How does writing impact the world?

Do you know how many people around the world today prefer writing over speaking to express their thoughts? While oral speech and oral literature once prevailed, people later began using pictograms—symbols and drawings—as the earliest forms of writing. The benefits of writing for every human being are invaluable, and this has been proven throughout centuries. Writing is something we constantly do. Writing manifests itself around us in countless ways. A journalist’s speech on television is, in fact, a text first written and then transformed into oral discourse. The songs we listen to begin as written poetry before being composed into music. Posters, slogans, and advertisements on the streets are also forms of writing. Libraries across the world are filled with the emotions, experiences, memories, and wisdom that famous writers once poured onto paper.

The list could go on, but what has already been mentioned shows how vast the scope of writing is. What does writing give to a person? According to Harvard Medical School, keeping a journal reduces stress by 27%. One of its key benefits is that those who write regularly also develop clearer and more fluent speech. Writing is essentially thinking through letters on paper. Furthermore, research at Cambred with the emotions, experiences, memories, and wisdom that famous writers once poured onto paper.The list could go on, but what has already been mentioned shows how vast the scope of writing is. Whe, Chekhov, Lermontov, Jack London, Nodar Dumbadze, Gianni Rodari, Remarque, Agatha Christie, Abdulla Qodiriy, O‘tkir Hoshimov, and many others! Their unique works not only enriched their own minds and souls but also profoundly influenced humanity, shaping the knowledge, spirit, and worldview of future generations.

The first writing in human history—cuneiform—was inscribed on clay tablets with reed pens in Mesopotamia, mainly used for trade, accounting, and record-keeping. Imagine what a groundbreaking invention this must have been for early societies. Writing quickly became a part of everyday life.Through writing, events that occurred centuries ago, the lives of our ancestors, and great chronicles of history were preserved and passed down to us. For example, the epic Alpomish, the Epic of Gilgamesh, the inscriptions in Egyptian pyramids, and Zahiriddin Muhammad Babur’s Baburnama still provide us with rich knowledge of ancient life, customs, laws, and culture.Even today, people continue to write—so that future generations may learn, understand, and benefit.

In today’s world of advanced technology and social media, the posts people write online deserve special attention. A single error or poorly communicated idea can spark conflicts between nations. Conversely, well-expressed thoughts and clear proposals can unite countries, strengthen peace and friendship, and foster new partnerships.Writing is such a powerful force that it can move not only an individual’s soul but also entire nations—it can inspire, awaken, or, on the contrary, suppress.

The world-renowned Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov, through works such as The White Ship, The Day Lasts More Than a Hundred Years (The Buranny Station), Farewell, Gulsary!, Jamila, and The Cassandra Brand, masterfully expressed human-nature relationships, compassion, humanity, and the power of dreams and hope.

Writing is happiness! It brings peace to the soul, clarity to the mind, and sharpness to thoughts. A person who can write freely and powerfully is an invaluable individual—because they can record truth, history, dreams, justice, and love. Writing demands great effort but also gives writers the ability to influence not only their readers but also the entire world.Writing is such a powerful weapon that it can assert its influence in any field. Whether in history, literature, and art, or in politics, international friendship, and peace—through writing, humanity always finds its voice.There are feelings and thoughts that are difficult to speak aloud, yet a person can capture and immortalize them through writing.

No matter how much the times change, even if perfect keyboards replace pen and paper, they will never replace the act of writing itself, nor diminish the power of heartfelt words expressed by the movement of a pen. Thus, writing remains the bond that connects humanity’s past, present, and future, uniting the inner and outer worlds of human existence.

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva

2nd grade student at Uzbekistan Journalism and Mass Communications University 

Happy 250th Birthday

Into the city streets

strutted the Brownshirts,

locked and loaded

and wearing steel-toed

jackboots and masks.

D.C. and Los Angeles

will never ever be the 

same again. They pulled 

people from automobiles 

and out of lines at car 

washes and big box 

stores and tamale vendors.

The thick-witted goons

flung their victims

to the pavement and

shackled them with

chains in front of their

young children. They 

didn’t identify themselves

but to brandish weapons.

Those they seized

were all guilty:

of being brown-skinned

and wanting a

better life for themselves

and their families.

The answer was to

send them to countries

where they don’t

speak the language

and to rip their

children from their

breasts and imprison

them in cages.

Perhaps, I thought,

this is not

what Americans

signed up for 250

years ago.

The beginning is the end

Like a hummingbird I utter the words

That you once said to me

Once upon a time in an evening

Gradually becoming dark

Cold as night

Lack of warmth and certainty

Whispers of the unsaid, uncared

Words and actions

Clustered around the buds

Some were yet to bloom

Or

Some were blooming like a passion

A determined choice

Between duty and dilemma

The storm of mistrust arose

Serving them all the premature death-

An obvious nip in the bud.

23.09.2025

Blue Curls

03.04.2020

Post Memory

Part I

Ashes emerge out from the glass of

Memories,

Dangling between past and present,

Beings become non-beings.

All flames fade and evaporate,

All go for impressionistic images,

Pictures signify the other pictures,

Images another images;

Memory is mixed with tears

And the soothing aches

Come out of the

Translucent prism

As post memories.

Drizzling memory

Is draining itself out of rotten bones,

Flesh, blood as

Veiled with the scars

And transforms itself

 Into a new soul.

Post memory freezes me

Like a chilled out cabbage,

Cold, calm,

With no vexation

Like a patient

Without sense

Lying on a hospital bed.

Silhouette walks down

Through the urban spaces  

That was once countryside;

Time shakes hand with

The ruins and figments of

The dead waste land.

Like slithering out from the bruised

Skins of snakes,

Like fragrance emitting out

And spreading all over the room,

Memory comes

Memory mingles

With thin air

And gives birth to post memory.

Serene, sober, smooth,

Like patches of cool powder

Around the neck applied in hot summer.

2020

Part II

People escape from the ugly

Reality,

Bypassing the truths of mortality,

Night owl records the details

Of livelihood,

Burnt cigar seeks solace in burnt memories.

Tripping down the past lane,

She finds a strand of word

That she hid from

The loitering passerby.

Holding an old bottle

She stares at the starry night,

Pictorial paintings of photographs

Flash upon her imaginative eyes

And whispers-

“Where am I now?

Where will I go?”

Time blows like wind

To tell the tale

That was once half-told.

2020

Globalization and National Identity: The Choice of the New Generation

In the modern world, the word globalization is no longer an abstract concept. It is the reality in which we live, study, and dream about our future. Borders between nations are gradually becoming symbolic, communication technologies connect people from different continents in a matter of seconds, and cultures are interacting faster than ever before. For today’s youth, globalization offers a wide field of opportunities: access to education abroad, cooperation in science and business, cultural exchange, and broader horizons for personal development.

Yet, behind these opportunities lies a serious question: what will happen to our national identity? When global trends dominate social life, there is a danger that unique traditions, languages, and customs may lose their value in the eyes of the younger generation. A young person may easily adopt international fashion, foreign languages, and global lifestyles, while sometimes forgetting the songs, proverbs, or traditions that shaped their own nation’s spirit for centuries. This creates a paradox of the 21st century: while the world is becoming closer, it risks becoming more uniform and less diverse.

However, globalization does not have to be the enemy of national identity. Instead, it can be an opportunity to present one’s culture on the international stage. Youth who learn to speak foreign languages, master modern technologies, and travel the world can also become ambassadors of their traditions. They can introduce their national literature, music, and art to foreign audiences. In this way, globalization becomes not the loss, but the expansion of national identity.

The new generation has the ability to integrate into the global society while keeping the roots of their homeland strong and alive. The choice, therefore, lies in the hands of young people. Do they want to become passive consumers of foreign culture, or active protectors and promoters of their own? Will they let globalization wash away their uniqueness, or will they use it as a bridge to tell the world who they are? This is not just a personal choice; it is a historical responsibility.

In conclusion, globalization is not a force to resist, but a process to manage wisely. The new generation must build a balance: to accept global values like cooperation, innovation, and tolerance, while at the same time preserving the priceless wealth of national identity. Only then can they ensure that the future world is not a monotonous place, but a colorful mosaic of cultures, where every nation’s voice is heard and respected.

Dildora Khujyazova (born in 2005) is from Khorezm region, Uzbekistan. She is currently studying Geography at Urgench State University. Dildora is passionate about writing, journalism, and research, and she has authored several scientific articles. She actively promotes honesty, cultural dialogue, and youth engagement in her community. Her aspiration is to study abroad and represent her country through both academic and creative achievements on the international stage.

Sliding through the sewage tunnel gleam

(poem in seven parts)

I

Forgotten (soon)

Hard and cold as an ice storm

killing, hardening life

in its blanket frost.

The only love you keep is what

you can control. If you can’t control it,

you ditch it with a kick,

with a higher-than-though mighty sneer.

Digger in the rocky lifeless garden,

resisting you, you claim as savage stupidity

because you claim to hold prophecy,

ancient words of a babbled dream,

zodiac tamer whipping up a storm

or a healing balm to break delusion.

When there is no compliance or

cheerleaders cheering,

you turn,

start character-flailing, lying, slicing into

the corners of human frailty

to etch yourself out a victory and walk away.

Atrophied heart inside you, a high ceiling

that will go no further, cannot expand

into compassion-for-your-enemies

overflow

Dive back into the water-pool where all who

encounter you are obedient to your command, move

to the mountain where uncertainty cannot

reach you – exchanging truths in monetary form

and claim it all as blessed achievement.

Where was your kindness, your golden glow,

when you drove a knife into my loins

before you departed,

trying to lure me into self-loathing?

Low,

like arrogance, hubris, and lying are low,

immutable as a dead thing swinging in

the wind – movement, but no breath.

Farewell friend of the seventh solider, fallen.

I need nothing here

in your palace of falsities,

closed off from humility and the equality of grace.

You could have left without letting me know

you never had my back, that you were always

back there, clawing with judgements,

grievances.

You could have just left without the

tongue-lashing psychological deception,

just turned away without the gutting,

flipping all those years of friendship

on their side, upside down, lying

like liars do with complete certainty,

no remorse or self-doubt,

amputating any devotion

I had left for you,

boiling its remains

on a rack of putrid oil and extremes.

Walk away, dragging this downed horse behind you,

into the thorny bramble of your defiant prejudice

into the fantasy of your less-than-holy paradigm, broken.

II

Broken Glass

Coward,

keeper of a false fixed star,

keeper of many truths,

knower of none.

Coward,

throwing glass into my garden.

Brutal, unnecessary cruelty so you can

own the platform as you leave,

nose stuck high in the air,

hands cleansed of any doubt or wrongdoing.

Coward,

incapable of walking through the mire

hand in hand, of not letting go and trusting love no matter

the centipedes writhing, the small gnawing things

and the larger creatures that scare. Incapable

of owning your own transgressions, or prioritizing

love above your frightened soul.

Coward

cussing a friendship because you quit,

cussing and lying and tossing the broken glass

from your high and mighty mountain.

Coward

with blood on your hands,

who must turn back as you leave,

thinking you’ll say your piece,

but really just recklessly, heartlessly tossing

broken glass.

III

Getting there

I am almost on the other side

(one day, second day)

where forgiveness collides

with terrible truth,

where pain is overcome with pity,

releasing my shield and cry

for human justice.

Quickly through the process

after the breaking of the sun,

after seeing the secrets you stand behind

to prop up your persona, after still,

your deliberate hurt was hurled, and after that,

ending it with pat-on-the-head platitudes,

even still, I forgive you.

I am almost there, I pray to be there, in spite of

your attempts to drown me in false accusations,

in spite of your attempts to undermine my autonomy.

I say, so be it, I am almost on the other side,

sensing a freedom, an inspiration

clearing the thicket of your malice,

almost healed of your viper-tongue lick,

your sticky twisted back-flip truths,

spiritual elitism of the highest order.

I am almost there, and I am feeling good,

relieved, now away from your succubus suckling,

away from your tight-grip surrealism,

distorting clean lines, bright glowing rivers

and intimacy.

I forgive you. I forgive your incapacity,

your hard didactic tongue.

I forgive your small circle land, retreat

from a faith that holds faith no matter the outcome,

that part is easy.

But your foul lying insults

as you turned away, are harder to bear.

I will get there,

I will not carry you with me –

not your soiled diaper dripping, not a single

attempt to condemn me,

or the labels you blew towards me,

blew, night wind cursing, blew

into nothingness.

IV

A Dead Man’s Pockets

Petty, trust snapped

a killed bug on a windshield.

Into the grave, folding, four-fold,

soot in the ears, on your eyelids,

and your poison almost run through.

You lost me long ago, your spell thinned out,

held no power or impact long ago but I thought

love existed between us still, thought

respect existed between us,

that we were more than a bowing down

to your sure-fire claims.

On my side it did.

I cared for you, wanted your dreams

to glow and be more than you ever imagined,

when all you wanted from me was

obedience to your cause.

As long as I just kept my place,

just below your shoulder blades,

we would be fine.

Why can’t you love?

Why the subterfuge madness

parading around as absolutism?

Why couldn’t you acknowledge

my side, apologize for your

terrible accusations, bend a little,

suck in your puffed-up ego a little,

make room for someone other

than you, your way,

your branding rod?

There are more birds in the sky

than there has ever been,

more spark in my fountain than

I have felt for while.

Clarity is shameless,

a stream that rides, collides

with the rusty metal haul,

goes around it until it becomes one

with the waterfall, a cleansing continuum.

V

Touch

The first touch was bitter,

tantamount to an attack, deception

from a vantage point

of spiritual superiority.

The second touch

was touching a tomb, still full

of stench though the flesh had rotted long ago –

just dry bones barely

a full form.

The third touch

angered, like when a snake

snatches a fledgling, angry

at the innate brutality all around.

The fourth touch

was perfect, a release

from the swing-seat of darkness,

a blessed gift that came

at the first touch –

consciously cruel, compliant

to the sway of a lesser self.

VI

Small Moon

A small moon melted

fleshed out a sure-footed sacrifice

but changed directions, too quickly

into the direction of a red star.

Then her heart was burned, crispy

and crumbling, no more a perfect circle,

drooping on one side, gravity became queen

of her false crescendo song.

Hiding her deformity in the dark red burn,

hoping no one could see her misshapened side,

which she tended to only in hidden rooms,

chanting for a cure, bandaging her bloodied side

to try and form again that perfect circle.

A small moon strained to keep her crust,

could not resist flinging curses from her

cavity craters as she went out, could not accept

her time had come, that in the end she never had

a compact core or a solid truth she could rely on.

VII

Ribbon

It is ok to still love you

though our personal love has been

caught by the fishing net,

drowned by the struggle.

It is ok to want you to be ok

and even thriving on a splendid mount,

trailing through the forest.

Though your axe came down

in a forced entanglement of muscle

and sinew, although you have failed me

and hurled enmity into my spine,

in a sharp take-me-down twist

that wanted to leave me maimed,

it is ok.

I am ok and I still love you,

not for what we were but

for who you are, now,

a person trying to

seize for yourself a homeland,

believing you are doing the right thing,

believing your betrayal was a necessary closure.

Closed now and I am ok

and I still love you

over here where we will never meet

in this life or any life again.

Allison Grayhurst has been nominated for “Best of the Net” six times. She has over 1,400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and 6 chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Food 

Speaking for food

Bombs are coming in my left

Bombs are coming in my right

The smell of a coffee becomes a dream

People are targeted

Suffering

Starvation

Hypocrisy the cry for freedom

Governments they are counting their money

Over the bodies of dead children

Do you want this life

How much Human you feel today

We are all victims in the mind of narcissist

men with power

Peace

Unknown word

……..

Hate

War

Words that has bring people to the chaos

The absolute chaos 

Who’s supporting this evil??

We are

With our silence 

With our selfiness 

With our personal issues 

With our blindness 

Because man is the greatest monster of everyone 

Open your eyes 

Open your heart 

Open your hands to sky 

Start praying 

…………..

I am a woman 

Speaking loud about peace 

I am a woman 

A mother 

A daughter 

A Goddess

A bird

I am a justice lover 

I am woman who has long hair 

So i can hide my tears and 

Keep my body strong enough for your evil eyes 

I am woman who 

Glorifies 

God in every step…..

Eva Petropoulou Lianou is the founder of Poetry Unites People and has spent more than 10 years creating bridges for peace and poetry.

Throat Protocol

By Kandy Fontaine

She kisses you like a virus deploying.

Her lips taste like rust and roses, her breath tuned to a frequency that makes your centipede spine twitch. Mira Aoki-9 presses her chrome-thread body against yours, and the train moans beneath you. You’re in the Surreal Beauty Café now—its walls bleeding velvet, its floor blooming coral. The mirrors pulse with sonar. Nyx purrs beside the altar. You’re no longer a courier. You’re no longer human. You’re transmission.

She whispers speculative poems into your spine. Each one a memory cocktail. Each one a sacred infection. Her fingers leave glyphs on your skin—ritual code, erotic syntax, a language only ghosts understand. Your skin begins to scream. Not in sound. In sensation. It unfolds a recursive archive of funerals in Hell—each one grimmer than the last. You feel them in sequence: the ash procession of drowned lovers, the chrome casket of the defected priestess, the silent burial of the girl who swallowed her own archive. Each funeral loops. Each loop burns.

Then she injects the blue tincture.

It’s not medicine. It’s not drug. It’s a hallucinatory compound distilled from sonar grief and fossil saliva. It floods your bloodstream with corrupted memory. Your organs begin to screen. Your bones hum with sonar. Your teeth project flickering funerals. Your tongue splits—forked and wet with archive. You taste every death you’ve ever deployed. You taste yourself dissolving.

And then the Kill Switch Engage Loop vectors activate.

They rot like smiles.

Biomechanical rituals stitched into your spine by the Archive—fail-safes disguised as pleasure. Each loop is a collapse protocol. Each smile a countdown. They trigger when desire exceeds containment. They trigger when Mira whispers too deep. They trigger when your body begins to bloom. You feel them now: one in your throat, one behind your eyes, one curled in your pelvic archive. They rot. They grin. They deploy.

You weren’t just a courier. You were an erotic assassin.

Wetware-grade. Hosaka interface. Deployed to seduce, extract, and erase. Your spine was tuned to carry proprietary biotech across borders without detection. Your body was a weapon. Your breath a trigger. You specialized in mnemonic kills—whispers that rewrote memory, kisses that deployed viruses, orgasms that collapsed identities.

But you had a weakness.

You were addicted to the saliva of drowned girls.

Harvested from bathhouse ruins and sonar graves, it was a narcotic and a mnemonic virus. It tasted like static and grief. It let you relive their final moments—each gasp, each betrayal, each ritual loop. You drank it between missions. You stored it in your tongue. You kissed your targets with it. You watched them dissolve.

Then Thalassa collapsed.

The megacorps turned on each other. The city became a sandbox for recursive warfare—viruses disguised as lovers, memory cocktails laced with defection code, operatives seduced into oblivion. You were burned. Scrubbed. Left behind.

The Archive found you in a bathhouse ruin, half-dissolved, still twitching with encrypted grief. They rebuilt you—not as a courier, but as a vessel. Your spine was replaced with a centipede: segmented, semi-sentient, grown from carbon filament and fossil cinema. Each vertebra a reel of extinct memory. Each twitch a confession. It doesn’t just store. It sings.

You wore a coat cut from signal-dampening fiber, matte black, stitched with anti-surveillance thread. It masked your pulse. Silenced your breath. Made you unreadable to the Teknopriests still sweeping the grid for rogue assets. You weren’t rogue. You were obsolete. You were myth.

You boarded the Futurail at 03:33, the hour when Thalassa exhales memory through its infrastructure like blood through cracked porcelain. The train isn’t real. It’s a memory artifact—residual code from a dissolved mainframe, still twitching in the city’s dead grid. No destination. No schedule. Just transmission.

And somewhere in its wetware, Mira Aoki-9 was still singing.

She was a seduction algorithm wrapped in flesh. Deployed by Maas Biolabs to infiltrate Hosaka’s genetic labs. You saw her once—in a bootleg reel called Throat Sprockets: Submerged Cut. She kissed a researcher and he forgot his name. She whispered into your spine and it rewrote itself. She defected. She dissolved. She became ritual.

Now she’s encoded in the train’s mirrors.

Behind you, the spines of erotic cat assassins intertwine—machine bio-DNA braiding mid-mission, forming a temporary hive of desire and encrypted grief. Their claws whisper in pulse-language. Their tails transmit. Their centipede spines click in sync, exchanging kill-switches and mourning loops. They don’t speak. They deploy.

Your spine begins to exude.

Nano-based enzymes—slick, iridescent, encoded with recursive grief. They leak from your vertebrae like sacred oil, pooling into the velvet floor. But they don’t dissolve. They build. They construct other realms of you—alternate versions, corrupted timelines, erotic echoes—into cathedrals stacked like elephants. Towering, impossible, biomechanical sanctuaries of mourning.

Each cathedral is a funeral loop.

One version of you is kissing Mira in reverse. Another is drowning in sonar. Another is whispering kill-switches into the throat of a Teknopriest. The cathedrals hum with pulse-language. Their walls bleed memory. Their altars screen your archived deaths. You walk through them, barefoot and split, your skin projecting, your spine singing.

You feel Mira in your throat.

You feel the train begin to loop.

You are no longer a passenger. You are no longer flesh. You are ritual. You are myth. You are the erotic funeral. And the carnival never ends.