Evvi, 12th. Vermont
(It Feels Like a City Without Sun) Sweet, like sugar, being saddened by apathy “he didn't mean to” is how the story goes Remind us he’s a liar using you for desire making a scene of drama blunt emotional trauma causing you blindness to offer him forgiveness cursing your kindness Listen to me closely I'll only say it once “fly little butterfly” leave the net or for life, your wings will be set inside his case of collected wings deep and bright icy waters cloud your sight cold as his heart your tears soak your lips thoughts say after his hands trapped your hips Fly my butterfly I'll only say it twice leave this net or for life, your wings will be set inside his case of collected flings Let me cover you in sunshine discover I can accommodate your shiny eyes and divine smile on your pretty face. Yan L. 11th. Oakland, CA
Thinking back to every summer, the first thing that comes to mind is the beach but I was hardly ever there…Maybe is a childhood memory but it gave me an image of what summer should be like. It is etched in my mind. The cool waves from the ocean saved me from the summer heat. Sand sticking to my wet feet. Seagulls everywhere making their high pitch sounds. Searching for the beautiful natural treasures on the beach. Leaving the laugh and memory there, walking out with sand sticking on my leg, and beautiful shells in my bag. I still look forward to be there, like I look forward to every summer. Alyssa, 10th. Pleasanton, CA
I am a soldier. The draft arrived, flowing quite prettily into my hands, on a humid afternoon, a peaceful day, clouds and the sky and the world all agreeing with each other. I opened the letter, read the lines, did not understand. Perhaps I wasn’t a full-ride scholarship to Harvard type of student, but I brought energy to my studies, composed tedious editorials for the school, and was class president. Really, to be fair, I was just plain too good for the war. I told myself, I believed in myself, that secretly, under all my fear of the world, there was a secret reservoir of courage ready to be untapped when the time came. I truly believed that under certain circumstances, I would be able to become the hero, save everyone. Fresh graduate, politically naive, yet I knew that wars should not and really could not start without knowing why. Mid-July, the thoughts started coming to me. In the beginning it was so abstract, but eventually the shapes, and the colors, and perhaps later on the precise details all arrived. Then one day, something clicked; left, started running. Now, I run and I run until I see the border to Canada, to freedom. Collapse on my hands and knees. I feel every grain of earth seeping into me, imprinting into my skin. The air of night like an ocean wave rushes up and down; pulsing warmness, drawing dew out from me. The icy dirt marks into my nails as I desperately tear at the frozen grass. Here I scream and cry and wail. Until I can barely breathe, until I am panting. Until there is a puddle beneath my chin. My eyes puffy and each blink a burden. Yet the clouds did not split open and let fall drops of eponine. It shouldn’t be like this, summer of 1968. The dawns slice their way into the horizon, the sunsets are feathery and pink, and the brief nights are spark-filled with stars crawling all over the sky. July winds bring the noise of night, screeching and tumbling of pebbles, rustle of the leaves in the distance. Inhale. I take another sobbing collective breath, feel a thick liquor, calm, keeping the parts of me together. Decide. I need to do something. So I crawl over in the dark, find the wood, the grain of the boat, clumsily climb in. I row and I row until I see the other side, to freedom. My heart is pounding, I am still crying, loud. But my body refuses to budge. Here, I sit and feel. When I first started to run, the shame overwhelmed me. The blood went thick behind my eyes. The voices, of every classmate, the entire town. Would they forget, only remember me every couple of years? Or would they continue to tease, gossip? Would my family ever forget? Did I even care? Here, on the lake, the world is sinless, pure, refined, all the synonyms. Here, half of me in Canada, half of me in America, I peer into the water, see myself for the first time. Kgosi M. 9th, South Africa
I grew up in Soweto under bad financial circumstances. I would watch my friends eat while crying on the inside because of hunger. Will I sleep while crying? Will these circumstances change? Asking myself questions not knowing the answers to. That, was when my pen and paper met, and I made them dance. Not to a known tune, but to a rhythm I created from scratch. I did not have to do research on my craft, I just crafted it myself from the onset The problem then became that I had to be studying or doing homework at that time. But I was still putting together two, three stories. I tried to distance myself from the pen, But then I realized that having something so typical but yet special is actually a blessing in my life I did not choose this life, But what I am choosing is writing so I can showcase to the world my talent, writing so I can send messages of encouragement, joy and life lessons to the whole world. Ashley, 11th- Oakland, CA
It’s hard for me to look at people. I can’t seem to hold eye contact with them. I’m only a high schooler and I have to look at people when I’m talking to succeed. I’m scared, it’s hard for me. I get anxious and start to press my finger and fidget while playing around with the pencil in my hand. Walking through the hallway I always look down, never looking up, because I’m scared to look at people's faces. I wonder if my friends think I'm being disrespectful but I just feel so uncomfortable that I look away. I hate myself for making them feel like that. I wish I could look at people’s faces without feeling nervous. I wish. Beatrice V. 9th- Los Angeles
Perfect symmetry stares back at me, the eyes of a glassy clone She lies on my windowsill, trembling from the train That passes by my dormroom every night, the fraud of city life Is the thunder I must deal with every day. I watch the clone as she moves and goes forth Reaching a hand through the glass and hovering before me I seek to grip her hand but pass through it; she looks real but Is nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Or maybe I am the clone and she is the girl; her duty To entrust me with an archaic message of sagacity An ode from the gods that watch me watch her Sitting alone in the greatest city in the world. I thought I knew the translucent girl- knew Her curls and the shape of her neck and the twist Of her smile but as she lifted the corners of her mouth All i saw were fangs. M.O.Miesse, 9th- Washington D.C.
I wish I were a girl All the time I think about it That’s a lie, mostly only at night when I’m alone. I wish a had a smaller face and more petite body, Even just if my features were more elegant and feminine I wish I had long luscious hair that went down to my knees And I wish I was a few inches shorter, short enough to be generally short for a guy but still tall for a woman. I wish I could pull off wearing dresses that fit my frame nicely and highlighting my features I wish I wouldn’t be called he or him And I wish people wouldn’t make a big deal of me wearing makeup Saying “look at that guy, he’s so weird” or even “look at him, he’s so brave And I wish I had breasts, filling up my empty, ugly chest. I wish I was born in the right body, I wish there wouldn’t always be something off or different about me expressing my feminine self And I wish I didn’t have to think about going through the transition phase, wondering if I will be judged or thought of differently as I go through that challenging process. But sadly none of these wishes will become true, I’ll never be able to wear dresses and have hair down to my knees without it seeming off I’ll never have the smaller feminine face that I’ve dreamed of And I’ll never be quite right, there will always be something slightly wrong And correcting that will always be a long process that won’t fully work Because I was born in the wrong body, and it will never be exactly right. Rocky Ben-Yehuda, 7th - Maryland
"I thought Iwas doing so well" You were. You ARE. You did. I really don’t like my life" And yet still you live. So don't blame yourself Just because of a bad day Because even the weather man gets caught in the rain J.Tran, 11th - Oakland, CA
Little moments count the most. Just like how subtle changes reveal an appealing afterthought; As the rain subdued, washes away the weight from your shoulders, the earth exudes warmth tones that fill up the room like calloused brush strokes on a canvas. Sunsets of all hues begin to illuminate the sky, just like fireworks do. We create these memories as we live in the present; Not ever wanting it to end. Places where thoughts and memories intertwine. Smells where the nostalgia comes rushing back. Time that we can’t get back. A small gesture of kindness can go a long way, one that will never be forgotten amongst the sea of stormy weather. It feels good to know, there will always be the little things; sunsets, mundane tasks like washing the dishes, laughing with family and friends, and even the turbulent weather that follows. The little things, are just important as the big and monumental, they reminds us to rest, to take care of ourselves, letting the sun glisten your skin as the sounds of nature bring solace and comfort. It also reminds us that good times will come again, especially when in feelings of doubt and peril. The smallest of things like crossing a task off of your to-do list, may be bigger than you’ll ever know. J.Tran 11th - Oakland CA
Little moments count the most. Just like how subtle changes reveal an appealing afterthought. As the rain subdued, washes away the weight from your shoulders, the earth exudes warmth tones that fill up the room like calloused brush strokes on a canvas. Sunsets of all hues begin to illuminate the sky, just like fireworks do. We create these memories as we live in the present; Not ever wanting it to end. Places where thoughts and memories intertwine. Smells where the nostalgia comes rushing back. Time that we can’t get back. A small gesture of kindness can go a long way, one that will never be forgotten amongst the sea of stormy weather. It feels good to know, there will always be the little things; sunsets, mundane tasks like washing the dishes, laughing with family and friends, and even the turbulent weather that follows. The little things, are just important as the big and monumental, they reminds us to rest, to take care of ourselves, letting the sun glisten your skin as the sounds of nature bring solace and comfort. It also reminds us that good times will come again, especially when in feelings of doubt and peril. The smallest of things like crossing a task off of your to-do list, may be bigger than you’ll ever know. |
AuthorsStudents 6th-12th Grades month
December 2023
|