Regret

Dark, screen lit, wet hair against the pillow

Typed regret in to the blank box

like it would tell me something new

I found were pages full of shadows

‘Sadness’ ‘repentance’ ‘disappointment’ 

Nothing soft, nothing I wanted to see

I place my fingers on the keyboard again

“Does regret ever go away?”

‘Linger for years’ ‘settles deep’

I wasn’t looking for that

Between the Stings 

She eats a popsicle in the back seat

Cold enough to numb her teeth

The car seat burns the back of her thighs

The purple syrup runs down her wrist and onto her elbow

And bruises the carpet beneath her feet

At the pool, kids cannonball too close

The water splashes and stings her eyes

She floats on the water anyways, 

listening to the shrieks muffled underneath the water

While the sun toasts her shoulders 

The barbeque smells like charcoal and spilled soda

Bees hover over the juice pitchers

She watches one of them drown in the lemonade

She regrets not getting another cup

But the chips are salty and good

And the watermelon is cold enough to make up for it

The sun goes down, an orange slouch behind the fence line

The air starts to cool off and her hair is almost dry

She sits back in a sunbed laid out in the middle of the backyard

Someone left a towel bunched in the chair 

It starts to smell

But she uses it as a pillow anyway

Mosquitoes start to come out as the sun disappears completely 

Guests leave the house and the quiet of the night settles in

She heads to the old porch swing that no one ever uses 

She brushes off the twigs and rearranges the cushions 

Only to find an old lollipop melted and smothered into one of the pillows

In the dark, she walks back barefoot,

stepping on something sharp in the grass

It makes her flinch, 

but she just rolls her eyes and keeps walking

She steps on to the cold kitchen tiles and shuts the door behind her

The Silence Between Us

You came back from the hallway trying to get wifi, 

Failed, and layed on your bed 

I kept writing, but couldn’t get anything done

In the corner of my bed, the goose sat still, its neck long and upright

We stayed up till’ late at night, 

our knees on the floor and hands busy on our beds

Trying to finish our bio, history, and English homework at the same time

In the corner of my bed, the goose sat still, it’s fur soft, and an off-white color

The fight started over a misunderstanding, 

Words were said too fast, then nothing for hours

But we both knew that we were going to be okay by tomorrow

In the corner of my bed, the goose sat still, it’s plastic eyes round and black

Facing each other, sitting on our beds with our legs crossed over

We asked a million stupid, hypothetical questions

“If I were a color, what would I be?” “You would be a werewolf if you were in Vampire Diaries”

In the corner of my bed, the goose sat still, it’s bright yellow feet stretched outwards

Irene Kim is a high school student who loves visual art and writing. Her work has been recognized in local exhibitions and school publications. When she’s not drawing or writing, she enjoys reading poetry, walking in the rain, and experimenting with collage. Irene hopes to continue creating work that captures both the quiet and the extraordinary.

Deep in My Drawer

We changed.

I outgrew my blunt bob.

You live in the future.

But like steam fading from a mirror.

Good! I miss you!

More desperately than the beast with his glassed rose,

I thought if I stayed still enough—

Friendship is not a photograph

You didn’t hug me when I cried alone in my dorm, homesick

But we laughed half-asleep on the bed under a looming sun

My fullest, realest moments

You didn’t flinch.

A vintage Chanel worth more than anything still sealed in its box.

Because what’s worn is also what’s survived.

I type about writing

I have good handwriting

But it depends on the situation

When I have to write fast

When I’m too lazy

When I don’t have any energy to spend

I scribble

When I feel like being pretty

When it has to be presentable

When I show it to others

When it has to be aesthetically pleasing

I write every stroke with great care and love

My handwriting can be bad or good

But it’s never terrific

It can be

Only if I spend a lot a lot of time and effort

Until my neck

Shoulder

Back

Fingers hurt and ache

Is it worth?

Sometimes I do it

But should I always do it?

Until the terrific handwriting becomes my norm and usual

But can it be?

I enjoy writing pretty

Not just because of others reaction

Though I don’t remember the last time I was being terrific

Alexis Lee is a high school student and emerging poet who finds inspiration in fleeting moments, music, and the quiet details of daily life. Her work explores themes of memory, transformation, and human connection. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading contemporary poetry, listening to indie music, and exploring local bookstores.

Seoyun Park is a high school student and emerging artist. Passionate about visual storytelling, Seoyun works to create evocative and thought-provoking pieces. She is currently putting together her portfolio for university. 

He had only one day

He had only one day.
He was thirty eight, a meager age. Poor man, he was; life passed by and stopped
before he had his way.

He had to seize the day –
and thwart it from flying away.
And so he tried to find the day – catch its tail and grab it until it would start to suffocate.

As the clock stroke three, he went out
to feel the sound of a summer day.
He didn’t know what was coming, yet
he had to flee from the cavern of his stuffy room;
reign earth before he had to go back and return his breath to mother nature on his way.

Funny, it was. He noticed the little.
He saw the ants, forming long barcodes with
They were moving, eager, ground earthy
more than ever.
He paid attention to the azure skies, cradling
clouds that made many lives.
Zebras! Elephants! Giraffes! He stared, elated, though
the vast expanse of the sky had always been above his eyes.

Did he miss anything in his way?

He stood to see –
make sure that no images pass by, like the wind on that one lonely night. He failed to stop time, but
he captured every moment – opened up a bubble to protect himself
from the fast-moving day.

Fried Rice

It was all simple, when
mama used to cook me fried rice.
She just threw in bowls of white pebbles in the black pan – saw it jumping, dancing to the beat of life.

How do you cook so quickly, I asked. To that, she grinned and said,
Son, fried rice does not require the blessing of time.

She was never afraid to change the recipe,
succumbing to her little whims
as ingredients caught her sight.
Carrots, Potatoes, Bacon – everything she saw, she chopped and threw it into her cauldron, together with her little frights.

It’s better that way, she replied to my unasked question, as she turned around to clean the aftermath of her bloody kitchen, slightly smiling, as if she somehow
knew the secret of life.

It all got too difficult,
after I flew out of mama’s nest.
I tried to talk to the world, break the silence, but
it only responded with awkward murmurs and lies.

So, now I’ll make the world my fried rice.
We’ll not talk; we’ll stare at each other
like lovers on first date.
I’ll just hand it a plate of fried rice, put into the shape of a heart, but we’ll both know that our lives got more simple

than it ever were.

Walking on White Snow

I’m scared to walk on white snow.
I’m afraid that I’ll make footsteps with my dirty shoes. Touch what I should not touch –
take what has been taken from me for a long while.

I stand by my front door and wonder
how the snow maintained its beautiful, curvy figure
over the long, scary night,
how it never encountered the touch of a stranger who could do things that he knew were just not right.

I don’t want to leave any marks on this trail of white snow; I want to protect it
and ensure that it keeps its whiteness that I so greatly miss, on some quiet night.

So, I’m scared to walk on white snow.
As much as I love a winter day, I shall stay in my house, let the snow stay this way
& hope that it will stay this way for a long while

Sean Lee is a high school student at an international school in South Korea with a passion for poetry and creative writing. Growing up in a multicultural environment, he finds inspiration in the intersection of different cultures, languages, and personal experiences. His poetry often explores themes of belonging, memory, and emotional introspection. 

Sophie Yoon is a student and aspiring artist. Drawing inspiration from her surroundings and personal experiences, she uses various mediums to craft pieces that connect on an emotional and thought-provoking level. Sophie is passionate about storytelling through art and hopes to inspire others with her unique perspective. 

This is Where

This is where she waited every evening,

This is where the dog stopped barking,

This is where they were lovers for the last time,

This is where the parade ended,

This is where they kissed and promised forever, 

Once before she dropped the ring.

This is where the swings rusted,

This is where they carved their names into the bench,

This is where the pigeon gathered,

This is where they played music all night,

This is where the door slammed shut,

And no one ever came back in.

This is where she planted flowers,

This is where he fell off his bike,

This is where the ice cream truck stopped,

This is where they held hands for the first time,

This is where the leaves piled up,

Only to scatter with the next gust of wind.

This is where the wind took the kite,

This is where the bus never came,

This is where the fireflies gathered,

This is where the old woman hummed a song,

This is where the shortcut led,

Through broken gates and overgrown grass.

Footsteps in Motion

The man in the striped shirt,

Thin lines curling around his frame,

One cuff rolled higher than the other.

His shoelaces double-knotted,

A folded newspaper tucked under his arm.

The teenager with the headphones,

Thick black cushions pressed to his ears,

One wire disappeared into his jacket pocket.

His sneakers untied,

A keychain jingling against his belt loop.

The girl with the yellow scarf,

Fabric trailing loosely around her neck,

Fingers smoothing its edge out of habit.

Her boots are damp at the toes,

And a loose thread dangles from her sleeve.

The man with the suitcase,

Worn leather rubbed raw at the corners.

He grips its handle with both hands,

His brown loafers, the soles worn thin,

Catch the edge of a mat near the door.

The woman with the grocery bag,

A paper sack cradled to her chest,

The bottom sagging under canned goods.

Her sneakers, streaked with dried mud,

Pause as she adjusts her stance.

Each step resounds,

A quiet rhythm of passing lives,

Before it fades,

As footsteps shuffle them into the past.

The Gathering

The table glows under warm yellow light,

rice bowls steaming, chopsticks tapping,

and the smell of doenjang rising like a memory.

Our reflections blur in the polished wood.

Grandmother’s silver hair tied low, uneven.

She spoons the doenjang jjigae into my bowl,

her hands moving slow but steady, 

She is careful as always.

Father’s hair, short and slicked with gel,

He leans back, recounting his day.

His voice dips and rises like an old song,

the kind you don’t realize you’ve memorized.

Mother’s braid falls neatly over her shoulder,

its end brushing the edge of her apron.

She smiles faintly as she wipes the table,

her silence speaking louder than words.

My sister’s hair, cut blunt just above her shoulders,

bobs as she argues, words sharp and quick.

Her chopsticks tap the rim of her bowl,

her laugh cut through the warmth like a spark.

My hair falls messy and loose,

hiding my face when I look down.

I twirl noodles around my chopsticks,

letting their voices fold over me.

The air smells of sesame and roasted garlic,

the room alive with clinking bowls and laughter.

Steam rises, curling into the quiet spaces,

and love lingers in the pauses between bites.

Olivia Koo is a high school student and emerging poet. When she’s not writing she enjoys reading, movies and music. She is currently putting together her writing portfolio. 

The Dog and the Floor

The dog is laying on the wooden floor

It has brown and white patterns on it

And a round long body with stripes

The wooden floor, which is 30 years old

has stains all over it which looks like a piece of art

and has crumbs of food between its cracks

The crumbs, which are made of food and dust

abandoned for years and years to come

await eternal custody between the cracks

The cracks, created from constant use of the floor

continues to expand further and bigger

eventually taking over sections of the floor.

The stains, which were results of liquid spills

is left on the floorboard as a remembrance of them

And would never be erased or forgotten

The Punishment of Filth

Step down or you will stay

where the crayfish sleep

Possibly eating the crayfish too

Where all the lost and defeated go

For the rest of their lives

With their cheeks open for eternity

How the fish would poke 

And feed on your excrements

How tingly and provocative it feels

But apart from it

There is nothing one can do

To stop this from happening

The tedious process 

certainly bores one to the death

And makes one regret 

what sins he committed 

All that awaits one is the infinite punishment

Here I Sit

The exhausted man,

with his eyes barely wide

trudging slowly toward the can

after getting a drink goes to the side

The happy child

And his ice cream on a cone

became satisfied and smiled

With his teeth whiter than a bone

The giant statue

With its condition at the purest

Its glory matches to

a rhythm of a beautiful courant

The miserable lady

With her makeup wet in the rain

Wanting to cry like a baby

And her whole mind in vain

The old man

sitting on the bench

watching his old hometown

reminisces his town’s past

The woman with a red dress

Sitting on a wooden bench

Drinking a cup of hot coffee

looks at her phone 

Ethan Lee is a student who loves expressing himself through creative writing. He enjoys writing stories, poems, and reflections inspired by the everyday world. When he’s not writing, Ethan can be found reading, sketching, or exploring new ideas. He believes in the power of words to inspire creativity and connection.