Category: 2022-23 Submissions

Writing Process

Writing Process

I grip the pencil tight as if it is a lifeboat.
Drowning.
Drowning.
Drowning.

A piercing, squeezing pressure engulfs my head,
My warm face turns a bright, beet red.
Every ounce of energy fights back the waterfall, my eyes, a weary, weak dam.
The first drop trickles down, and the floodgates open.
Extremely overwhelmed, all I can do is pray
That no one looks up from their page.
I can feel the eyes on me, a judgy, harsh gaze.
Everyone is staring, I’ve been thrown to center stage.

Not knowing what to write,
I fear that nothing I do could possibly be right.

With a pencil to the page, I take a deep breath,
The pencil runs across the page, nonstop.
It dances through the paper, only listening to my thoughts.
I tune out the voice. The voice in my head that tells me what is and isn’t “good”
I realized that I misunderstood what it meant to write the whole time.
I don’t need to do it to please others—only myself.

River

The emerald water rushes by
Over the moss covered rocks

Water slips over the edge of a boulder
Creating a gorgeous waterfall
Cascading
Down
Down
Down
It falls
With a small crash

The long weeds sway in the breeze
Humming a quiet song
Dancing left and right
Left and right

The pink and white flowers on the shore glow in the bright sunshine
Their aromas mix with the fresh smell of the water
They cover the land around them with beautiful colors and cheerful smells
As if it had been showered in the little flowers

Bees and hummingbirds buzz from flower to flower
Pollinating generations of flowers for years to come

In the water
Little minnows
No longer than my pinkie
Secretly nip at my feet
Their little bodies shimmer as the sunlight dances on them

Above all of us the trees cast its warm, protective shadow on the river
Keeping everyone safe inside
Like a mother protecting her children

Every once in a while a bright green leaf will silently fly down to earth
Creating a colorful bed of leaves
On the brown forest floor

Along the river there’s winding dirt path
That gives everyone a chance to see the magical view
Sometimes people walk down it
Taking a picture of the scene
Every once in a while a deer bounds down the path to get a drink of water
But most of the time it’s quiet leaving the river in peace

It’s not silent
But quiet
Calm
Peaceful

Found poem

Faced with the hellish summer, camouflaging and ambushing
it never ends
Another ominous wind would whip up a storm, bringing more than a flurry into their home. Colored embers, red and yellow, drift down.
In the night, carved pumpkins and a bereaved autumn loom. Deep in the shadows, roaches encroach.
a whiskey-breath nightmare with malevolent intentions follows her on the trail.
A vigilant presence has kept vigil, guarding children who run swiftly through thickets.
like a bright angel, a bird seeking the sun.
So pure of heart, and a thing so rare
It is a sin to kill a mockingbird

Citation: Lee, Harper. To Kill a Mockingbird. New York: Grand Central Publishing, 1960

Unlovable

A field of flowers forms around me,
flowers with colors that I have yet to have seen,
hues untouched by the human eye.
Through the endless pit of petals,
Past pink Camellias, passing Lilies, and Tulips,
I identify your face.
The figure that becomes of you makes me realize

That this is only a dream.

The Garden

The grass that grows beyond the line
The garden of the most divine
If only it was mine
Its hands reach far and wide
The grass is left with little time
The lilacs growing taller
The roses are owned by no one
Its golden leaves are undone
Its vast form, so wild and free
Left for us to mourn and plea
And only if you look beyond
Behind the blue and silver pond
And if it’s found or discovered
The leaves will have to flee
Leaving not a single flower
To be plucked by you or me
No one can go beyond the line
Of bright grass and deep green vine
You want to keep this perfect garden
But nothing about it is kept, it’s guarded
You can leave it behind and just be done
The garden is owned by no one.

Broken-glass Hearts

Our hearts are made to dazzle.
They climb and fall and burn and sparkle,
like an elaborate light show
a saga told through tiny sparks.

When we learn we can be burned
We subdue ourselves until we barely simmer.
A heat re-directed inwards.

We drink fake diamonds and get broken-glass
Hearts, just to kill what makes us raw.
Fire can’t be polished, but ash can be preserved
So we burn ourselves out
Chasing perfection and
Finding only inhumanity.

Authenticity is a double
Edged sword but I would
Rather get my heart broken
As my self than as a
Silk-covered shell.

You can’t make people
Love you so sanding
Yourself into an ideal is
Just pain for the sake of pain

Being told you are too much
Is like squeezing lime juice in your eyes
But sink your feet into the earth
And hold yourself oak-tree still
And say “you’re right, so what”?
And let yourself hurt, be painfully
Human, see the world through
vibrant eyes. Love and listen
And hope and dream, burn through this broken glass heart.

My Winter Wonderland

Glittering expanses stretch as far as the eye can see, so far that one might think that the soft, silent snow was all there was to see.
Enormous trees stretch their branches toward the sky, but even in such a high place, the sky seemed further away than ever.
The painted wooden condos rise from the ground and reach almost to the top of the highest pine tree.
Beauty shines from every corner, promise at the tip of every ridge in the distance.
Clear ringing voices diminish so that all you can hear is yourself.
It is sanity at its peak,
That way it has snow in every direction.
In the spring, the snow is stripped away,
Vibrant flowers now shine with morning dew drops, welcoming summer’s sweltering rays.
In autumn, browned needles and jingling circular leaves fall from the sky,
Then the snow comes.
Sweeping every direction with its pristine rays,
Sheltering sleeping animals for their winter naps,
Structuring the unraveling threads sweeping their way through my mind,
Tying the strands of organized, logical thought away,
The snow covers it all,
Melting my doubt,
Piling more to my happiness,
Laughter is the only thing in the snow that rings through to the rest of the world.
Laughter comes from the mountains,
From my family, gathered around our red stockings and singing merry songs,
Digging holes through the snowplow pile from the parking lot,
From my grandfather, chasing me with crumbling snowballs in his hands.
Snow is only the bow on top that makes it all tie together.