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Someday, We’ll Fly Away

Harper Poole

Someday, We’ll Fly Away

And we will live with the distant scribble of stars.

And we won’t need telescopes because the glorious galaxies are now our radiant sky.

Because Someday, We’ll Fly Away.

Lonely nights and midnight frights and all sorts of scares are no longer.

Swimming in starlight seas and sipping meteor teas

are now activities I ponder.

Because Someday, We’ll Fly Away.

Swaying trees and bumblebees are now distant memories

And as I sit and wait each day

Why Now Can’t We Fly Away?

Unanswered questions and poignant predicaments are supposed to

disappear in this galactic sea,

But know I know it’s not where you are,

It’s Who You Want To Be.

Happiness is a blessing, but addiction to it is a curse

In order to experience true joy,

You Must Have Sadness First!

Although I know this, true to be,

I’d still love to float freely

In a Place of Peaceful Serenity

Some say it’s not the destination,

It’s the journey

But the Journey Never Ends

We’re always experiencing

new and confusing universes

Wherever We’re Sent

I know that it won’t

happen today

But Someday,

We Will Fly Away

 

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The Bard

~ Brenna Connell ~

 

I ride under the guise of a simple traveler,

Wandering far and wide in search of the distant unknown;

I keep myself hidden with every strange encounter

But by the fire, by my dear companions, away the cloak is thrown.

I paint word-pictures in the air, hold one-sided conversations,

Speak my truth and pierce the air with unapologetic honesty;

I see potential in the sparks of fire, the star-speckled sky

For grand epics and long-woven yarns, the making of a story.

 

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relinquish

relinquish

all those bad memories
the ones you dwell upon everyday
cannot come with you
there’s nothing you can do about them now
leave them behind in a burlap sack
tie it up
and toss it into the river
with wild dogs inside
pray the water chills them to the bone

all those you hold dear
hold tighter
they are your raft,
your fire,
and the sum of all your love
love harder

don’t lose your head
don’t lose your breath
but lose your fear
you are not obligated to care
about what others think of you

-s.b.

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Untitled

Julia McCormack

Poetry is like a cat,

Bounding from one line to the next,

Sometimes it’s fluffy, filled with description,

Others it scratches at your heart,

Trying to make sure you get the message,

Like some cats it lies around all day,

Going on in English no one understands,

Some poems are constantly read as if hunting for readers like mice,

All cats need an owner just as the owner needs them,

I suppose that’s why there will always be poets creating new kittens,

Now I must apologize for I fear I have made a lazy hairless cat,

So, go and discover a fluffier one and give it a rub for me.

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we’ll carry on

Lucy

Along the way, the candle in your lantern may blow out. Make sure you bring matches to relight it if you have to;

Along the way, you may run into something. If it is a bear, ignore it and hope it ignores you. If it is a spirit, offer up anything you have for good passing through their forest. You can hunt more. If it is a weary traveler, only give food you have to spare;

Along the way, you may lose your map. Follow the stars. They are here to guide you;

Along the way, your hopes may dampen. Never mind that, for you must be stronger than doubt;

Along the way, your extra clothes may become burdensome. Always keep them, though. The nights can get cold;

Along the way, follow the songbirds. Sing back to them; enjoy their kinship while you can;

Along the way, you may run out of kindling. Bark or dead leaves will do;

Along the way, you will miss home. But the adventure is your home, the sky your ceiling, and as long as you keep pushing through, homesickness will be at bay;

Along the way, you will be inclined to give up,

Don’t;

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black and white

 

black /blak/

noun.

the color of the world on days where it’s too much. the sound of silence when all you want to do is speak, staring too long to try to remember how anything feels. the color of never ending keys on a piano that remind you of his heart. ink splatters on old clothes, the text on forgotten books from times past. the color of his wings when you two flew up to the sun, but he let you fall into the sea. black is color you saw when you looked into his eyes and realized how foolish you were to have ever loved him.

white /(h)wīt/

noun.

the color of new beginnings, of scars beginning to heal over. the foam from the waves that crashed upon you over and over again, until they didn’t as much anymore. the color of the keys that made you forget, trying to remedy the broken parts of its player. the pages of the books that you read that made you dream again, hope again. the color of the shirt you wore when you first saw the boy. the innocence you see in little kids, reminding us all of how the world can still be good sometimes. the color you saw when you looked up at the boy that saved you. his hair so light, that sometimes you could’ve sworn you almost saw a halo. white is color of your wings when you realize that you can finally fly again, but this time without the fear of falling into the sea.

 

-b.f

 

 

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Senescence

Someone please kill me
before I explode
into over 7 billion pieces of glass
and scatter over all the places anyone has ever deemed a landmark,
for someone to discover me
or mindlessly stumble over me
as they stare up at some soulless, unforgiving structure
that seems sturdy and eternal
but will one day return to the dust
that all things return to when faced
with the ever-reaching claws of time
If they stumble,
their feet will snag on my edges
and bleed over the ruins,
or perhaps someone will pick me up,
shrug,
and cast me away again
on the assumption that I am simply a piece of something
broken and long-forgotten,
or maybe the sunlight will bounce off of me
at just the right angle
and I will gleam in a child’s eye
and their unconscious attraction to ordinary things
with no place in the world
will draw them to me
and they will pocket me to add to their collection
of things they found to have uncategorizable beauty
in a world constantly flooring the gas pedal of the fastest car
to meet the loving embrace of death
while declaring victory or success
or some other kind of fulfillment
and I will gather dust in a drawer
alongside rocks and pebbles
and small shells
and pieces of lost pottery with chipping paint
until everything rots

 

-Jeremiah Zaeske

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Day vs Night

 

Jeremiah Zaeske

 

Green hills roll like ripples in the sea of earth

The sun reigns the sky

its fire casting light upon the grassy plane

illuminating the colors

Colors leaping out in joy

This scene has all the bright and beautiful feelings of a youthful day

Only upon closer inspection can it be seen that the sky has other inhabitants

that under the laughter of day is the sound of the moon

being smothered beneath the burning hot gold

A dark looming figure

A stain that won’t come out

A reminder that as long as the earth spins

day will always turn to night

Some dread it

and cling to day as their sanctuary

Deem the night their enemy

A killer of light

The end of all days

The more the sun unleashes its grip on the sky

the more they fear that time has slipped through their fingers like salt water

But all the beauty of the world still stands there in the darkness

You don’t need the bright colors to feel it

There’s hope in the grey

Night and days is a symbiosis

 

 

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thoughts from a cherry wood shelf

By Maddie Jaffe

to be an overthinker,

you must first understand what it means.

is there such a thing as an underthinker?

whose skull is a dusty, hollow, echoing shell?

or a just-right thinker,

with thoughts piled neatly on cherry wood shelves?

maybe not

or maybe so

but the point is

what makes the overthinker? what encourages one to flirt with insanity?

is it the never-ending nights watching your ceiling as

1…2…3…

hours pass, your beauty sleep a runaway paper on a windy day, always, always

blown just out of reach

or is it the fact that decisions as simple as what flavor of ice cream you want

are traumatic

painful

and leave you aching, wondering, still, an hour later, if strawberry was the right choice?

maybe it’s the eraser marks

tainting your page with an irreplaceable, indestructible gray from half-finished,

scrapped ideas and answers

that are now long gone.

so what, out of these, truly makes an overthinker?

what does it mean, and how do you become one

or make it go away?

well, friends.

I suppose we’ve overthought it.

 

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after katy richey’s “therapy”

kaja rae lucas

write a letter to your father.
don’t send it. just stare at it until it
becomes you and you become it.
take your medication like your lover
took your soul out of the paper cranes you folded
for her (about her / with her).
if you were paying attention to the news;
stop.
if you were eating donuts sparingly
eat them more regularly.
prepare for hibernation.
prepare to die.
prepare for electroshock with
little nodes on your skull where the electricity goes
when you come home, pray it doesn’t snow
don’t tell your therapist he already knows
a moment is a moment even when it’s not about you though;
he tells you “you think about yourself too much”
you tell him, “who else thinks of me?”
and that’s the disorder,
you don’t think anyone
is thinking of you
not even your lover.
and some days she does. most days she doesn’t.
prepare to lie to your therapist
he doesn’t know you
he only gives a damn about you in the tongue
of pity
please reward yourself with a drink
(not an overdose)
reward because you have learned the thing
that matters most; you are only as human
as you let yourself imagine you are.
because otherwise, you’re just a devil with no
imagination. this way, you’re at least creative.
learn how to write a novel.
learn how to write a eulogy.
one for yourself / one for the ancestors.
learn how to ache without body.
learn the message of soul.
learn to feel human.
therapist tells you; “you know you never
think of yourself as human.”
and you laugh, because you’re more psychotic
than person. psychiatrist tells you “that’s not
a state of being, it’s an illness” you tell him
try it for yourself and tell me how you feel.
that letter; actually write it.
one for yourself and one for your father
in which you imagine them both as your abuser
(which is a lie in both cases.)
send it with your suicide note
notice it will probably take seven days for it to
make it to your family
scrap it. scrap the letter. scrap the therapist.
you’re hurting but not enough to talk about it.