Your Eyes

In your eyes I was a piece of chocolate cake
Everyone admired it and fantasized about having a bite
thinking it would satisfy their cravings
But once you had a bite
it wasn’t worth the publicity
I wasn’t good enough
I wasn’t as satisfying as I looked to be
That chocolate cake wasn’t so special anymore
You threw me away
like garbage that wasn’t so conenient anymore
Although I tried to make myself useful
and look desirable
it didn’t work
You pushed me further away
You didn’t want me anymore
In your eyes I was a new toy that got so overused
you grew old of it and wanted new toys
It was then that that once new
alluring object was left broken
and used wondering what they did wrong
that they weren’t able to satisfy your needs
Because in your eyes
I was never your first love
I was never your special comfort
I was just an object
An object you so overly used and left behind
not caring to remember what memories you shared with it

Just to Feel

At some point in life
You realise your place
In a world so big
What will you ever really do?
So there you are
Sitting numb at the thought
You want to feel
Feel like you’re making a difference
Like you mean something
Like you deserve a spot on this crazy world
that we call home
Now you feel sad
You felt inspired for a mere moment
Thinking you could make a difference
But now you know
You never will
So now you’re sad
Wishing you could be that underdog on TV
Showing the world you really can
But now you’re frustrated
Feeling useless as you realise your size
What will you do?
What can you do?
Nothing
That’s the worst part of it
You know you won’t try
Because no matter the thoughts
There are others saying no
Saying stop, go back, don’t try
There you are
Not doing anything
Because a thought said no
You told yourself no
When all you wanna hear is yes
But how can this internal war happen
How could you contradict yourself?
You feel numb
Such a rush of emotions
leaves you empty of any others
So now you desire
To feel something
Anything
After awhile you don’t just desire
You are desperate
And we all know desperate animals lash out
But how can you lash out
If you are being cornered by your own mind?
You lash out in the only way you know how
You take what is inside and you yank it out
You purge, you bleed, you cry
You try everything too feel again
Even if it is a bad feeling
It’s a feeling
Now you are stuck
If you take this new feeling too far
You end up hurting more than you wanted to
You want to jump, drown, sleep
But you want to feel the finale
But you also want to feel tomorrow
You want to jump, but walk away
You want to drown, but swim to shore
You want to sleep, but wake up
With the hope of feeling the next day
Feeling something
Feeling anything


Garza High School

12

Collectibles

It’s something like being interested                                                                                      in dollhouse miniatures … Or, you know, putting a ship in a bottle.                            – Lucia Perillo, on modern poetry

 Dollhouses are gilded                                                                                             gingerbread with windows the size                                                                                   of fingernails and furnished                                                                                           with polished plastic picnic tables. They                                                                 canonize flawless families                                                                                                     in flimsy fabric ensembles, delicately                                                             assembling copies                                                                                                           without originals. The building will                                                                                 be abandoned in the bedroom corner.

 A boat in a bottle is a cloud                                                                                                       in an hourglass: water kept in                                                                                                a closed circle, tumbled into seaglass.                                                                                It was made in the century                                                                                                      of whale hunts, now clouded by dust and                                                                          tidal with condensation. My grandfather                                                                          kept it in his study the way a shark holds its egg purse or                                         how a sailor clutches a locket.

 There are so many lives                                                                                                             we are not living.                                                                                                                         There are so many lives                                                                                                              we are no longer living.                                                                                                      There are so many ways                                                                                                             to build with precision.


James Bowie High School

12

Hubris From 35,000 Feet

The in-flight map says                                                                                                                              we’re over Winnetka,                                                                                            but the suburb looks the same,

and I get the same feeling:                                                                                                                       I could card my hands                                                                                                                 through tiny trees                                                                                                                         and puncture frozen ponds.

I want to trace                                                                                                                                                the lines the farmers made.                                                                                    I want to work                                                                                                                                                 with my uncalloused hands.

If there is sadness here,                                                                                                          it is stowed                                                                                                                                                      in the overhead compartment.

Arrogance peeks its blonde head                                                                            through the cabin door.                                                                                                                               I pretend to look out the window.

Separated from Earth                                                                                                                                by a thin layer of vapor,                                                                                      these streets could belong to me.


James Bowie High School

12

Paper Dreams

 My dreams have grown                                                                                       mundanely vivid. I can’t                                                                                             nimbly untangle                                                                                                                 their milky opacity from                                                                                                    my waking life. Last night,

 I dreamt of folding paper animals,                                                                     touching corner to crease,                                                                                 mimicking breathing                                                                                             creatures: crane, cat, fish, and fox.                                                                                     I ordered them

 on the horizon of my dresser –                                                                                             a patient pageant towards the ark,                                                                           spaced airily,                                                                                                                           like nightgowns on a clothesline                                                                                       or owls in the night.

 When I shuddered into morning,                                                                                         I woke not to a rush of cranes,                                                                                         but to the wind                                                                                                           fluttering a map                                                                                                           through my open window.

 The topography covered me                                                                                             like a quilt. My dreams were                                                                                           thin, blue paper, but                                                                                                                   I could put a pin through the map                                                                                 and trace the interstate with thread.


James Bowie High School

12

Circus

you favor the contrast between the red
and the black

my elegance swings but hangs

what if you have no way of determining whether this entertainment is just an excuse to disguise my fall as something beautiful?

(yes) i have glitter in my eyes
and perhaps you can’t see my particular pain?

i
have to glorify this lie
although it is true that
i
am but a trapeze acrobat

in no way am i just red or fancy or flexible

you are not vexed by my nature because (to you)
i am an orchestra (too)
easily you develop an adoration for my tunes

i am so high and
(i know) i entertain your loss(es)

the red i sport
you
do not envision as blood

i am love
i am the seasons
hurting or pleasing

why is time a bore?
you shouldn’t think (that) i was born this way

i sparkle for a reason
even if the first time is the last
even if the landing isn’t pretty
i know why i stand

nonetheless
i crave an immediate and sudden end to this (ride)
it feels like 25 cents
hunger is past 12
and fun is only a 3 letter word


Stony Point High School

12

A Strong Panicked Writer Is A Beautiful Poem

Every,      and, of,       heaving,

           fall, rise,      my, chest,

                                                        will,

                                                        lead,

                                                        to,

                                                        me,

                                                        falling,

                                                        down,

                                                    I’m at

                                             a two

                                      way street

                                where                  I

                           can’t                              decide

                         where                                    to

                       go                                              in

                    my                                                       panic,

      Thump,          Thump, Thump,           Thump, Thump,

                  Thump, Thump,            Thump, Thump,  Thump,

         I c a    n ‘ t b r   e a t h e ,

              B u t I w o  n ‘ t l e t t h a t  s t o p m e,

           I w o n ‘  t d i e,

        Because I am a beautiful poem,

        And my every breath is a comma,

        To never end the sound of my voice speaking to you,

        I will defy the rules that my every breath must be like periods,

        They don’t want to be like periods in how they perfect the art of endings,

        You say my every breath should be like periods so I’ll be more structurally put together,

        But I thrive in my quirkiness, and actually find myself too irreplaceable of a soul to fade,

        I’m a panicked person that isn’t structurally put together,

        Yet able to surprise you with how I won’t back out,

        This beautiful poem of a person written before you won’t end with a period,

        Because all of my pulses are commas that perfect the art of not being finished off,

        Inside of this strong panicked writer,


Mcneil High School

12

Firework

Hesitation,
Simmering sparks of significant heat on the sulfur strand
Conducted the burst’s bellowing descent onto the base of the inevitable. Carefully, the chemicals collapsed.
A combusted, impassioned corkscrew.
Color catapulted, covering the ceiling with a careful celestial of vibrance:
Raw hues of reserved raspberry,
ripe reds with dashes of ruby.
The sky’s glitter growled gradual gasps of
combustion, glorifying the lustful holler
that eventually evolved: exploded,
enticing explicit observations from the Earthbound.
The once dark and dim became the dashing and distinctive, daring new experiences. a nebula only needing us – now.
no longer night, but a bright sky of abstract emotions: colors – no harsh words,
however hues of the heart hovering like heavenly herrings.
but below the heaven: blues bark, burgundy babbles, blasting back the daylight.

an aurora illuminating the paling iridescent,

aiding the avoidance of the arid non-artificial and the naiveté of the now. maturity mirroring that of the magnificent momentary fire in the sky. a new found distraction from the looming disastrous deadline of the sky’s delicate painting,

drifting into the deep dark. The once fickle fiasco fades, falling into the forthcoming nostalgia of the once shared sky. ash remnants falling, bound
no longer to the valley of the temporary, but forever constrained by the reality of brief circumstance and time, buried as fossils of earth’s memory,
no different than us.


James Bowie High School

12

The Inconspicuous Night

With the sun painting sunsets in his eyes,
his figure as tall as trees made keen shade.

Parted lips, were hues of red at first light.
Hands as soft as picnic blankets, homemade.

Smiling wider than children with their ice cream.
His voice so pleasing, birds cannot compare.

Combined with the scent of cologne, I gleam,
for he and I could be the perfect pair.

With a twisted soul clouding the moonlight,
reeking the stench of the saloon nearby.

His eyes now pitch black as the lonely night,
slurring cold careless words oh my, goodbye.

For the sun may be up and shining bright,
one shall not forget the unnoticed night.


James Bowie High School

12