DeAnna Pope, MICDS ’12, Poetry
•November 1, 2009 • Leave a CommentSeeing it again.
Would be hell.
Always hotter than hell.
I could go jump off the balcony and be colder than in that room.
The bedroom and the bathroom.
Hastily, the makeshift door handle for the bathroom.
The bored crickets in the bathroom.
Lighting my only candle at night to keep me company in the bathroom.
I even cried when I thought it was broken in the bathroom.
I cried at night anyway.
The crickets would hop under my bed and try to soothe my tears.
I would draw images of a new rising sun.
When the pencil would break, I would read my books.
I was homesick for fiction novels.
Which I would put back in the same spot every time.
The same spot.
So I would know if someone stole it.
Maybe. If someone stole my reality, I could accuse them and get a chance.
More often, I would feel guilty for these thoughts.
But when I would feel guilty I’d look at my ceiling-too high for me.
To ever possibly reach.
I would try to put a magazine cover up there.
I was too short to put up a shadowy-eyed model on the top.
I missed you a lot too.
I would look at the magazines.
In room 709.
Trying to journal every night.
The same spot.
Today I’ll remember.
Playing the flute at night to bug the neighbors because.
They couldn’t speak English to tell me it was awful.
Anjuli Dharna, CHS ’10, Poetry
•November 1, 2009 • Leave a CommentThe Act
Drum roll please,
as they takes Center Stage.
Each in Bright Colors,
my cousins– Family.
They are on display.
Center Stage– in my House.
Off to the side,
I Stand, Bowler hat in hand,
watching, orchestrating– Conducting?
Right now they are the focus,
Audience, the World,
have a good look!
the Plans I have– Unveil
a disappearance, Severed abdominals?
The choice is Mine.
Minutes Pass, like years,
and still they stand, There.
5 4 3 2 1
Gone.
Just like that.
Who chose? They to leave?
No matter, I am alone.
Stage Right,
Bowler hat in gloved Red hands.
Applause?
