——————————————————————–

left to rot in the rain

broken and forgotten

left to rot in the rain

life has beaten all

our asses

put on beethoven

and try to forget

the stack of bills,

the unwanted

pregnancy, too

young to fall

in love, too

foolish to fall

for it yet again

and here comes the

wanna be porn star

every phone making

movies

wish upon whatever

star you like

nothing comes true

anymore

here we go

backwards

yet again

our better angels

must have died

in the storm

laughter is all

we have left

——————————————-

there would be no math

farted so loud

the air conditioner

kicked on

i don’t think the

two are related

prove me wrong

i was told there

would be no math

involved

it never is the heat

but always the

humidity

and mr. monopoly

is trying to rob

my bank yet

again

while the strange

women talk about

passion if you only

could send one

hundred dollars

in bitcoin to them

by the morning

they swear we didn’t

leave this planet

although i certainly

feel like an alien

never an ice cream

truck when you need

it

———————————————-

what greatness is supposed to look like

transient on the highway

shirt off in the heat

looked like hulk hogan

if hogan never did steroids

and lived until the age

of 90

he gave me the finger

as i drove by

obviously, playing

the heel

and somewhere

a woman cries over

the death of a prince

and darkness never

fades

even though the

screams and loud

echoes of thunderous

love will

never let them tell

you what greatness

is supposed to look

like

how it is to feel

or be loved

dare to stand out

so bad they will

never be allowed

to forget you

————————————————-

on your side

one of those nights

you put on the moonlight

sonata and ponder your

own death

the whimsical nature

of depravity

your friends are down

to the single digits

success is just a fucking

dream anymore

but pretend love is real

that karma is on your

side

that all the hard work

will lead to a better

tomorrow

pretend the rain doesn’t

hurt

that yet another broken

promise is just a setback

and not the final kick

to the dick that life has

been teasing since the

last failed suicide

attempt

————————————————–

one july afternoon

lost in your madness

the subtle beauty

of a broken woman

hoping to feel alive

once again

every thrust

every heavy breath

every drop of sweat

every lick of your soul

i could feel your energy

from hundreds of miles

away

the one afternoon that

could possibly change

our lives forever

you are now trapped

in my dreams

the lost soul that i was

so damn lucky to find

now comes the fun part

seeing where love takes

this fascinating ride into

the unknown

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, Misfit Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Mad Swirl and Yellow Mama. He is spending most of his days taking care of his disabled mother and betting on Mexican soccer games. He still has a blog but rarely has the time to write on it. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

‎How Long A Hundred Years Is

‎Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

‎

‎

‎The skeletons of the thirsty night lined

 up

 Contentious  dreams are stolen

‎The shy sky loses its color

‎At the foot of the deserted island.

‎If it lies in the hollow of time, then

‎A human corpse in a human shell!

‎Crawling humanity is ruined totally

‎Sucking up the dead light.

‎The illusion of shadows is trapped in a web of illusion

‎Knotless relationships create storm in a tea cup.

‎In a moment, the best becomes the worst

‎Who is whose? Injustice in wealth is constant

‎Saying ‘this world is mine’ breaks my ribs

‎When will I become civilized?

‎

‎Can any of you tell me

‎When I will truly become civilized?

‎Don’t curse me

‎The soil beneath my feet,

‎The oxygen inside my mouth,

‎The sky over my head.

‎Body odor will not be judged

‎What race? What religion? What planet?

‎Can anyone tell me

‎How long a hundred years is?

National Attire — The Pride of a Nation

Just as every nation has its own customs, traditions, and culture, it also has its unique national attire. This clothing is not merely a garment, but a reflection of a people’s history, aesthetic values, taste, and way of life. That is why national attire is rightly called the pride of a nation.

National clothes are an invaluable heritage passed down from generation to generation. They represent the identity and uniqueness of each nation. The traditional Uzbek attire — made from fabrics like atlas, adras, zarbof, and beqasam, adorned with colorful patterns — beautifully showcases our people’s refined taste and deep appreciation for delicate art.

Uzbek women’s garments stand out for their elegance and ornamentation, while men’s clothing — such as doppis (skullcaps), belbogs (sashes), and yaktaks (robes) — symbolize loyalty, resilience, and honor. Each region’s unique clothing style — the Andijan doppi, Bukhara atlas, Qashqadarya yaktak, and Khorezm’s embellished coats and robes — further enriches our national diversity.

Wearing national dress is not merely about decorating oneself; it is about honoring our history, culture, and values. Today, it is heartening to see our youth wearing traditional clothes during celebrations, weddings, international festivals, and cultural events. This reflects the emergence of a generation that remains loyal to its roots and proud of its identity.

Therefore, as the younger generation, we must cherish our national attire, value it, and wear it with pride. Because national dress is not just fabric — it is the visible form of the love we carry in our hearts for our homeland.

My name is Ermatova Dilorom Baxodirjonovna, born on May 3, 1998, in Asaka district, Andijan region. My family is an ordinary family, and we are five members in total.

My father worked as a brigadier at “GM-Uzbekistan” and is now retired. My mother is a housewife. My older brother works in the press service department at “GM-Uzbekistan.” My younger sister is a second-year student at the “Abu Ali Ibn Sino” Public Health Technical School in Asaka.

I graduated from Asaka district’s 55th general education school in 2015. In 2015, I enrolled in the Pedagogical College in Asaka district, specializing in “Machine Drawing and Painting,” and graduated with a red diploma. Unfortunately, I was unable to continue my education at the university, so after completing college, I submitted documents for external studies at the “Public Health” technical school, specializing in “Nursing.”

I graduated from the technical school with excellent grades and currently work as a nurse at the Asaka District Maternity Complex.

I have many interests, including drawing, making toys and clothes from yarn, creating things from cardboard, and sewing. I also enjoy writing poetry. I never stop learning and working on self-improvement. Currently, I am in the process of learning Turkish and Korean languages.

Respect to the teacher!

Thank you so much, teacher,

You have worked hard.

Always be respectful,

There is no time for fatigue.

Let your hard work be justified,

Let us protect you.

Always smile,

Push the era.

Let us remember you,

Let us enjoy the lessons.

When asked, “Who is your teacher?”,

Let us think of you in our minds.

I have boundless respect for you,

I have not disrespected you.

You who taught us,

Thank you, teacher.

Ilhomova Mohichehra, student of school No. 13, Zarafshan city, Navoi region

Heart

The hefty dreams of suburban cities

The burning sky the nightlife of Naples

Asks me to write a sonorous letter

To the crescent moon high above the park

A dandelion for her wish to fold the dreams

I surmise in sipping letters to not feel the danger

Brown skin city high scapes school me

A nail pictured shopkeeper in the most urgent way

The honey choir of dazzling smoke

The lost feathers of the peace of dove

A symbol of fraternity among the sleeves

As if the night bloomed daisies know the human heart.

Night

I upheld the long haul dream

The topsy turvy menagerie

Of broken threaded sweet pearls

That soothe my aching happiness

I dreamt in thee the songs of Paris

When evening comes I love your chestnut

Brown symphonies raging a thousand oceans

The ukelele of national importance

Do i sing heaven’s ceremonies too?

Or when I plunge my needle I sank a little harder

Over little wishes that once carved your niche

Birds have their nests too

The sweet ocean of peripheral promised land

Come over and play your pulses

The smile is same but magnificent

The Golden Gate surpassed us today, night.

War

Smile not exist

Happiness is stopped

Hungry stomach

Hungry soul

Enough

Tired from the bodies

That are afraid of their shadows

I would like to have a man who speaks truth

Who act

Who believes

In power of love

Words

Silence is not the answer

When Sun rise

Moon is a light that

Give birth

To our dreams

Action

We can only trust

When the reality

appears

We don’t need

so small minds

We are here

to believe

In our thoughts

And in our principles

When the miracle

is happening

Only Flour

Can give the solution

To a hungry mouth

…..

He will succeed

He will succeed

Any day or night

You tell him 

It is a fantasy

An impossible dream…

He was fighting

Every minute

Every month

Every year

For every bad word

Bad advice

For every pain he felt

For every night he spent without sleeping

He will succeed

For every No

For every hard time

For every difficult day

He will succeed

He will find the strength

Come out in the light

His heart full of joy

And happiness

He will succeed

He will celebrate

All those years

Of sadness

All Those tears

Of unhappiness

He will forget

He will move forward

He will succeed

He will win his battle

Because he has a warrior heart!!!!

Eva Lianou Petropoulou, Official candidate for Nobel Peace Prize 2024, International poet living in Greece.

Mother says, my child, take care of yourself!

The sadness is gone from her heart

If the two of them strike at the same time

When my friends do what my enemies do

My mother says, my child, take care of yourself

Even when someone is waiting for my way

Even when my days passed like a fairy tale

Even when good people hold my hand

My mother says, my child, take care of yourself

She waits with her eyes open at night

If the world shows me, I’m sorry

Worries and swallows poisons

My mother says, my child, take care of yourself

Born in 2011 in Samarkand region, Sitora Sodiqova is a student of the 2nd general secondary school of Yangiyol city, Tashkent region. She’s 13 years old and was awarded a medal by the State of Egypt and a golden badge statuette for being Researcher of the Year for 2024.

Her creative works have been published in more than five countries and she’s mentoring about 30 students. She’s won one million vouchers for her courses, more than 200 international certificate diplomas, and Turkey issued an invitation to her in Bukhara region.

Her books are now available in over 20 countries, and her works have been published in German magazines and newspapers Morning Star and Bonfire.