I am a cicada 5/5 (3)

My life started in the ground
I was taught to dig at a young age because that was the only way to stay
away from the predators outside.
They could smell our fear and that is how they hunted us
We felt trapped in the place that was supposed to make us feel safe.
We dug tunnels and created these underground communities that were
We would feed upon the roots of the giving tree because everything else was
This was our life
Dig. Eat. Stay inside…
There are always predators outside.
I heard stories about cicadas who have gone outside and it usually went one
of two ways: they were eaten as soon as they reached the surface
Or they grew wings.
I wonder how it would feel like to fly
To feel a gust of freedom blow off this dirt that has been tattooed to my skin
They told me not to go outside
Because that’s what we were taught when we were young and it seems like
the most logical thing to do right?
But why is it that the place that is supposed to be safe makes us feel like we
can’t be free?
Each year brought me closer and closer to building up the courage to go
Whenever I thought about it, I imagined that gust of freedom again
But I also imagined the predators chewing on my bones.
They hated me despite never speaking a word to me
But they were raised to hate us just as we were raised to fear them.
Then the day came when my shell began to harden
I began to travel to the surface and saw my memories painted on the walls
of these tunnels
My whole life has been down here, but that’s not the life I should have been
I saw the sunlight, the grass, and the sky.
I even saw the top half of the giving tree
It was so much to take in at once but I also noticed that the predators were
nowhere to be seen.
Where the predators ever here?
Or were they made up so no one would leave?
I finally got to the tree trunk and thanked the giving tree for all she has
given me.
My skin began to shed and I felt like the weight of all problems have just
been lifted
I looked back and noticed how ugly my old skin used to be
I could also see my wings and they were ever so beautiful

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The Single Star 5/5 (2)

The speck showing
a future among
Sharpie scribbled skies.

A planet who shines
its hardest with
a raging surface.

A white ray ripping
Through the black hole above,
Gouging out soulless eyes.

An Idea written
Out of goals to break
walls emitting shadows

A spot separated
From where it belongs,
though it belongs nowhere.

A strength shown as
It bursts through
What seemed impossible.

The Dream untouchable, but
Desire still sits,
Waiting to be reached.

The Star, alone, one of many.

James Bowie High School


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Dark Static 5/5 (1)

Foggy eyes, grabbing at a
Lack of glass
Only dark fuzziness in front of her

A window coated in 3 years worth of dust and dirt,
A thin sheet of water descending in front of her face,
A screen of a spring door
speckled with dead fly legs

The shards of her glasses
Into her palm, her eyes left

Withering weeds caressing her ankles
The enraged wind licking her bare shoulders
The faint smell of distant roadkill assaulting her nose

An empty black sky, clinging to her fingertips
Her hands pressing through
endless layers of black brick walls

She could hear coyotes calling
cubs nearby, yet
Nothing was seen.

James Bowie High School


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Ocean 5/5 (1)

salty liquid
sand scraped
knees and

You force breath,
burning eyes,
and land
on its unwavering form.

Once one with it,
sure to be there for the rest of eternity.
Cold, blue bloated body
lost among the fish and coral.

Lost concentration,
diverted by the cerulean tint,
unconscious of approaching waves.

Washing over you,
filling lungs,
uselessly fighting.
Flailing limbs,
limp after several moments.

Unaware how you got to shore,
hazzines encompases you.
It must have spit you out,
once the dark overcame you.

You know it to be merciless at times,
pushing the body and the mind,
forcing you to fight for whatever you’ve come to it for.

It’s allure transfixing,
morbid curiosity daring you to jump back in,
let the harsh waves provide the comfort you crave.

It’s a safe harbor,
and its cruel,
and you’ll never be able to drag
yourself away from it.


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The Stars of Starry Night 4/5 (1)

His favorite painting was Starry Night.

Gazing at the bright yellow and white stars swirling into the dark blue night.

And you see I was those stars.

And he was the dark night sky.

Our colors beautifully blending together,

Contrasting in the most breathtaking way.

His dark blue brush strokes wrapped around my bright yellow ones.

Kissing every star making up the sky.

The sky made love to the stars.

Colors bleeding together with slight hints of light green.

We were a harmony of hues spreading across the canvas.

But time carried on.

Our colors fading and separating.

The sky was almost unrecognizable.

We were no longer the beautiful colors blending together in a harmony of hues that made the choice of the piece.

He no longer looked at me the way he looked at those stars.

I felt as if I were a cheap replica of a masterpiece

With too harsh of lines and color two shades too light.

He was no longer my sky.

The colors blended into a muddled mess.

We were no longer the masterpiece everyone awed at.

And that night that everything went down,

The arguing,

The anxiety,

The crying,

Because he wasn’t aware of the stars that waited patiently at his door.

Growing dimmer and dimmer with each missed call as I stood at his front door.

Each knock and ring of the doorbell gone unnoticed.

I was no longer his stars.

And after we said our goodbyes,

I sat back in my car.

Looking into the clear and starless night.

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The Good Ol’ Days

The good ol’ days

When naptime was the best time

You would always fall asleep to a nursery rhyme

And climbing trees would leave you with

Bruised skin and skinned knees


The good ol’ days

when everything was an adventure

You would always move the couches and all of the furniture

And play lava, build forts, and get into all

Sort of trouble


The good ol’ days

When your best friend was a teddy bear

You would take him to school and nobody would care

And now you’re learning how to share

And you think it’s not fair

For life to ever be this way


The good ol’ days

When it was plain and simple to see

That you didn’t have to worry about what you really wanted to be

Or what you wear

The color of your hair

Or even if you were allowed to swear

Where has the time gone?


The good ol’ days

I’m losing that sight

These colorful photos are turning to black and white

Those memories will soon fade

But oh how much I’d pay

To just go back to the good ol’ days

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Life without you is like my lungs with no oxygen; my blood bends blue– lifeless…
Dead without your love.
How can you possibly expect me to live with no air?
I need you as bad as my red blood cells need oxygen to bring nutrition to my muscles, organs, tissue, and skin.
My heart services two purposes: convert blue blood to red and to have a place to hold you in– your love.
But if your love is like oxygen then you got me breathless.


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I’m sick and Tired 3/5 (2)

I’m sick and tired of hearing “I don’t want the gays shoving their sexuality in my face.”

As if I can sit through a movie in theatres without sending even one straight kiss

As if I can walk down the street without seeing some straight couple holding hands or kissing

As if I can go one day without seeing horny straight teens pressed up against each other in the hallway


I’m sick and tired of “Not everything has to be gay!”

As if everything isn’t already dominated by heterosexuality

As if representation is too much to ask for when straights see themselves in a vast majority of

the media we consume

AS if little boys and girls don’t grow up confused because they never see boys and girls kissing other boys and girls


I’m sick and tired of “got hates queers”

As if god doesn’t love all his children

As if the priests who are out there raping little boys get to judge my sexuality (side note: the

ones who aren’t molesters don’t get to judge me either, because they preach that “only god can judge” and I don’t listen to hypocrites)

As if it isn’t hypocritical and straight up ignorant to persecute gays when you’re not slicing off the

hands of teenage girls who’ve touched a dick or condemning clothing lines with mixed fabrics.

You don’t get to pick and choose.


I’m sick and tired of “The gays will convert me!”

As if we’re going door to door with pamphlets and ridiculously long explanations. Y’know, like

the Jehova’s witnesses.

As if being gay is as much of a choice as being staight

As if conversion therapy uses several inhumane and unethical methods, such as torture and

abuse, to convert straights to gays, and NOT the other way around.


I’m sick and tired of “I wouldn’t be scared”

I am sick and tired of “I understand”

As if you have an idea what it’s like to fear for your life during everyday activities simply

because of who’s hand you’re holding or the meaning of the flag on your shirt

As if you have any idea what it feels like to wake up and learn that 50 of your brothers and

sisters were murdered.

As if Pulse affected you the same way it affected us.

As if you can look at Matthew Shepard and Pulse and think could’ve been me.


I am sick and tired of fighting for my rights

As if loving someone means I automatically forfeit rights I should’ve been born with

I am sick and tired of hatred

I am sick and tired of discrimination

I am sick and tired of being treated like I am not human

As if being in love is evidence enough that I am disgusting, filthy, inhuman creature

who deserves nothing but death.

I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.

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The Epic of Vesperum

You took me in when I was all alone

In the form of a child you raised me as your own

I didn’t even know who I was, what I was

I had forgotten my memory

But still your smile was simmiring

I looked like a 10 year old boy

Game me clothing, gave me toys

A love between a child and mother

It compares like no other

Tucked me into bed

And I filled you with sword led

It came upon like insane man

I knew I had been foreign to this land, a demon in a man

On a mission I had ran


I had been a servant of lucifer, But I had betrayed him

With his mission I had concurred, but my body, he trimmed

I was a 10 year old, my memory had been lost

The wind was cold, but at what cost.


Then she met me in the woods

Took me in, her lovely inn, fed me like kin

I love her like so and she loved me back

Thought of me as her child

Took me in, her lovely inn, fed me like kin.

I was the child she never had.


Then came that one fateful day

She was young, hair not yet gray

I had regained my memory

I was never meant a family


I was put here to kill her, and kill her I shall

I did not want to kill her, But I was a being most foul

Put my sword through her head, her screams echoed loud

I was a soul taking demon, did this I had to


Soul demons must reap souls

(Send it again, through her lent, after her kin)

I felt like I had no choice, I did not have a voice

I am nothing but sadness

(Such the fate, of just, a demon)

I am not in charge of my own voice


Soul demons must reap souls

(Send it again, through her lent, after her kin)

I felt like I had no choice, I did not have a voice

I am nothing but sadness

(Such the fate, of just, a demon)

I am not in charge of my own voice


Soul demons must reap souls

(Send it again, through her lent, after her kin)

I felt like I had no choice, I did not have a voice

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Falling Orange

Nervously pacing

sitting Standing sitting again

His leg bouncing

you can hear the orange

tic tacs shake, waiting for

the lunch bell to ring

hands drumming on the green grated lunch table

fidgeting rocks the unbalanced chair


The bell rings

He stands up so quick

he’s unsteady

He reaches in to his pocket

the orange tic tacs shake in his hand

He flicks it open

three fall out


A single tic tac slips from his hand

It falls towards the grated table

crowds surge from the door


The tic tac bounces, a single

orange dot on a green cage

He talks to her

The tic tac balances on the edge

She walks away

He drops in to the unbalanced chair

Bumping the table





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