Anticipation. Closings. That yellow hue. Come this eighth month, it’s quieter—where did everyone go? The air is hot, the sidewalks pungent in scent. In response, people flee from the concrete—the prickly heat. A time to retreat. A time to create.
Sweaty days, chilly nights. The restoration of fresh air and fresh minds. You loosen your grip. In your notebook, your hand runs wild. Marks of ink flower into stories and sonnets. Into beauty.
After a five hour drive, you’ve made it to your weekend destination. A coastal town of character and charm. First stop? The village center. A coffee shop catches your eye and you realize your need for a caffeine reboot. In you wander, espresso and a treat craving on the mind. You’re rerouted upon noticing the gathering to your left. There are people chatting, telling stories. Smiling faces and engaged minds. You grin, happy to be where you are. To be present.
Welcome to the Messy Poetry Slam.
By Meg Rose French
The soapy tint,
The claustrophobic grip,
The English weather goes,
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The fish fly
And the coral blooms,
Under the waves
Of this sky blue lagoon.
The blue glow surrounds,
The curtains sway.
Are we under the sea?
On this wet Sunday.
No mirrors are needed,
The puddles will do
The seaweed is dripping,
The Drainpipes too.
The roads are deserted
No divers will swim,
The waves tap the windows
Sailing blue light within.
By Jorja Campbell
Finger upon finger
hand upon hand
Suddenly wearing the sophisticated
concealing all loneliness
My mind often falters
to questionable insecurities
Who am I
Why am I here
From the grabbing of unnecessary skin
to stretch marks in the shape
of adolescent clouds
I beg to be held
like a new born baby
in the arms of a gratified mother
filled completely and utterly
By Kailee Chase
Come and rest your bones with me
Where the soft and empty lie
Write me love songs, only you
And maybe sing them to me too
A back massage and 12 glasses of wine
Delicate fingers trickling down my spine
Feel the imperfections in my skin?
Or my lies or my sin?
You’re worried you’ll like it, or love it too
But no need to worry and no need to fall
By Emma S.
I know that my tea is getting cold
But I still forget about the time
I know that there has to be clouds
But I still want the sun to always shine
I know that all flowers will wither
But I still water their rests
I know that my heart can´t break
But I still feel it crackin´ in my chest
I know that summer will come back
But I still cry about the cold
I know that they only want what´s best
But I still can´t live like I´ve been told
I know that I have no reason
But I keep on being shy
I know that the coffee is too hot
But I still burn myself each try
I know that nothing has a meaning
But I still can´t help to wish for one
I know that the future ends on the last page
But I still neglect that there is none
I know that I cannot always win
But I still expect myself to spark
I know that the stars need the night to shine
But I am still afraid of the dark
I know that wounds are gonna heal
But I still think the pain is permanent
I know that the world owes me no answers
But I still look for some sense
I know that after ebb comes tidal
But I still build my castles at the shore
I know that everything comes to an end
But I still wish for more
I know that I am nothing
But I cannot stop to hope
I know these words are stupid
But at least they help me cope
By Izzy Duff
They say to write of experience
And many of those have I had
So why am I solely producing
Chaos and tales of my dad.
By Rosa Nevison (@rosanevison)
We were falling down the hole
of long lost feelings
to be forgotten, we stole;
we were good at stealing.
out of mind, out of sight
we could do no harm
everyday i trespassed
so i could see you calm.
October’s mistakes haunted us in November
i looked at you and saw
what i had severed.
distancing and running
but i could not hide
from notes in green bottles
brought up by the tide.
finally i saw, looked into your eyes
a canvas of shadows, an ash grey sky.
the clouds rumbled in,
the sun almost shining
i hated and loved you,
but everyone deserves a silver lining.
By Esther Lee
Somewhere, tangled up in that sun-splattered flesh, those wayward bones,
(it’s a wayward body in general, if you’re being honest)
There is heart
That beats like the sun, that beats like a drum
And yet I stitch my knees to my shoulders and sanctify the flower
Growing in the hollow of the left side of my chest
With unholy hands
(i’m trying to check if i’m alive even though i know i’m still breathing)
And tape down the flowers to translucent veins
A diluted red-blue
The color of a frown
Somewhere in that wayward body there is a heart
Somewhere in that wayward body there is a heart, and then
There is a hand
That refuses to let go of it
By Morgan-Lee Snell
He reaches for me,
fingers sliding up my thigh.
Here, he finds the snakes.
* * *
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