Cult Analysis

Joel Bautista

Ball of Fire

Emily Singh

Blood is thicker than water, But not thicker than liquor. Finding clarity in clear alcohol

I fall

Into fate as I overstate No truancy on my dependency Continue despite it pulling me down Rebound onto the next shot

Drinking to forget The void builds but doesn’t stand still Numb with Advil, I prevail to unveil Every unavailable emotion Chaotic for no reason Overstimulation, I digress Reset to become ready For every machete, That creates anxiety Is it a part of me? Take it apart And so I start

Mom, What is love?

Malina Seenarine

What does love sound like?

Shouting coming from the room next door

The banging of walls, the falling of chairs

So many pieces are missing from the puzzle

Sometimes you’re walking down the street and you find one

The door car slamming, the man shouting at himself, the child dragging her baby doll on the concrete.

Blurry spots become tangible memories, it’s supposed to feel like clarity but really it only validates the hole you feel somewhere in your body, the realization the carver left you unfinished.

What does love feel like?

Love is a stranger, love is breaking yourself for someone when the irony is that you’ve never been whole in the first place.

Love is pain, abuse, pain, abuse, pain

The cycle continues with whoever is next, playing parallel to the past. Your soul is screaming for you to see every welcome is not to be accepted

They were the ones who were supposed to protect you, instead they showed you love that stains the pages that haven’t been written yet

And at the same time the tears are unable to flow.

So much is determined before we get a chance to think

We feel everything that is given to us

Those early years become so imperative.

We let it become our expiration date?

What is love?

Could it not be like this? This is all I know.

Colors of My Skin

An Empty Palette Farah Javed

A brush twisting and turning with no purpose, No direction. Words left unsaid weigh down every move. No, I never knew you, I thought I did.

I never got the chance.

Paint dripping through my fingers, Transfixing the eyes but dripping through. Nothing but stains on my palms, A puddle on the floor.

I thought you were more.

I was desperate to put your story on canvas. To bring your spirit to life, Mark your imprint boldly for all to see. Oils, acrylics, all laid before me, My muse, seated candidly in my mind. But the colors were never right.

With the fan brush, Each bristle paints a tear. Washing across the medium, Dripping down the easel’s leg.

With my knife, I shape the path you could have walked. Each curvature a turn left untraveled.

With my sponge, I blot in burnt umber and cadmium yellow. Dabbing away the memories that could have been.

Here’s what they never tell you, The piece is never truly done The Louvre overflows with admirers, But the painter alone sees the flaws, Sees the risks never taken.

No camera, no pen, no brush Can ever gather the aura of a moment.

The polaroid shows a smiling old man, But shares nothing of his loneliness.

The pen is mightier than the sword, But the writer limited.

A brush can bring a scene to life, But it is demented, Twisted through the lens of the artist.

My shaking hands strive to paint the letters, A signature, a lie of completion.

Hours pass in deliberation. Leaving wrinkles from furrowed brows, Nails bitten down to the beds, as the last of the paint drops.

My decision is made.

The artist walks away, A painting left unnamed, unclaimed.

An unfinished painting, And the last of the memories to dry up.

Faces Of Despair

Emanuela Gallo

at the end of the day, faces of despair trickle into the train eyes drooping and dragging under the weight people seem tired on the subway headphones and earbuds cover their ears drowning out what they don’t want to hear podcasts, music, anything will do they need something to help them get through their days and distract from the neverending mundane it’s the same damn ride every same damn day they can’t escape from the certainty of pain simply want a break from the ball and the chain empty, listless faces of indifference slowly nodding and bouncing along with the rhythm eyes are vacant, staring off into distance people seem to question their vain existence a chorus of babies crying the whole way standing too close to someone – they don’t smell great tight smiles when someone asks for change they ignore, do their best to look away yellow lights and rocking cars got people wondering if their lives will go as far as the commute they have all the way home they’re all feeling weary from the long road so, they try their best to stay awake but some give up, their bodies give way faces of despair trickle out of the train people seem tired on the subway