October Poetry Slam

favorites, messy thoughts, poetry slam

Orange drips from above. Reds and yellows ooze from every crevasse. The world glows. Shadows linger—thoughts do too. The smell is new.

Your eyes feel different. Skin is parched, hair too. Hands feel colder, heart feels warmer. The 1st hits and smiles on strangers seem to both surge and vanish. Cold nights, (somewhat) warm days. Contrast.

Whilst standing impatiently waiting for the walk signal to flash, you rest by leaning on a telephone pole to your right. Your eyes gaze over and a tacked-up flyer catches your eye: “Messy Poetry Slam! Come join us—read your own or just sit in and listen. We’d love to have you.”

Looks like tonight won’t be as bad as you thought…


This Is Why I Hate Tuesdays

By Ticia Almazan

     You did not like cement benches.

When I asked you why,

You said it was because they made your back ache.

I laughed and sat on the grass with you,

Against a tree so we had somewhere to lean on.

I sat there with you every Tuesday at six p.m.,

But never did I tell you that I hated sitting on grass.

The late-afternoon dew on the leaves made me feel a little uncomfortable,

And the ants seemed to love walking on my skin.

Even then,

I sat on the grass with you,

Dew, and ants, and all,


Because you were there anyway.

Fast forward to nine months later,

and we no longer meet on Tuesdays.

You meet with somebody else now,

And what baffles me every day,

Is how I see you sitting on a cement bench

With somebody you now call yours—

Because you do not like cement benches.

But there you were,

With your back hunched and eyes shining,

While I sit alone on the dewy grass,

Leaning against our tree,

Only accompanied by the ants that walk on my skin.



By Giulia G.

‘Stranger, I only have a
vague and casual memory
of your voice
blurred by a pawing train
but your sound
comes to me
clear and distinct
like a melody discovered
a chord forgotten
and found again.

The strings of my violin
smile at you



By Sarah Kearns

I wonder how long

it will take

till my sisters are safe

till my mom stops crying

and my dad stops coming home late.

Till my skin isn’t coated

with the scars of wars

fought before me.

Till my bones don’t ache

with the heavy weight

I must carry.

Months to years

blur to one

time has passed

but nothing has been done.

I am still waiting.



By Camila Killion


I. unfinished books

II. bread and chocolate in bed at 1pm

III. filled up journal pages with unfulfilled promises to myself

IV. roses and black clothes

V. mediocre masterpieces in a sketchbook

VI. walking home alone and crying at 4pm

VII. crumbs

VIII. lies

IX. poison

X. so lonely and afraid so afraid


I. the morning sun

II. crying over wine in a bathtub with friends at 2pm

III. ribbons in my hair

IV. outside picking flowers and climbing trees

V. wearing rings and necklaces from friends and lovers

VI. clean sheets and shirts and socks

VII. piles of finished paintings

VIII. writing love letters

IX. sparkling and kind

X. no longer afraid of myself


On depersonalization

By Alexa Magdaleno

open the door wide
and let me in
or in this case
let me out.
make the music fade out
make the people see me
make me see the people
make me see me
make me be me
i can’t go on in this
twisted, laid out
sorry excuse for reality.
this is not reality-
headphones glued in
blank expressions of pondering
observing but not living
feeling but not reacting
moving my body

without controlling it
i’m begging
i’m pleading and calling out
to anyone in higher position
to help me
and make me human again
bring me back to reality-
(if i was ever in that strange
land to begin with)



By Tamsin Cook

Drunk on Spirits and Emotions

We danced our way into the brilliant night

Are those stars or fairy lights around us?

I can’t tell

You grab my face with both hands

And tell me I am worthy

Of love, of happiness, of good

And I tell you the same

But I’m not sure

Either of us

Believed the other



By Maya Saidel


what had he done

against the silk under his lids

waking dreams

murky chambers of late night thoughts

swamps of colors

pulsing like an uncontrollable beast

he feels the demon inside his chest


the rusty orange of his movements

the cool bruised purple of his breath

these colors inside of him

he does not understand



By Christan Tamulewicz

She snaps her bubblegum like a

rat’s brittle backbone the

sound ricochets off muted walls with a


arranging her disposition with the care of a sculptor,

so that she can be

“back with a vengeance”.

I don’t remember much of what she said,

verbal rose-colored spit in any


-but god it was beautiful.


* * *

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for a chance to be featured!


  1. The first poem, “This Is Why I Hate Tuesdays,” made me say an audible “oh” when I read it. It was really sincere and it made my heart hurt a bit; I’m glad that I got to experience it.

  2. Caterina says

    These aren’t amazing!!! This kind of talent is so inspiring to readers:)

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