Click,

Click, 

Click,

The ringing of silver utensils, 

There are spoons,

knives, 

forks, 

But of course, 

She is the spork. 

 

She can carry rice, 

Pickup oatmeal,

Carry things from chilli to mashed potatoes. 

 

She is a perfect blend of mom and dad, 

Mom a spoon,

Fat and thick, 

Dad a fork,

Thin with lengthy legs. 

 

She hides amongst the plethora of dorks, 

Ugly and old,

Unclean forks. 

 

She judges the spoons, 

Criticizes their lack of legs, 

She believes,

That they will never be,

As superior as a spork.

By Quinn Hammon

Born in a city below the sea,
Ferris the Great was finally free.
He washed one night onto the shore,
Asleep in a boat which had lost both its oars.
His eyes were yellow and sharp as a knife.
He dreamt ambitiously of a heroic life.
From that day, Ferris traveled the land
Saving those who needed a hand.

And thus he trekked from city to town.
No enemy alive could take him down.
The hero’s presence was that of a ghost.
He stayed in one place for a fortnight at most.
Ferris the Great liked a good duel,
But he was courteous, never too cruel.
Since he was obsessed with defending the weak,
Ferris was labeled by some as a freak.

But one day our hero got carried away,
And for his crimes would have to pay.
With a charge of disturbing the peace,
Ferris’s heroics would have to cease.
For even if his intentions were good,
The laws of the land must be understood.
By giving help to those who wanted none,
His life of crime had just begun.
So tragically, without hope for bail,
Ferris the Great was tossed into jail.

Perhaps this cruel twisting of fate
Was justly suited for Ferris the Great.
For though his imprisonment was woeful to behold,
It was here a great adventure would begin to unfold.

Her eyes are a piercing green 

Hidden in a valley of freckles

Her hair is a long dark brown, a night sky I once knew

I see her walking alone on the beach

Fighting with her demons 

Everyday she stares at the water

With her piercing green eyes

Moments fade as she watches the waves

But everyday she walks away

 

To be around her is to be happy

To hear her voice is to listen to parade a melody

To see her smile is to be surrounded by joy

To see her pain would be impossible 

Her piercing green eyes so full of lies

Grow dim 

Washed out by tears 

As if all the color is falling down her face

 

With each day of falling color 

The waves look warmer and softer

So gentle, she thinks, it must be

To float away with the tide

Her once piercing eyes grow gray 

So pale they barely hide

The screaming pain inside

No one hears her

No one listens 

No one looks at her pale gray eyes

Then one day she’s watching the tides

Calling her

Telling her they’ll hold her and rock her away

Somewhere no pain can find her

She can escape the gray

Swallowing her ankles, then knees

Her waist then her elbows

So gentle and calm are the waves

So welcoming 

So wise 

Her shoulders 

Her chin

As the waves wash her over, and collect her tears

She looks up at the skies

Beyond the surface tides

All in vain hopes

To see her once piercing green eyes

A cocky child, clutching to a fiction scene 

my brain reenacted in repetition. Young bird, pushed 

from a nest by their own self esteem. 

 

My dearest self, you were in bliss and always

hopelessly ignorant. You decided a path and now we

reap the consequences with shattered pride 

and glowing eyes.

 

These consistent thoughts, always terrorizing our mind.

To this day, I can still feel the rolling waves of depleted energy

from that night. The moon shattered and

all you could do was watch it crash and kill. 

 

We are no longer a soldier in stained armor, still, 

it’s been a year and we beg to go on another.

I wear the scars with this chin up, but unknown in our own skin. 

You would be proud. 

 

We are proud.

 

– Fell-ow’s

 

 

By Mayz

Books are the dinosaurs of time

Not quite dying, but always alive

The words are set in stone

 

Every time they greet someone new

They open arms in welcome

Their pages are fingers in hand 

 

Their covers dance for those who walk pass

Never forgetting the face of the ignored 

Or who abandoned them like old news

 

Their ink has become my blood 

For as long as I can remember 

Since the snow has danced down 

 

Photos of memories have been dropped

Onto their sea of stars, blackened days of 

goodnights and burning flashlights 

 

We have laughed, cried, and even sung together

Their tears have run off the pages in times of need 

Not even death can separate us 

 

We have had long conversations about the silly world

Staying inside our little bubble, completely forgetting all 

Always ready to give me a blanket of comfort

Ellie Contini

 

 

The wind blows 

Leaves fall all around

As the coldness grows

There’s that beautiful sound

 

The crunching beneath your feet

The cloudy days

It can’t be beat 

That’s what everyone says 

 

You check the time

The sun’s going down

You begin to climb

But soon you frown

 

Frost appears on the floor

You don’t want it to be all done

Fall is almost no more 

But it’s been fun

 

Winter’s here 

The temperatures drop

The holiday cheer 

Is something I never want to stop 

 

The ground is covered in snow

But not for long 

Before you know

Winters all gone 

 

Then it’s spring time at last

Flowers sing and dance

It will soon pass

Then summer has it’s chance

 

The seasons come and go

It’ll start again soon

Before you know

It will again be June 

 

The mystery

The lure

Of these 3 great things

Have emotions which I have never even seen

They tempt but don’t bite

Because I am not here just to fight

Now let’s get on with the delight

 

Books you see

Hold a powerful message

Like a God itself

They lure you in with their words

Whisper secrets of the unknown

We all eat it up word for word

They stand on their own two feet

When you prop it up for a good read

For me, you see

They are like a world by itself

Their words are like necromancy

They describe both good and bad

While they speak of conversations no one evers probably had

 

But, yet we aren’t done

There is so much more fun

To be had

 

Jewels

A miracle, marvelous, rare

That I think no one would ever want to share

They can describe so many things about you

They are the fashionistas of the material world

Jewelry can speak to so many in different ways

Changing your look with just one metal

Now that’s a material I never want to meddle with

 

Now at last our final category

And no it won’t be gorey

Let me finish the last verse of this Personification story

 

You see pencils when you hold them

They almost take over you

They lead you like a puppeteer with its puppets

The grace of a pencil and or a pen

Is like a swan on swan’s lake again and again

They’re just like books but just written out

Words are so loud they can almost shout

 

Each and every item here needs to be let out

They all have their own charms

And sometimes can cause harm

But, that’s the wondrous thing about every single non-living thing

Alajah Rivera

The red pen looked at the paper in desperation

As it thought upon what it would write

It danced around the fact it had to put an F on a paper

Or a line through the sentence it couldn’t comprehend

 

The pen bled of sorrow and began to weep as he could not put his face to the paper

He laid horizontal on the desk as his thoughts disintegrated

He was used for the marking of thoughts that ponder amongst him

He wore his cap as a cover to disguise his feelings

 

The pen could mark the Starbucks cup in front of him

But could not write the devastating emotions that flowed through him

He was the one made fun of in the class

Because his ink could never last long enough for him to finish his phrase

 

He was the one always under the teachers fingers

Considered himself the teachers pet

The other colors weren’t very fond of him

Because when he spoke he soaked through the paper leaving the table stained and wet

 

Everyone thought he was angry

But in fact he was always sad

This bright red pen had depression

And no one understood