you allowed.
It built up,
compressed,
petrified.
But you never let it out.
I wish you would have let it burst.
I wanted you to let it explode
and pour out of your mind.
Like sand –
release the weight inside.
Yet instead,
you tied a knot.
One that will never be undone.
sand turned into rocks
and pulled you to the bottom of the ocean.
You would never let
emotions;
taint how you loved the world.
Instability;
dull the flame inside you.
The perfect release,
you found your nirvana.
Expelled beauty through your existence
and the world soaked it up.
When folding clouds roll
across a rose and lavender
stained sky.
When the moonlight
tears the ocean in half;
and the waves try to heal themselves.
Memory
Orange trees
painted white one-third
of the way up,
supposedly to keep the ants
and scorpions
from indulging.
I never believed that.
The smell of chlorine
punctured the air,
and the water evaporated within
seconds
of touching the pavement.
Running barefoot.
Black-bottom feet, impervious to the gravel
below.
We were always barefoot.
Peanut butter sandwiches
on potato bread washed
down by bitter iced tea
soaked up the heat.
There was no such thing as “sweet” tea.
Skin so tan,
almost the same shade
as the dirt;
hair so bleached,
almost as pale
as the sun’s glare.
We never used sunscreen.
An endless 12 foot deep pool
held ultimate diving contests
from the once-blue
diving board;
goggles and water wings never forgotten.
Laying on rafts with cupholders,
blankly gazing
into the everlasting
azure sky.
We made up stories as the temperature
rose to 112 degrees.
The heat makes the day
glide through honey;
roads release
apparitions and cars
Bowie HS
11