by Khristy L. Knudtson I focused and realized your face has not looked this beautiful since I was a child and since I was your “Muffin.”I focused and realized your face has not looked this beautiful since it was illuminated in the middle of these crosshairs.The smooth, crescent moon of the trigger carressed…
By: Julie Worsham If I’m being honest I wake up each day filled with apprehension Am I the right one to do this job Am I capable of delivering this lesson? If I’m being honest I wonder if a day will ever come when I actually reach youYou staring back…
By: Kristal Peace More and more Often now, The oak tree in the center of Our yard inexplicably Begins to weep. Every day, for two weeks, Its branches sag, and its leaves cascade To the ground, like the stream Of a waterfall, drenching the entire lawn. But It is Summer,…
by Kristal Peace Poetry is the sound of the soul Crying. It is the way the heart speaks when there is no one Who will listen. It is the voice of those who have been compelled to be Silent For so long. Poetry is Pain: Distilled.
by The Poet Darkling I gaze upon the poet;her words – ponderless, profound;deep and dark and blue –and think,what such have I to offerfrom my humble beginningsor my sordid pastto justify the title of poet? To answer the unanswerable? To defend my consumptionof fish, of fowl, of air, of love?…
by Chantae Eaton “Beep beep, beep beep.” His alarm sounded promptly at six a.m., the same as it had every Monday since his eighteenth birthday. Today it did not fulfill its duty in rousing him. Rufus was already awake and had been for some time. He’d spent the last three…
by Kristal Peace My confidant… How did we get here againTo knives thrownHoles madeVows shatteredFeelings swayed. My ally… When did we find our way backTo moments beforeCivilized discourseTo rage and fearAnd throats screamed hoarse. My sympathizer… Why do we prefer the roadAdorned with bramblesThistles and thornsLittered with grudgesAnd studded with…
by Amy Southard Jodi looked at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it was 11:11 PM. She laid in the magnificent king-sized four poster bed waiting for her husband Mark to join her. Neither of them had stayed in a place so fancy before, not because they couldn’t…
by The Poet Darkling Wrenched from the fryerstraight into the flamesof hatred and avarice goall duty and senseand a thousand convictionswe’ve deemed unneeded,such as dignity, pride,and any righteous defense when our moral leaders areneither leaders nor moraland we give them a passto escape the blamewhich belongs to no oneexcept We…
by Khristy L. Knudtson I spend five days of my seven educating teenagers pretending I’m not an emotional delinquent with the same “mommy issues” as the boy with the overgrown yellow hair in the back row with the newly minted scars. He radiates pain like a nuclear bomb everywhere he…