Category: Poetry

By William Hugel

 

Come and get it while it’s hot,

Come and get it while it’s hot

The orange bottles that will sink

you into the blissful

“I don’t give a fuck, let me be”

drudgery of what is to be

your high school career

 

Listen little boy

Listen little boy

I’ve got the solution for you

the solution that will set you free

from the crickets mumbling in your brain

when you sit in the classroom

and can’t look away from the

sunlight sinking in through window pane

that touches the stain on the carpet

where your teacher’s voice bounces off of

telling you to “pay attention Mr. Little Boy”

 

Don’t worry my man

Don’t worry, I’ve played this game before

And I know what’s best for you

A little brown pill for now, a little blue pill

for later until we move you up to the little white pill

that will put everything into persepctive for you

just remember to take this one in the morning

and this one at night and I promise you

I promise you that by the end of tonight

you will feel the calm serenity of knowing

what the hell you’re actually supposed to be

doing at that desk all day.

 

Trust me friend

Trust me, I know what you’re going through

and these little pills will help you

through the day and I know it’s going

to make it difficult for you to brave

the ocean of faces you’ll be surrounded by

every single day, but you must remember that

I know what’s best for you, better than anybody

 

Don’t listen to them

Don’t listen to the teachers

telling you to adjust your behavioral

patterns. Just take the little pill

and it will clear your brain of

the constant wind blowing leaf

blades and pinecones and crickets

mumbling across the way.

Take the pill to make it all go away.

 

Just listen to me

Just listen to what I say.

I’m your psychiatrist

I’ve got a degree in medicine and psychology

and I know that I don’t know what

you’re thinking because I’m not a mind reader,

but you know that I’ve got a degree that

lets me know your mind better than anybody, even you.

So just take the pill. Come back tomorrow.

I’ll be here for you. As long as you pay.

 

Bio: William Hugel is a student studying literature and creative writing. He has studied fantastic literature at State College of Florida as well as been involved in the creative writing club called Swamp Scribes, performing in public readings at the school and helping to organize creative writing events. He aspires to continue his studies in literature and creative writing at the graduate level as well as enter publication in fantastic fiction.

by: Brandie Hyde

My little feet dangle
as it’s terribly difficult to sit still when one is so young, and packed with
energy.  Our booth is situated against
the large pane glass window with lettering on it that was backwards and
forgettable, yet unobtrusive as it did not interfere with my view of the
sidewalk, nor street, nor cars or anything else opposite of our position.  The distance between where the bench seat
ended and the edge of the sparkled table top began is barely breached by lunging
forward with folded arms against the shiny metal rimming to protect by lip and
chin from injury.  The balancing act in
trying not to fall off of the seating, yet still reach the plate of
five-and-dime diner fries with the puddle of ketchup on the small white yet
scratched grey plain saucer.  We, my
mother and I, arrived by way of Greyhound Bus, from someplace far away where
the family disapproved of her going and in an attempt to foil the plan, refused
to baby sit me and thus I accompanied my mother on this particular adventure.  As we leave, and taking my small hand in
hers, she instructs me “this never happened.”

 

Bio:  The past two years have been, to put it politely, challenging.  Essentially the end of life as I previously knew it.  The return to college life following more than a decade hiatus has been, well… let’s call it colorful.  I managed to complete the requirements to receive my AA this December.  With one goal down, another looms on the horizon as I begin the baccalaureate program here at SCF for Public Safety Administration in the Spring.

by: Bonanza Jellybean

 

I think of you daily, for

what it’s worth which

isn’t much, I know, but

it’s the only penance I can

pay, because being lonely,

it’s all that I can do, this

reminding myself to never

do it again, a living amends,

and does that sound as empty

to you as it feels to me?

 

I can’t call to say I’m sorry

because where you are

the calls only go one way

besides what would I say

anyway it wouldn’t change

what we’ve become even

“estranged” is too good

a word; “two paths having

diverged” is simply too

poetic to describe this burnt

and disfigured mess that

was once  an “us” and not this.

 

Is it enough to close my eyes

and count to ten before

I speak to him; to be good

to him because I wasn’t then;

can tomorrow erase what

yesterday wrote; can I use

today to mend the promises

I broke and if I could, would

I take away every word we’ve

ever spoken to each other?

No, I don’t think I would;

would you, if you could?

 

By C.E. Churchill

We line up outside the schoolhouse,

Trembling in our skirts and shorts.

The wind feeds on our shivers

As it races over our bare skin,

Waiting.

Pressed up so close to one another,

We feel each and every shudder

That racks through our bodies

Like a sick ricochet of domino pieces,

Helpless as force and fate knocks them all down.

In our useless winter coats,

We line up outside the schoolhouse,

The chill of the weather nothing

Compared to the ice that freezes our hearts

As the gunman pulls the trigger.

One by one, we fall.

Like domino pieces.

By Alathor Champion of The Light

Left my hammer swings, and then again to the right

Like a pendulum eternally swinging, my hammer crushes their skulls

I forge forward into the dark abyss, the metallic smell of blood consuming me

The time is growing near.

 

It is as if I am swimming through a sea of putrid flesh,

As the Goblins have terrible bathing habits.

The scent is enough to make the most stone faced Dwarf –

Cry to his mother…..

 

Left, right, my arms grow tired; but they continue

Continuing on, I see the light.

I approach nearer

And it consumes me.

 

By Detective Felthoff

Oh, don’t despair, your hair of non-paper,

And your beauty will compare to realize,

And onlookers aren’t made of stone.

Worry not, child, for you are clay,

Beyond understanding, please don’t look so blue,

This shine of yours is of innocent sense.

Oh young one, this world to you is still non-sense,

And the trees overnight turn to paper,

And the ocean isn’t a brilliant blue.

Worry when you see with real eyes,

Beyond your form of clay,

This world of people behaves as stone.

Oh pick up your chin, child, don’t shuffle with stone,

And let your hair grow is of sound sense,

And be proud of the gifted body of clay.

Worry for the others are a fragile paper,

Beyond the strength to handle real lies,

This is a primordial truth, but don’t look so blue.

Oh ye of little knowledge, don’t look so blue,

And mind you, don’t shuffle with stone,

And mind you, don’t let the onlookers realize.

Worry not the world making sense,

Beyond the scorching of paper,

This is the sound ringing in your ears of clay.

Oh you will get it soon enough, creature of clay,

And go have fun ’till you turn blue,

And let your legs fly around a zephyr of paper.

Worry is not in your mother’s tone,

Beyond still to a point of counting cents,

This is a trademark that can reel lives.

Oh little heartbeat, you will soon realize,

And you will appreciate your body of clay,

And you will make others jealous green.

Worry when you see the sky crystal blue,

Beyond it will rain of fire stone,

This existence will be of burnt paper.

This is something you already realize, so don’t look so blue.

You are of wet and glorious clay, the fire will make you hard as stone.

As I said, you will make others green, for they are only of paper.

 

Bio: Josh is a man of many interests. A four year and counting student of SCF, he currently seeks a BAS degree in Homeland Security. He is constantly inspired by the people that surround him and draws many creative ideas from his interactions with them, but only from the darker side of transient thoughts. As such, it can be said that he is simply a conduit of the writer’s mind behind the creaking oak closet door.