1:00 AM Light I Lie. Restless in bed. Each time I feel my eyes droop, I am compelled to watch the golden light beside my bed fade away each time I bundle up in blankets only to realize the perfect seal keeping the solitary 1am light at bay is gone. I fiddle with the strings on my blinds trying to replicate the blinding comfort my bedside sun in a jar had produced. pushing the fidgeting engine beneath my skin towards a moment to lie down I whisper to myself to ignore the ice plunging deep into my pupils yet the pressure of the night creates cracks in the walls lines sewn across imperfect darkness. suffocating in it my night I understand what it must be like to be in a car crash for time to expand like the pupil of my eye and yet I lay lonely.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Don Bormon
Trees In nature's grand tapestry, they stand tall, Silent guardians, ancient and wise, one and all. Their branches reach out, like arms embracing the sky, Unfolding a spectacle that catches the eye. Trees, oh trees, with your leaves so green, Pouring tranquility into every scene. Whispering secrets in the gentle breeze, A melody of life that puts the heart at ease. From mighty oaks to graceful willows we see, A myriad of forms, each with its own decree. Birch, maple, and pine, a diverse display, Painting landscapes with hues in every way. In spring, you shower us with blossoms fair, A delicate burst of colors beyond compare. In summer, your shade offers sweet relief, A respite from the sun, a much-needed rep Don Bormon is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Poetry from Gabriel Flores Benard
When you read this, I will be no more than a memory, a whisper in the wind, an abstract perspective held in the palm of your hand. I am nothing but what you make of me, an image born from neuron synapses: brain birthed from brain, mind melded with mine. I shed individuality in the arms that caress my words, thoughts, prayers. When you read this, I will be gone; In your eyes, I begin anew, an idea anchored by ink and page.
Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh
* my soul is with the devil in a collage my soul is in the devil's college my soul is on loan from angels my loan is life *** god came from a hyperlink click me erase me cleanse me cut me take my insides out I am Gods chitin I am the stone of God *** paper guards life page borders who keeps every comma of the tree before this tree is turned into a blueprint and filled with inkblots? a cut of a gnawed pencil that burns like a torch in the night *** little white monkeys even they will one day become corpses the rain is falling on us all long live the rain for all *** forest silence jewelry drops of tears on the leaves what autumn sadness is silent about *** heart pattern myopia feelings heart throwback butterfly feet bird hands we were born under a common sky *** this boy is quiet as an angel this boy is as quiet as the devil the chitin of memories is buried in the meat grinder of touch we leave life like non-existent stones on the banks tide of wave on the chest blood rushed to the veins of сhrist *** little boy hanging on the branches of a tree he hangs attached by eyelashes to the firmament his eyelids are marked by welding his heart is in my hands my hands are buried in the ground on which there is no foundation *** the teacher tells the children look this is our planet earth here we all live and this is our homeland for it we die *** hedgehogs turned into ashtrays for the Lord after artillery *** stone eye of death infinity envelope unconsciousness of life - Dante wrote about something else *** the scale of hatred overflows glasses with champagne happy new year in the hell of a summer evening *** said done the moon fell and rolled into the river now no one else will see naked people clinging to pistols at night trees grow bloom flowers dogs mate the moon has fallen the moon crashed like air on a saucer and now there is hardly any difference between you and me between you and me in the dark do not notice the difference did you really need to drown the moon to understand this In the dark no one will see our love In the dark no one will believe in our love moonlight no one saw our love moonlight no one believed in our love why did you drown the moon in the river why did you bring me to the river now? *** The noise that doesn't exist Nobody came this time As always We have no choice but to let our shadows out into the street so that they knock on our door. Knocking on the door sounds full of desperation It is clear that no one is there Obviously no one will come *** Do you remember you and I were lying around like the skins of peeled holiday fruits, but it doesn’t matter It doesn't matter that the fake cotton wool of my destructive methods of existence has long been drowned in you It doesn't matter that your golden maple crown has succumbed to the erosion of metal and has long sprouted in me You and I are one common outsider's view of two identical things that are trying their best to be alike. You and I have long been ordered and sold out Two completely different books by the same author *** Roses turn pink Glasses turn pink Life turns pink the blood is still red
Poetry from Rasheed Olayemi
The Widow Many months, she mourns Many weeks, she's weak Many days, she's depressed Many hours, she unhappy Many times, widows couldn't meet their financial needs Managing the home, becomes hectic She feels shy, whenever children ask A homemaker can't make the home joyful again When money is lacking, a human can misdo Tears tear off a human's joy Such is the plight of a widow Many failed promises, worsen the situations Many widows have no means of survival Be of help to them
Poetry from Marley Manalo
flower girl some see objects in the earth where I see lungs. eyes in the oceanic sky peering down on my limp overturned body. i see golden beetles in pupils and stardust on skin, though nobody will see me like that. not when i have grown moss out of hair follicles and flowers out of fingertips. So that i can blend into the ground. the floating eyelids above blink to find me but now i am breathing inside the earth. where footsteps and handprints on my flesh fire marks and bruises that don’t appear in the night. the moon is the only one who’s truly heard my cry seen my hurt and listened to my poetry. the shriveled-up poetry that only have fragments of me. tiny remnants that shout “i was here” and although i’m almost down to dirt, people pick my flowers. and every person i’ve ever met has taken a piece a me.
Poetry from Sabrid Jahan Mahin
Books Books are food for people's thought. Reading a book is pleasing, If there is anything to worry about, a book stands as a friend It paints a picture of liberation Books are the companions of human beings It changes the attitude of mind in personality And makes ready for facing the new challenges everywhere in the world. Sabrid Jahan Mahin is a student of grade 9 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.