Creative Writing of December: By various authors
Unless you have a crystal ball and a flair for the mystique, you can’t predict what happens to you. There may be cryptic whispers in dreams, but they often go unnoticed or gather dust, forgotten. Luck comes around sometimes, and spirits you onto a good or better path. Sometimes luck doesn’t stick around though, or just doesn’t show up.
Hoping luck comes to hang with you,
Creative Writing Editor
Sometimes I Wonder
By Leo Hussain
I’m standing there, my hand held by yours
So they glared, forever stared,
We became a car wreck on a busy road
Wind in my hair, I’m driving 120, semi-comatose
Sometimes I wonder, what’s the point of loving if their voices speak louder than our own?
Sometimes I wonder, what’s the point of living if they say that our living is wrong?
I’m standing there, my hand grasped by yours
They barged in, old kin and men I call friends
So before they glared, and forever stared, I let you go
Sometimes I wonder, what’s the point of loving if their opinions matter more than my own?
Sometimes I wonder, what’s the point of trying if it breaks my bones?
Wind in my hair, I’m driving midair, alone
By Kayla Joy Friedland
the blue silk that spread along the edges
of the sun and all she was
dipped his finger into the earths’ charcoal
used the sun as his canvas
and smeared his fingerprints along the sides of her face
and a single tear drop fell
he wiped it away and handed it
to the birds,
as they soared among the prairies
they dropped her tears onto the wind’s
and the breeze caught them
and they froze, marbled and each
and they fell
and he watched from
the clouds he had created
the cold he had birthed
the love he had made
he gave her a name
the hardened tears and the dusted skies
he called her winter
and she was so beautiful
Cigarette in my left, beer on my right,
My phone in its pocket and you on my mind,
Seeing now how life relies on building block dependences.
I’ve tried 8 months without smoking,
4 without drinking,
3 without porn,
And I’m still trying to get you out,
But the void is an ever-hungry traveler.
Their first success becomes the last as soon as its achieved,
And they will find all types of roads to get to what I need.
Why do they do this work for me without a prize in mind,
This I know I will never know before it is my time.
Chin high, this inner-explorer brandishes their encyclopedic arrow towards what I need to, want to, should go get.
As they point to meditation, mindfulness, contemplation, whatever makes me sweat,
Being its vessel, this rogue mind runs to the ropes, ravishing and ranting and reminding and racking all to try and hoist my sails.
This goal, this game, their insatiable pass time.
Serenity, my holy grail, is true North,
But with my bravado-ridden companion, no missions will lead me there.
Now, now that I’ve spoken against their efforts, by the explorer’s decree, my feet lay in sinking cement, a mix of bad habit and false spontaneity.
Sinking, my lungs fill with troubled waters while my body reminisces the time of heartfelt exploration.
Each shore presented different options:
Salty, bitter, bitter-sweet, sweet;
Foamy, infested, turmoil-fret fleet.
I’ve walked, ran, sat along sands
Of coarse, soft, much-trodden land,
Always with my relic in mind, the one I swear I’ll find, to no extent.
For, the calmest, stagnant, lukewarm waters in which I dip myself
Are but short-lived.
Once my forefinger bobs over what could fill the explorer’s void
Time proves itself unkind.
It’s never enough.
Then back to smoke and poison in a can,
To endorphins in all shapes and forms.
These habits compress the exploration of life.
Still are they kinder than the unknown promised land.
Forfeiting the Game of Games
By Alex Merfu
curious to see your face full of
shed tears, and your grieving
bellowings when all that pulses
inside me is uneasiness
for me, he had never lived
at all, nor had he ever
smiled or laughed; done
any of the things you
loved him for.
the poet, our lord, grieves
alongside, an earth-shattering
sorrow not shared by me.
perhaps ill see him crossing
the street, or perhaps
again at the park.
for surely, ever surely,
he is not yet dead.
By Emmy Rubin
I saw her walking down the street
Holding her mother’s hand.
She was wearing pink shoes with ribbons
And was eating one of those lollipops
That looked like they could hypnotize talking rabbits
In those retro cartoons.
I was sitting on the sidewalk
Picking at the hole on my knee,
Rationalizing that what’s big is deliberate
And what’s small is a sign of misfortune,
Even though I know that a hole is a hole
No matter what size it is,
And the wayward threads that border its edges
Are the hints I unintentionally give the world that I’m breaking through my seams.
Maybe that’s why I’m so mesmerized
By the girl with pink ribboned shoes;
Because while I’m worried about what I’ll eat tomorrow,
She holds on to her mother’s hand
As she takes another lick of her lollipop,
Never once taking her eyes off the amorphous clouds surrounded by blue,
Not noticing my longing to be looking up there too.
i don’t get any college credits for submitting to the plant
by Ben Bisallon
Do I prioritize
There’s barely time
To reach tomorrow
Questions are not
Leads to the same
I promise I tried
To break it
Find the key
That all have searched for
Yet few found
I bring my only
As it approaches
I ask for secrets
Give me liberty
Give me ignorance
Let me set my naive goals again
I knew they were impossible