Honey - Grace Cupp

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when poisoned words turn to poisoned thoughts that taste like honey on the tongue the longer they sit 

coating chapped lips in a golden death that is

oh, so sweet. 

I can’t remember a time I wasn’t afraid of bees 

and yet I do remember the first time I had honey on toast. 

I was more concerned with licking my chubby sticky fingers than I was with being told that 

I wasn’t actually a product of love.

But now that I think about it, that wasn’t actually the first time I’ve tasted honey 

because I had Honey Nut Cheerios the morning before my brother broke his wrist 

and I was jealous because he was doted on and I wanted to be loved by my mother like she loved my brother

I understand now that she could never love me 

like she loves my brother because I am not her daughter

and I never really liked Honey Nut Cheerios but he did

I get along best with my ex alcoholic uncle

he wasn’t born an accident but he became one

he remembers the first time he had honey on toast too

it was the morning after the priest molested him

before honey on toast turned into vodka in a soda can

I’ve never had vodka in a soda can because alcohol hurts my stomach more than my head

and priests hurt my head more than my stomach

preaching with their serpent’s tongues 

to placeholder mothers and accidental daughters of paradises with milk and honey

growing into fear - Grace Cupp

dreams of flying turn to fears of falling in the turmoil of growth. I used to love the smell of you, running my fingers over your face as if I could carve the ridges into the deepest parts of my memory. big chocolate eyes that used to comfort my soul began to ignite a suffocating terror as I looked up through the haze of red. somehow my first love had become my first heartbreak. nostalgia grips my being with a crippling ache. fragments of flying through tired golden fields that remind me of the honey my mom used to put on my toast and flashes of silver horseshoes too close to skin as soaring became falling, and a child’s dreams become an adult's nightmare.

St. Anthony’s Prayer - Alex Lake

O holy Saint Anthony gentlest of saints,

Where the fuck is my favorite earring? I got the set four years ago at a Savers twenty minutes from my house and I’ve done a lot of legwork since to keep them both in my possession. And yeah, I know I didn’t wear them all of the time so maybe it’s my fault for not taking advantage, but I never remember to wear earrings in the first place and when I did it was usually them so doesn’t that make them special, give them some divine protection anyway? 

I’m not Catholic anymore but I wore an anklet with a charm of your face and my father has never taken off his Saint Christopher necklace a day in his life and that adds up so maybe you could help me.

I wore a little wedding dress and a matching veil when I was seven to get married to God but I’ve felt you more than I’ve ever felt him, the patron saint of lost things, in the apathy of it all. Not in the people, but in the world that won’t shift when you’re trying so hard to grab it and tell it that you’ve lost one of two favorite earrings and they come in a set so can’t everything just stop and cry with you about it for a minute?

But nothing changes. The walls don’t cry. No fish to preach to. No one walks through the door, deus ex machina, here it is.

My life is halved, a time between lost and found. But I’ve learned some things can’t be found or shouldn’t be found or are even never meant to be found so is there anything that can thrive in those loose threads that never knit back into that one sweater from that one time that I’m forgetting the color of now but it’s gone and that’s all I know.

I want to know and maybe you can tell me but right now I’m looking for an earring and my line is open.

Amen. 

settings - Kay Thayer

THEY CANNOT DIGEST YOU

IN ANY WAY THAT MATTERS.

YOU MUST MAKE YOURSELF

HARD TO SWALLOW

AND IMPOSSIBLE TO CHEW.

IF YOU ARE SOUR AGAINST THE TONGUE,

BITTER AGAINST THE TASTE BUDS,

THEY WILL SPIT YOU OUT.

YOU WILL LIVE LONGER LIKE THIS:

UNAPPETIZING AND STARVED

FOR ATTENTION.

ABANDON THE VERSIONS OF YOURSELF

THAT ARE NOT COMING TO DINNER.

STOP SETTING A PLACE FOR THEM

AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE.

YOU WILL HAVE LESS DISHES TO WASH

WHEN IT IS ALL SAID AND DONE.

come & go - Kay Thayer

i dream in lips and faces: 

her body haunts like snow. 

i grip the rubber steering wheel and 

my body is wracked with shivers. there is something rotten inside my chest: something with hands, 

with fingers that coil around my ribs. 

it is using them as rungs, to climb out of the lining of my stomach right up to the hollow of my throat. 

the weight of absence freezes against my tongue, 

and makes it hard to speak. 

what would i say anyway? there is only myself 

and the open road. 

it spreads itself out in front of me; the oncoming 

flurry mimics the static in my head. 

it is only just november, the first snowfall of the year. 

i press on the gas. vermont’s mountains unfold beneath the tires. the gravel crackles and gives. 

the earth is a body we have forgotten how to touch. 

as the snow falls, her curves disappear. i am reminded of august. 

she had braced herself against my back, when she got up to leave. her hands were boiling, burning hot. 

months later, i am still sensitive from her 

wandering fingertips. 

stirring - Kay Thayer

you stand in the middle of the kitchen:

all strawberry-stained hands and

blueberry-bruised eyes. you have only

ever wanted to be loved like sharing

peeled oranges and picking up lemons.

sugar-stirred berries sit heavy in your stomach,

sickly, sweet, and solid. you think of

his laugh, sugar-sifted and raw; the way he’d

cock his head back - caught mid-burst, eyes

squinting against the kitchen’s fluorescents,

hand coiled around the pot’s handle on the

stove. to think of him sends you into a

frenzy: you are flour-pale, egg-white,

and all you can recall is the tart taste left

on your tongue. the yearning rises like yeast.

grandstands - Kay Thayer

you stand with your back to the grandstand,

wandering a town you do not belong, in a state

you do not know. there is this absent worry

storming your brain like a thousand hooves

pounding over a track. your heart thunders

to know where you came from, who you are.

there is greek in your discarded name,

and french in all of your features. there

is polish in your abandoned home, echoing

each time you taste kielbasa, thick on your

tongue. you are an expert at leaving things

behind - this is why you keep going.

you cannot face the family history books

your grandmother has lining the bookshelf.

for every hour she spends tracing back

your family, you spend another ducking

under the rail lining the old racing strip,

and lapping the overgrown track.

the pamphlets in the grandstand all read

1981. 1981 was the last race held at the track,

and your father’s first breath. like the circuit,

like your family name, everything has been

outgrown. your father traded out your polish

name for an english one when he turned eighteen.

you are not the only one with their feet against

the dirt. every step your relatives take is

another further from the past. you are the weeds

growing over the strip. you are the rot in the

grandstand. you - betting on lost causes all over

again. there is no way to rectify

the whole family lineage

you are leaving behind.

cryptid - Tucson Cutsogeorge

melding of flesh  

(no, not quite flesh,) 

something other, removed- 

truncated life revisited, remade, 

created again – a new footprint from 

an old cotton beast taken across five seas, 

three continents to reach the shoreline of mythos 

where it becomes once again something exotic, profitable. 

footprints in the sand too light to feel real, an imprint of a dream 

no life is safe from the ego of creation – even humanity is anatomized 

head removed from body, skull from jaw, molars reprioritized 

to the end of progress (in its falsehood, becoming myth) 

a missing link – how we became so untenably cruel 

in our hubris. if God is all around us in beauty, 

in nature, in light, then what will be shown- 

God shatters at the sight. Refraction 

of creation, what is left  

when we move 

forward.

death came early for me - Saraí Knox

death came early for me.

it was slow and agonizing

it was brutal.

i suffered an unfortunate fate.

death came like a thundering storm

thick, dark clouds rolled in from the hills.

heavy & suffocating

intimidating.

most people have the good sense

to leave when they sense danger.

but why fight it?

it’s inevitable,

so why waste time running,

when it’ll always catch up,

sprinting along on my heels.

i hear laughter in the thunder.

the lightning follows along for show

& all it brings is false hope.

we all stop to look at the miraculousness

of the bright light striking down amidst the clouds,

forgetting the storm

creeping up the back of our necks.

we forget

that even the lightning itself threatens our lives,

but it’s still so damn pretty.

they hover over me still,

the clouds.

they follow me everywhere i go.

everlasting, it feels.

this pain.

the weight of it is something reminiscent

of the hands that circled my neck.

i stood straining,

gasping for air.

the crack of my windpipe sounding

much like the slamming of a coffin.

loud,

much like the aching pain in my head.

my soul was in his hand.

he crushed it in his palm,

watched me crumble,

and watched the remnants fall.

my remains slipped through his fingers,

and flew with the wind.

death came early for me.

it’s a familiar feeling i haven’t gone much without.

it defines me.

cozy nights alone in my bedroom

have now become cramped days in a casket.

Lavender-Scented Incense - Calvin Yardley

A man in rags looks down at his hands. 

He wonders how he ended up; 

what mistakes he made to land where he did. 

He recalls his youth, what little of it he had, 

taken from him in the name of maturity. 

His parents shouting at one another, 

in the dead of night, three sheets to the wind. 

How he prevented them from coming to blows, 

and how he would come to live in a broken home. 

He recalls his adolescence, a monochrome time, 

for which he holds no love. 

The pressures of academics worsening, 

‘til he sought a way out. 

How he recovered in a hospital bed for ten weeks, 

and found the world he returned to very cold, and very lonely. 

He recalls his college years, all the better, 

his best time by far. 

How he learned of all manner of things, 

that which gave him pause, filled his head with questions. 

How he found a boy, discovered all manner of things, 

and had it all come crashing down ten weeks later. 

He recalls his decline, now coughing and shivering, 

where he is now. 

How, in time, he was ousted, jobless, homeless. 

The sores, the bleeding, the hatred, the fear. 

Seen as subhuman. 

Rejected. 

He draws his last breaths. 

He sees his first love. 

How tenderly they held each other, 

how afraid they were of being found out. 

How he hid it all, 

yet let the memories warm him in the coldest of nights alone. He exhales, free of regrets, save for one. 

To just have one more day with him. 

“If I am to die for simply loving, let death be as sweet an embrace as his was.”

Here, A Poem That I Found - Julia Kinney

scratched onto an oak table 

in a wild cabin overgrown with bindweeds: 

To live under the Great Star 

How could one have such greed, 

Such self-pity? 

To have life yet choose death. 

To its withered author, I dare respond: 

Have you seen the mossy-eyed boy, 

the one who lives under the rusty Chrysanthemum Bridge? 

Have you smelled the rotting ground beneath him, the stench seeping from every pore of his bare skeleton? 

Have you heard his heavy wails at the stroke of midnight, delivering the grief of the living throughout the rivers of the world? 

Have you touched those same browning hills, 

the ones he once rolled down in glee? 

You have not tasted, I know this, a life like his, 

or else you would see that Great Star 

burning 

the air until it is too thick to swallow, 

burning 

down upon the dried trees, the blackened robins, 

burning life away 

until all that is left 

is death.

Hawaiian Soul - Julia Kinney

Hawaii: 

a land, 

a culture, 

a people, 

taken and mixed into “The Great Melting Pot of America” 

Hawaiian mountains, 

lush life of greens, dark and mossy. 

Islands and waters they were born from, 

now controlled by the haole. 

Tourist spots springing up like plumerias, 

while the Kanaka Maoli are left 

drowning in poverty and broken from storms; lava burning the land and waters flooding their homes. This land, so far away from America, 

the ruling power that calls Hawaii theirs. 

The islands are left alone to suffer. 

Aloha 

Ohana 

Pono 

Hawaiian language: one of 

love, 

peace, 

respect, 

strength, 

becoming lost to the breezes of the sea. 

Gods and beliefs erased, 

forcing out the spiritual connection to their land. 

Hawaiian song and dance, 

outfits and decor 

turned into themes for parties. 

Wearing scratchy, yellow and pink leis on a plastic cord. Parading around, mocking the ha’a warrior dance. 

A court document, 

a name:

Kahokuolani, 

discarded by a man leaving his home and culture for “the great opportunity” promised in America. 

This loss of name the catalyst for the generational loss of Hawaii. Children unknowing of a past and a people, 

their facial and bodily characteristics watered down, so it is impossible to fit in with their lost culture 

nor the land of the haole 

they now live in.

To Love - Julia Kinney

I loved you. 

I loved your intelligence, 

never acting as if you were better than anyone. 

I loved how sociable you were. 

Everyone liked you, it was effortless. 

I loved your eyes: 

a soft, sky blue, comforting and knowing. 

I loved your smile and your laugh; 

the overall energy you emitted. I thought you were always happy, until I learned you weren’t. 

I loved that you trusted me, 

as much as you can trust a friend. 

And I loved you even when it was clear you didn’t love me. Yes, I loved regardless, and I still love, 

though tied to that love is a soft hatred. 

I love that hatred too.

Reasons Why I’m Hot - Sri Nath Kurup

Hey! My name is Sri Nath Kurup, and I am a rising Sophomore from Spring Valley, New York, with a major in Political Science, intended concentration in Criminal Law, and intended minor in Philosophy and Law. I am a huge fan of storytelling, and from poetry to creative writing, to Dungeons & Dragons, you can catch me writing and narrating. On campus, I’m a member of Phenomenal Voices, Mock Trial, and of course ARCH! In my free time, I’m reading where it’s sunny under a pretty little tree, or chatting with friends while watching a show. I am inspired to write by the belief that every story holds a world of experience. By sharing them we move these worlds into reality, reflecting the parallels of our own lives and helping people who need to see themselves through such an auspice, not a mirror.

***

Yeah I’ve got a lot going on

I guess the greatest thing about me is

I’m hot

Yeah I’m hot as hell

I’m like a fire, burning hot

An ineffable star shining bright

I’m so great I could be a supernova

Blast heat across a galaxy

At the expense of only... me

But I’m not like everyone else

I don’t just RUN OUT of fire

I never lack the heat or passion

Necessary for the too many things I do

No I pay the price in performance

Take the tithe from the spark of my life

And I’ll lose longevity to make the light last

I never need an energy drink

Or a full night’s sleep

No I’ll just lose years of my life

And hours of my day

Miss the people that make my world move

Forget the tasks that pay my taxes

I sunder my self-preservation

With graphite and wood

And my kindling never runs out

Because I’ll always chop a day for myself out of my schedule

I tell myself I’ll never run short on fuel

Consistently consuming to fill my appetite

And empty my soul

Sapping strength from my sinew

And making frail my skeleton

I wake up every day sweating

Having burned the midnight oil

Having spilled it on myself

And always risking self-immolation

I stay warm the rest of the day

A fireplace for friends

And every cold breeze

feels like a blizzard to me

So I break apart my attention

And spark it with the energy I never give myself

And I fuel my fire even longer

Even stronger

I will never run out of fire

I will never run out of fire

I will never run out of fire

But I may run out

I just hope that after I’m gone

The fire of my flesh and blood

Keeps someone warm

For one cold night

And it could be you.

I mean, you’re pretty hot

Bite - Sri Nath Kurup

Hey! My name is Sri Nath Kurup, and I am a rising Sophomore from Spring Valley, New York, with a major in Political Science, intended concentration in Criminal Law, and intended minor in Philosophy and Law. I am a huge fan of storytelling, and from poetry to creative writing, to Dungeons & Dragons, you can catch me writing and narrating. On campus, I’m a member of Phenomenal Voices, Mock Trial, and of course ARCH! In my free time, I’m reading where it’s sunny under a pretty little tree, or chatting with friends while watching a show. I am inspired to write by the belief that every story holds a world of experience. By sharing them we move these worlds into reality, reflecting the parallels of our own lives and helping people who need to see themselves through such an auspice, not a mirror.

***

Someone told me to write a poem about hickeys

Of black and blue bruises

Of busted blood vessels

And collapsed capillaries

And I’m much obliged to do so

Because hickeys are one of my favorite things

Right next to sex where I shouldn’t

And food too hot to eat

And just like those too, it’s a delicacy

I’m deprived of in settings not secluded

Told it too untimely to take for myself when I

See someone with a neck, muscular and wide

Veins pulsing with libido

A power that flows through them like pomegranate juice

And if only I could

Take a bite

Told it too uncouth to

Grip my hand around the thinnest throats

That fit so well in my palm

To give a gentle squeeze

And then a tighter one with teeth

Ugh, bite me

But is it a crime?

If I just state my mind

And sit still?

What if I sat

Like a duck stuck in the mud

with my neck outstretched to look for you

And what if you indulge your deepest desires

Your animalistic and primeval instincts

What if you took what you wanted and...

All I did was not fight back?

I don’t mind if it’s when you’re mad

You don’t ever have to smile when you break

Your humane facade

I prefer it to you saving face

I want to see all of you

Because I’m certain your bark can NOT be better than your bite

So take a bite

What if all I did was encourage the

Course of action you know is correct deep in your stomach

And as it knots when you try to find right or wrong

I remind you with a caress of your face

A squeeze of your hips

“Take what’s yours”

And you paint with my blood

A vision of domination

A mark of your soul branded to my body

A claim to the land you tread

What if you

Just for a moment, fell prey to yourself

What you are

And I know you want to keep this hush hush

Maybe because you want it to be just us

To do yourself the justice

Of exploring your innate tendencies

Your guttural growls of hunger

To tear apart my trachea as a testimony of your triumph over me

And when you take a step back to view your work

Stare in awe

What you’ve done

Someone should write a poem about it

So come take a bite

Smoke and Mirrors - Sri Nath Kurup

Hey! My name is Sri Nath Kurup, and I am a rising Sophomore from Spring Valley, New York, with a major in Political Science, intended concentration in Criminal Law, and intended minor in Philosophy and Law. I am a huge fan of storytelling, and from poetry to creative writing, to Dungeons & Dragons, you can catch me writing and narrating. On campus, I’m a member of Phenomenal Voices, Mock Trial, and of course ARCH! In my free time, I’m reading where it’s sunny under a pretty little tree, or chatting with friends while watching a show. I am inspired to write by the belief that every story holds a world of experience. By sharing them we move these worlds into reality, reflecting the parallels of our own lives and helping people who need to see themselves through such an auspice, not a mirror.

***

Social skills are hard to hone

Especially so far from home

And I don’t think what I have so far

Is socialization with which I’d ever be on par

With the rest of these clowns

In the funhouse

You can call it that because I act like it’s fun

Different mirrors and contortions

And when I step inside I feel like a different person

every way I turn

And when I step out it’s more like a trap house

Maybe because I’m trapped, maybe because the props the clowns and I use tend to be watery

wine and solid liquor

I know there’s a phase missing but I can only tell

When the house is full of smoke

Smoke and mirrors

There’s something to be said about

Having too much fun impacting my health

Breaking my lungs and choking me out

For spending more time with clowns that aren’t really there.

It’s entertaining, watching them juggle their thoughts and their words, sober and drunk,

But they don’t do it for me,

And every time I laugh I laugh at my twisted symbolism

And I take it in against my body’s will

Fighting asthma with my apathy of my primary personhood

And fill my lungs with hunger and joy and smoke and pain

Maybe I double down on the traphouse vibe and text that guy with cocaine

Or maybe I extricate myself from the clowns

But at the end of that I’d be out of a house

However it may look.

So I keep hurting myself in order to fit in

Trapped in a loop

Like social circles

When I really only wanted something linear

Like a line of us on a couch

Two lines facing one another at the dinner table

I don’t think it means I don’t like whatever parties bring

I don’t think it means I don’t like everyone else I hang out with

And I know it doesn’t mean I don’t like whiskey and vodka and a tequila sunrise

But I don’t want it to be the only sunrise I ever watch with the ones I love

And I can’t do it staring at myself

So maybe I should take that breath of fresh air

And I need to take some time from

The Smoke and Mirrors

Start Cycle - Sri Nath Kurup

Hey! My name is Sri Nath Kurup, and I am a rising Sophomore from Spring Valley, New York, with a major in Political Science, intended concentration in Criminal Law, and intended minor in Philosophy and Law. I am a huge fan of storytelling, and from poetry to creative writing, to Dungeons & Dragons, you can catch me writing and narrating. On campus, I’m a member of Phenomenal Voices, Mock Trial, and of course ARCH! In my free time, I’m reading where it’s sunny under a pretty little tree, or chatting with friends while watching a show. I am inspired to write by the belief that every story holds a world of experience. By sharing them we move these worlds into reality, reflecting the parallels of our own lives and helping people who need to see themselves through such an auspice, not a mirror.

***

Flooding emotions and water too

Drowning thoughts and clothes

And I sink down to the ground like

Soggy socks that go where no one knows

I’ve been in the laundry room for quite some time now

And I feel like at this point I should start journaling

That’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re trapped, right?

Pull out a paper, take off the pen cap, write?

I want to pour out words on to paper like detergent

But I don’t know if it’s machine safe

What I have to write

What I have to say

30 minutes

I feel like the rumble of devices

Reflect the raucous machinations of my mind

And maybe washing machines have see through doors

So that you can see into yourself

I feel like I’m tumbling too

Spinning and spiraling

Everything's cyclical

Everything comes back

Like me to you

After every argument you make when I disagree

Or when you think you’ve made me sad

Or when I think I’ve made you mad

I feel like throwing myself in

To wash away my sins

So that I can be worthy of you again

Or maybe wash away what’s left of you on me

But I think you stick like sickly sweet turmeric and honey

Staining my soul

And maybe that’s why I always end up in the laundry room

By myself

Wanting not to be

Maybe that’s why I see myself in the clear door,

Because I keep looking for you

And all I can remember about you

Is the way you’ve left me

So I guess I have to sit with myself

And I have to write about things that aren’t you

Like clean clothes instead of sweaty ones

Thrown on the side of the bed

Maybe like flooding water instead of

Swapping spit

I can think about tumbling clothes

Instead of us tumbling

And a heavy load

Instead of loads of other things

But I also have to write about myself

Because that’s the only person I’m sitting with

Spinning

Cycling

Spiraling

20 minutes

I feel like I’m not so much myself now

So much as I might be the guy you dated

And I wonder how I could miss you so much

Now that I don’t have you

But didn’t show you how much I loved you

When I did

And that just makes me think about how

I tried to keep myself closed off

Because I didn’t want to fall in love with you

Because I knew we weren’t going to last anyway

But I couldn’t keep our relationship clean

Because I never let the cycle break my exterior shell

And I guess the detergent was never really let out

And so now I’m stuck

I hit the washer because its stuck

Because I’m stuck

Stuck thinking about how I’m stuck

Sitting slouched stalking a washer that isn’t moving

Although it’s running

Probably because its stuck

Are you stuck?

Are you stuck thinking about me?

Are you always tired and weary doing laundry?

10 minutes

I hope you still think of me

Because I think of you

Or at least I think of how you thought of me

I also hope you don’t think of me

Because I think of you

Or at least how I hurt you by having you think of me

Because at one point I wasn’t thinking of you

And I feel bad for it but want it back

I feel like I’m saying something profound

But I’m running circles around myself

Circles and cycles

Spirals

Spinning

5 minutes

It’s fear of the cycle and the spinning

The spiraling

That keeps me up at night

And I guess gives me reason to get up in the morning

Just so I can maybe catch a glimpse of you on campus

4 minutes

And I feel so scared of washing away those memories

Whatever kind of luck you may have left me

Washing away the cologne you bought me

Or accidentally putting your book to wash

3 minutes

But I think I can break out of the cycle

If I just get up and take a breathe

I think I can leave the fun and the love and

All those other things that have dirtied me

2 minutes

Maybe all those good things and those bad things

Aren’t something that are a part of my soul

Maybe I just wear them every now and then

1 minute

So I can bring peace to myself

By placing the past in the laundry bin

And I can wear the joy of the past when I want to

Wallow in self pity when the moment strikes

And switch it out and style myself

But never let it define me

And then

The Cycle Stops

I open the washer and take out what’s inside

But even still

Your hoodie smells like you

I put it back in

And

I circle

I spin

I spiral

I

Start Cycle

I Didn’t Write This - Sri Nath Kurup

Hey! My name is Sri Nath Kurup, and I am a rising Sophomore from Spring Valley, New York, with a major in Political Science, intended concentration in Criminal Law, and intended minor in Philosophy and Law. I am a huge fan of storytelling, and from poetry to creative writing, to Dungeons & Dragons, you can catch me writing and narrating. On campus, I’m a member of Phenomenal Voices, Mock Trial, and of course ARCH! In my free time, I’m reading where it’s sunny under a pretty little tree, or chatting with friends while watching a show. I am inspired to write by the belief that every story holds a world of experience. By sharing them we move these worlds into reality, reflecting the parallels of our own lives and helping people who need to see themselves through such an auspice, not a mirror.

***

I wanted to write a poem about you,

or someone, or something

Something pretty

I wanted to idolize an idea or allude to an aspect and just talk about it for like 7 minutes as if I

had nothing better to do.

I wanted to probably take someone trashy and worship the ground they walk on or maybe speak

on a Saint and sanctify their state but

I don’t want to write poetry anymore

Don’t want to use language and literature to languish over ideas and aspects and point out the

beauty of the world to anyone

Actually, I want to be a poem

I want you to write something

And push your pen and mold your mind to dive headfirst into metaphors and idioms

And change my worldview

So that I can finally thank you

I want, to just for once, be the fucking muse

It’s not like you can’t recognize my divinity

The thing is this shit is boyfriend material

And you act like you can sew

But I know

You couldn’t piece yourself together

In time for us to match fabrics

Why people that just got to knowing me

Know me

But you don’t know shit

As far as you can throw me

I bring down celestial bodies and

Put stardust in ink

Break out into song

And hand out my soul

But I can’t get a Valentine’s Day Gift

Maybe after Friday

I wish someone would refer to me

With talk of stars and moonlight

Of dreams and reveries

And the handsomest parts of me

But honestly

You don’t even need to like me

Just write me

Because I don’t even need to love you

To tear myself in two

Just to give a part of me

A piece of my mind

For your peace of mind

I’ll give the shirt off my back even if it was husband material

Which now that I check the tag it probably is

To someone I’m not interested in

And someone who needs their spirits lifted

But I can’t even ask someone to lift their pen?

But you’re not smart enough to do it anyway

Because you don’t act dumb so much as you are

And that’s not your fault because it’s honestly just my poor choices and low standards

That keeps me coming back to kisses and compliments and coddling and everything else your

tongue can do

Because you and I both know that I’m worth more and also you’re not looking for that,

and also neither am I because if you asked, I’d say no anyway

I want to say I love you just a little too quickly that it scares you

so that you feel scared to commit because I’m trying to keep my chances open

But I’d rather villainize your inability to communicate

Than advocate

For myself and my feelings which aren’t that nice and only want you for sex but want you to be

someone else

I don’t want to grow with you I want to fix you and make you better and I know I can’t

so it’s better to have a project to work on than let the Devil use my idle hands

But maybe it’s the Devil that’s in me

Keeping me from being free

And just admitting that I want you but not enough, and I make myself think I want you more

than that because wouldn’t that be cute?

So maybe I don’t have the Divinity to be a muse, but if I’m the Devil I guess I still need an

advocate.

So maybe when I do my kindness and love too easily it’s me trying not to be him too.

But since no one else will step up, and it won’t be you

I guess

I’ll just write a poem about it

Loving The Thought - Sri Nath Kurup

Hey! My name is Sri Nath Kurup, and I am a rising Sophomore from Spring Valley, New York, with a major in Political Science, intended concentration in Criminal Law, and intended minor in Philosophy and Law. I am a huge fan of storytelling, and from poetry to creative writing, to Dungeons & Dragons, you can catch me writing and narrating. On campus, I’m a member of Phenomenal Voices, Mock Trial, and of course ARCH! In my free time, I’m reading where it’s sunny under a pretty little tree, or chatting with friends while watching a show. I am inspired to write by the belief that every story holds a world of experience. By sharing them we move these worlds into reality, reflecting the parallels of our own lives and helping people who need to see themselves through such an auspice, not a mirror.

***

I had to love the thought of you because you

Were never mine at all

I have to hold my own hand because

You only had the gall

To pretend that you cared

More than the magnitude of your fear

And you told me you were scared

But I don’t see that here

No now it’s a part of you

A part of what you are

OR it’s a part of what I made of you

What you stole from my spirit, my soul, and my heart

And in return, you left me my voice

And I guess, you have my thanks

Because when I was your prisoner

silence was my only choice

I am not silent

I have always spoken my mind

But it’s only after the riots have quelled

And the tears have run dry

That I

Can see that I

Never felt

Like I

When we were

WE

I fear your passing passion for action

Doing what little you can to meet my satisfaction

But I’m certainly not satisfied

With all your broken promises and your half-assed lies?

You thought you broke me down but I aint weak I’m wise

Wise to the fact that you won’t compromise

Wise to the fact you’re doing all of this? Just to get a rise

You tried to take every part of what I had

But I can not hold you to blame

Because why wouldn’t you?

When you were like that, and I was like this?

You must have won with every kiss

Felt strong in your authority

Over the trophy you held with such audacity

Like I didn’t have the legs to get up and leave

Just because I chose you?

Because I lowered my standards

To reach to the ground

Picked you up like a precious stone

Calling you my rock

When I can now knock

You from skin to bone?

Fall away like dirt

And kick about in gravel as you grovel

For that very hand you never held

Why did I

Wish to chain myself to earth

When I was meant to fly

To SOAR

to ROAR

Why did I not take off after your first lie

Why did it take so long for my infatuation to die

And so now we’re here

Finally communicating crystal clear

But now I’m yelling, yeah I made a scene

I’m caught red-handed and your record’s clean

But

You swore on your mother

You never were with another

And you tiptoe around

The truth that I found

But I’m tired of the facade

And playing house with a fraud

When I know for a fact

I never needed that

You can’t marry the idea

Of someone no you marry who they are

And I saw who you might be in my future

But then again...

I never could see that far

But now the future looks a little brighter

Because I found someone new

And I am tired of loving the thought of you

Through every storm and every squall

I have to love

The thought of me

Because

I was never really yours

At

All

Socially Distanced - Sri Nath Kurup

Hey! My name is Sri Nath Kurup, and I am a rising Sophomore from Spring Valley, New York, with a major in Political Science, intended concentration in Criminal Law, and intended minor in Philosophy and Law. I am a huge fan of storytelling, and from poetry to creative writing, to Dungeons & Dragons, you can catch me writing and narrating. On campus, I’m a member of Phenomenal Voices, Mock Trial, and of course ARCH! In my free time, I’m reading where it’s sunny under a pretty little tree, or chatting with friends while watching a show. I am inspired to write by the belief that every story holds a world of experience. By sharing them we move these worlds into reality, reflecting the parallels of our own lives and helping people who need to see themselves through such an auspice, not a mirror.

***

When the sun kisses the earth

And lies down to sleep

There’s no fire and hearth

And the critters do creep

But the light didn’t shine

When the day was still young

And there was no time

Or breath in my lungs

There was nothing planned

Lethargy took away the weeks

Time slipped away like sand

Or the dripping of a leak

And time seemed to be

The one who tucked me in

As the last thing I’d see

Is how long it’s been

Wondering when I last saw someone

Not just thinking of the drifting past

Letting all my growth come undone

And staring at skies so overcast

My voice has fell silent

My chords atrophied

The voice inside strident

My whispers a plead

The quiet speaks back

As I talk to the dark

The audience I lack

Their silhouettes stark

And surrounded by the hounds of hell

These silent shadows so bright and loud

The ringing in my head does swell

And I give in to the growing crowd

The silence is not my friend

I wish not to speak to myself alone

And every tik feels like the end

And every tok a jarring groan

I look past my weariness and fight and fight

I battle until the dawn breaks and the sun arrives

I clash with the emptiness all through the night

And today I will not survive, I will thrive