Hot coffee in place of iced. A hoodie on hand for cooler nights. A tsunami of back-to-school ads and deals. Time to transition—but why? How?
No more school bus send-offs and pre-packed lunches. New beginnings are now yours to face and embrace. Overwhelming yet empowering. Here are some messy words to get lost in for a bit.
Welcome to the September Poetry Slam
My skin is blue, My skin is see-through
By Mary Legorburu (@marylegorburu)
Underneath my skin,
It’s yellow and blue
Like a lemon cake
With drops of icing too.
It stretches for miles
And I know,
One day the baker will get bored
Of rolling the same dough.
Nobody expects its bitterness,
For cake is not bitter
Yet this cake is everyone’s favourite
People like to shove their hands in,
And spit it out
So, I smooth over my skin,
Running from my doubt
And the layers of minefields
Stuck in my brain.
Why can I never seem to get off this train?
Because something weighs me down,
It’s heavy and thick
Not to say, inconsiderate…
Miles and miles of my soft skin is rolled
It cracks and sticks to the table
Forcing you to start again.
Anxiety our last spring gave
By Takács Réka
Nearly the end forever of school
We all started to drink more
coffee and talk less hopeful about
Started to drive, but went hardly anywhere,
Smoking cigarettes while working out
Changing friends and lovers in secret
Staring at the sun outside, in the shades
of our funny sunglasses
Eating sweets and pastries
Shouting and crying, and crying
out of laughter
Failing and trying
Taking blurry photographs and
listening to weirdly calming songs,
dancing, rewatching movies,
hate our homes; and love it
Thinking we are so ready and mature
for our independent lives,
just as fear climbing down
from our brain to our stomach
Giving us that bittersweet taste
of what freedom could feel.
We are just in search for something,
that is still raw, and clean, and real.
Escape Back to Childhood
By Lily Abel
The suns twinkle radiated in your eyes.
Positive yellow flowers dance in the breeze,
A warm, summer breeze.
No, there is just a child here.
No, just the present, the smells, touch, feelings.
The vibrations of the trees,
Which immerse you in their world,
Protection from the outside,
Tranquility, magic, they sooth and heal.
Paths, ill defined,
Follow your instincts,
There’s no right or wrong.
Time is measured in memories,
Clocks have no place here.
Can always be summoned.
Just escape into nature,
Create your own world.
And eyes, sparkling with life,
Remember, you’re always free
NOVEMBER 6 2000
By Nola Altemus
My life began at the start of a meaningless war
All I’ve ever known is a state of unrest and injustice
Now I dance like I have flowers growing
from the soles of my feet
and rain coming from my fingertips
now i Laugh like a California earthquake
and kiss like someone
who hasn’t been kissed since a time of peace
a bad woman, a sinful girl
I am only a women who has never seen accord in her world
So how would I know to sit down and cross my legs
You say we love and let go too quickly
But all I know is insurrection in this world,
how could i hold on, when i’ve never seen permanence
My life started as people were dying
with faces they wouldn’t show on TV,
in places they didn’t show me on maps
I’ll cause a state of unrest
it’s the only state I know
I can have peace when you show me what it looks like.
Small Town Syndrome
By Chloe Mason (@chlochlo_mason)
In the town I live, the people are aware
The community alternative and full of love.
A walk on the street means being hugged by at least 8 people.
The coffee here is creamy and the organic shop is always well stocked.
There are beaches with golden sands and twinkling waters.
There is lush forest with waterfalls galore.
The birds here sing, and the cicadas hum.
But there is a lack here
Why of course there’s a lack
The surrounding mountains create isolation
There’s an absence of future
Minds float for too long in the now
Overstaying their welcome, ending up in the past
Suburban boys get caught up in what should be fleeting emotions.
I watch as they throw themselves into fences.
Baby girls become so internalised they forget how to speak.
I watch as their noses drip with side effect blood.
Neurotic artists hurry from job to job,
Secretly shadowed by the world itself.
I watch as their baskets of vegetables swing wildly in their hands,
they appear innocently overwhelmed.
The boys move through their lives like they move through their baby-girls,
soundlessly and swiftly,
leaving behind choked breaths and bed ridden gazes at the ceiling.
The girls grip to things.
A boys hand.
Her hold on existence.
The alternative a looping repetition of moments.
The artists spend their nights with psychedelics.
It tosses them round.
Turning them into children again,
full up with imagination and vision,
and then into nothing at all.
These are the unspoken words that float in our minds as we walk down the street,
blowing kisses to our fellow neighbours
My mind is a kaleidoscope,
I find myself unable to cope
with the simple tasks in front of me.
My brain is a static tv.
and what I feel is so lovely
To be broken down into fleeting moments
of pure euphoria, my eyes dancing, hair twirling
Crashing, as my feet, like a tree, pin me, down to earth. Rooted.
Though I flow like the waves that once carried me from place to place
I find that water helps me breathe, my minuscule thoughts crystalize into my mind, nothing to find just my pulse and life.
Serene, flowing through the valley in my stomach, echoing rhythmically into my heartbeat. Forgetting about the kaleidoscope.
Because right now I am breathing.
I am breathing.
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