Stash house

When I could roam the city, the tracks would take me
Down to the stash house
With the rusted tin hinged on its edging
The radiation warded my rougery
So I always found another way around
Only till a party would flank me could I muster my strength
We dressed in the grounds’ gray mud,
Slipped soundlessly beneath the stakes,
And left no monument undocumented
Seconds and minutes passed
The spores ignited our hearts and our brains
I forged a blunt weapon in the fire of my blitz
Bashing the chamber, more and more!
Anything inside could be mine, would be
Erupted by the clash of cold metal colliding with my molten arm
And just like that, we split
Panicked scratch of a hurried drag out the compound
My divided party stood against the keeper of this place
Waned, I exhaled its sick air


Austin High

11

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Whining Chickens and the Scared Eyes of an Old Man 4.5/5 (2)

My family are stereotypical Americans.
Big, fat, loud Americans,
like overfed chickens in a slaughter house.

With their gluttonous bodies,
full of ignorance and
distasteful opinions.
Their squawking echos through
the first class train cabin.

The cabin full of
patriotic sods and a lonely,
fear ridden little, old,
innocent Czech man.

Their loud cries of pain
leaving the beaks
of my meaty family,
pierce through metal.

First class was meant to have A/C.
Americans love A/C.
I didn’t know I signed up for a sauna.

Chickens now hate saunas.


James Bowie High School

11

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unclear solutions 3.5/5 (2)

The hot air balloon gets blurrier
with each slide until It becomes
clear again; with a brilliant resolve
that leads to brown circular frames,
No matter how much you
wipe away the anxious
fog that creeps like a vine
with the edge of a cotton shirt,
The bright green
hills are still visible
but the truth is not.
Because the answer
to the universe
is not merely 42,
and betrayal cannot be foreseen
even through clear lenses
Or from the vantage of a hot air balloon.

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Why 4/5 (3)

Why
By kahshanna kingston

Why, why do lie ? why do we make up stories til we’re 6ft under the in a hole, a big grave filled with LIES. why do we cry feel sorrow and hurt ? is it because we’re happy,sad,and mad.
Why do we laugh , i know why i laugh, because i feel the love. Why do we love ?
Because, the more we love the less hate there is.
But, when you grow and your young child asks “mom why do we hate ?” because some do not know what they do, so we FORGIVE. “Mommy why do we forgive ?” so, we can forget.


L.C. Anderson High School

11

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When Will People Realize? 3.2/5 (5)

When will people REALIZE?
Realize that abandoning someone hurts.
When will people feel REMORSE?
Remorse for leaving someone behind.

Shutting, shutting, shutting doors
BAM.
Another tear cried.
Another child abandoned.

When will people HURT?
Hurt for the pain they’ve caused before .
When will people THINK?
Think of the trust issues they’ve caused.

A child’s cry to their mother.
When is daddy coming home?
Never the mom replies holding back tears.
He chose to shut that door long ago.

A child’s cry to their father.
When is momma coming home?
Never the father says through clenched teeth.
She couldn’t put down the needle.
The drugs shut the door for her.

Shutting, shutting, shutting doors
BAM.
Another tear cried.
Another child abandoned.


W. Charles Akins High School

11

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One More Time 4/5 (4)

One more time
One more hit

I said I would stop
I said prison changed me

I said I would do it for the kids
I said I would do it for my family

Now I sit begging for another dose
Heroine
Meth
Speed
Cocaine
Why do you control my life?

One more time
One more hit

Sirens blare
Police men yell

My instinct tells me to run
My instinct tells me to hide

On my knees I sit
On my knees I am cuffed

4
5
6
7 times

How many times will I visit prison again?
Heroine
Meth
Speed
Cocaine
Why do you control my life?

One more time
One more hit

My eyes roll
My eyes close

Overdose takes over
Overdose takes me

Now I’m gone
There won’t be another time
There won’t be another hit


W. Charles Akins High School

11

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If childhood had a flavor,

It would not be this: Scraping
shards of glass into a dustpan
Dim lightbulbs
spit out a
warm light. Sticky, sour,
fermented lemonade
mixed with sweat,
a bottle shaped dent
In the dirt-brown tile.
It would be: Blue
buttercream frosting
sticking to your tongue, swallowed
sodapop still fizzing,
fingerpaints still staining hands,
even after three or four washes,
like the faded glow
of a nightlight
you’ve already turned off.
Still, I can’t get
the bitter citrus out of me,
Even after three washes.


James Bowie High School

11

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Suburbia

There’s something
no one ever talks about when
they’re in suburbia.

It’s supposed to be a
flawless middle class union, half
metro, half marsh,

but steel edges
of silver silos and skyscrapers
teeter on tearing

the fragile fabric
of the starless almost-city sky.
You hear it most

nights when the
street racers wrench through
pitch highways

and the crickets
punch the identical houses’
plywood shutters.

You hear it when
there’s yelling next door, one
half matrimony,

one half the
inescapably loud swarm
of change.


James Bowie High School

11

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Unearth

I don’t want to pray for forgiveness
like I’m pinned by the wings
to God’s corkboard.
But when the iron in my blood
is towed toward the magnet that is
her in her
sunny Sunday best, I don’t stop myself
from choking on the
Lord’s Prayer.
Instead,
I indulge my shame.
Like a sleepy child
I’ll never want,
it yawns
for frivolous things,
like fragrant rose bouquets,
or monotonous love.
I ignore the tired requests that
I need to answer.
Only I can unearth up my roots, hidden
in the tangled churchyard.
Only I can sever the rubber bands
that I tentatively snap against my heart,
but I have lost both
the shovel and
the patience.
Trying to dig gets me nothing
but dirt under my nails and
empty hands. Stubborn
(or maybe even divine)
intuition
say that if there is
anything left
of who I am inside,
it is years
from being covered
by wedding gowns and
tiny, blue swaddling clothes. Still,
what I wouldn’t give for a frivolous thing,
like a sham love,
or a heart
that didn’t want to hide.


James Bowie High School

11

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Memorobilia

Observe how he
presses his hand on
her lower back,
guiding her through
their shared workspace.

See how she hands him
her tattered sweater and
he stops shivering,
even though
it’s filled with holes.

If you squint,
you can see it in him,
carrying her
bobby pins in the front pocket
of his shirt at a party
while she dances
with someone else.
Think about these things.

Feel their weight:
the gentle palm,
the striped sweater,
the copper pins.

Feel their weight
and know:

Love is not things,
you do not carry it with you.
Still, find this
secondhand embrace in
the memorabilia of
someone else’s love.


James Bowie High School

11

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