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spring is in the air

By David Wilkinson I stayed up late last night Searching for the answers within myself But I looked too deep And found too little And now I cannot sleep For fear of waking To an immeasurable oblivion

By Rukmini Das Do you pull at the skin of your cracked lips, Just to feel that familiar sting before the blood? Envision car crashes and kidnappings, War stories and bodies covered in mud? Pinch your arms and slap your cheeks, Not to awaken from nightmares, but to create them instead. Close your eyes and hope for the worst, Cross your heart and hope to be dead? Pretend we’re alone and desperate, Pretend to have loved and lost, Shed tears for those who breathe only in our minds, Live in limbo to never join those who’ve crossed. But this pain, these tears, They feel more real than the smiles, Reality and fiction are muddled, The carcasses of characters dumped in heaving piles. They’re resurrected to come haunt our sunken eyes, How can the blood drain from my shinny, new heart? Mine is untouched and safe from the scars of love, Yet it feels as if its been pierced by a vengeful dart. We’re still too young to be this broken, Too young to be so twisted and demented, Yet somehow some of us are born wrong, Residing in bodies of children that must be rented. We have no stimuli to inspire this wrenching breathlessness, So we imagine stories and fill in the blanks of darker mad libs, Lets create problems and bring on damnation, Because pain is better than the emptiness reverberating in my ribs.

By Rukmini Das Maybe if I shout a little louder, If I deny the truth more vehemently, Maybe if I cause the frames to shatter, Slam doors and stab with words like a dagger, Maybe then I won’t be the cause. The cause of her frenzied eyes and twitching hands, Maybe then she can take a pause, Pause from the madness that she spews like venom, And the water, it comes just as easily as the fire, Ready to terminate that blinding haze of fury, But even the savior becomes the hunter when it sees that I’m a liar. It overflows and floods in an attempt to purify the incessant dark. If only trying was good enough, If praying and love would finally step up, If only my skin was thorny and tough, Instead my veins gleam through glass, pulsating, betraying

March Newsletter  

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