The Muse
The Real Anti Social Club
Matt Riggs
Long Poetry
I don't want to sugarcoat it
And say that I'm an introvert,
Even though that's what I do.
See, I want to be honest
And let people know
My sociopathic tendencies
Come from the trauma
Only a 3 week dance with Death
In Spain can give you.
I'd like to think
Being an oxymoron personified
Is a lot tougher on a standout citizen than it is
For those they hurt.
After all, I throw my butts away
After harsh second-hand
Drags and opinions
Jolt your sympathetic nervous system.
I promise I don't want to hurt
Those close enough to hear the smoke,
But that smoke passes through me like daydreams,
And I'm the same as you.
I know on paper
I'm more like the people
Who are scared of me
-that's something we have in common-
Than the piercing yellow eyes
On my second skin,
But my warped sense of
Reality says
I'm misunderstood
And that's all I'll ever be.
But when I stare
And cannot have intimacy
With what it means to feel
I think that Google might have some merit.
Not making time
To send a text
Isn't The Problem
Even though it makes me
Look like it.
But it's because
I fucking hate emojis
Being required
To make hieroglyphics
Decipherable.
Cus thru txt
I sound disinterested,
When if we were on the phone
My words would leave your head ringing
Like Deep Purple.
Shower Thoughts
Kassandra Villareal
Long Poetry
I don’t want to use the word.
If I use the word, it becomes real.
Real as the way my lover elbows me during the night⎯ the bruises I am left with sweet and aching.
Real as the way hot coffee burns my tongue, searching for its new home in my stomach.
Real as the way my hair tangles in the wind⎯ mountain air- cold in my plum locks.
The word will become me.
It will become the definition of my ribcage, the crevices in my collar bones.
The word will carve the infinite space between my ham sized thighs; it will sculpt the fixtures of my too large hip bones out of fragile clay.
The word will fixate me into space.
I will no longer be able to eat tea for breakfast and depression naps for lunch.
I cannot lay in a steaming shower waiting for the water to wash away the excess skin and muscle.
I will not be able to think away cravings- the earthquake from the bottom of my diaphragm.
Sometimes I think myself into the circus, using a funhouse mirror.
Every fiber in the middle of my body extended by six inches.
I am carrying myself and all the oceans.
I cannot fit every body of water and a full thanksgiving meal in my small, frail, five-foot frame. So, instead, I eat my thoughts. I shovel in literature and eat my studies for all my meals.
When would there be time to remember?
When would there be time to stop?
When would there be time for anything, but admire the way my stomach keeps shrinking into my back?
I don’t want to use the word.
Because if I use the word, it becomes real.
To My Friend Who Lost a Piece of Herself
Samara Roberts
Long Poetry
“There is hope”
And now
A piece of your future
Is in a bright blue bag.
The stem shaped hole
Inside you
Is a seed for loneliness
Where you thought you had
No more room
For such things.
You cry
For fear
You will never hear
The cries
Of your children --
You love them before
They are
In your arms.
So what now?
“Hope” was a lie
Now
“Healing” is a lie
Nobody
To kiss the bruises
On your soul
“They should
At least be green
By now” --
Their angry red
Makes your friends
Feel helpless
And even
As your crimson loss
Takes root
And blooms
I see you
Healing
In your own
Weak way
I love you
I wish I could break open your pain
Like an egg
Into a bright blue bag and
Trade it for
A promise
Anon
Jaden Dapilmoto
Short Poetry
What is the vast nothingness? Do we bear its truth?
Let it cover those that want it most.
Need not over the opposing, but the craving.
Be not bathed in it;
Submerge thee into the light,
And lie here for eternity.
Dandelion
Amber Harris
Short Poetry
Tangled hair, no porcelain face,
Sweatpants, no mesh and lace,
No body like silicone,
A dandelion all alone.
A weed that grows beside the flower bed,
Violets, tulips, pink and red.
You would look at me if I was a rose,
But this is not how the story goes.
Dirty shoes, no glossy lips,
A far off look, no curvy hips,
No silver, gold, or pearls, or beads,
Just a wish upon dandelion seeds,
Blown away, my thoughts are scatted,
My leaves are brown and heart is tattered,
For you would look at me if I was a rose,
But this is not how the story goes.
To fight each day, each sun, each moon,
To wait until the day I bloom,
But you won’t love me because I’m not a rose,
This is how the story goes.
House Fires
Kassandra Villareal
Short Poetry
I watch his house burn.
The flames try to escape past his teeth, his jaw clenched to hold in the chaos.
The panic stale inside his lungs spark the flames, it gathers his ribcage for the campfire.
The heat rips the paint off his walls; it takes his spine and burns its way to his collapse.
He sits on his knees with his fingers held firm in his knotted hair, the soot collecting at the bottom of his soles.
The next day, he molds picture frames out of the soot, and hangs them on the ash covered walls.