Cinderella
Cinderella
With her strong arms
From scrubbing the floors
Cinderella
With her patience
From working with horrible people
Cinderella
With her kind heart
From helping little animals
Cinderella
With her independence taken away
From her
By a prince
Who decided that she
Needed saving
Cinderella's godmother
With her idea that Cinderella couldn't save herself
From the clutches of society
Cinderella
Could've moved out
Started a job
Traveled around the world
If she wanted to
She could
Wear her gowns that she made
Or she could wear
Simple linen clothes
Whatever she pleased
Cinderella
Fled the ball
Because it was 12 o'clock
But what if
She fled the ball
Because she didn't
Want to be with the prince
Who tried to kiss her
Or because she was lesbian
But the prince came
With soldiers behind him
And a demand that she
Marry him
Now we think of the prince as the hero
But Cinderella was the one
Who made the difference
Scrubbed the floors
Served the rich
Helped the animals
But the clutches of society got her
I feel bad for Cinderella
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More than what meets the eye
In the eyes of a coin, the life is pretty simple
Sitting in jars filled with pennies and nickels
Used to infer a trait of indecisiveness
Often people only really notice their likeness
So look a little closer and you'll find originality
Seeking out the details, you will find some personality
But when they're being flipped
They all serve the same purpose
The price they have to pay for existing
Is being seen as only homogeneous
It's not fair
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Pen Pal
I write in pen
to get comfortable with my mistakes
to catch all my thoughts
scatterbrained
and fleeting
pens scratch the itch to write
better than any graphite
the use of ink before pencils
has led me to believe
that pens were made for writing
and my thoughts are most pensive.
Comments
I know exactly what you mean about pen allowing you to own your mistakes. I'm the same way, and even like the thought of making a record of those mistakes to look back on! Graphite pencils seem to have no longevity or permanence to them, a sentiment you captured well in your words.
Poetry
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Willow
This is an empty house,
A house that's lost its soul.
The laughter and joy that once echoed through it,
Faded away with time and age.
The driveway with bikes once lying on it
Lies empty and forgotten.
The yard where lifetime memories were created
Remains brown and dull.
The room that was once full of drawings from friends,
And childhood trinkets lies empty.
For one day I wish I could go back,
To wake up in that room again.
So I could live life just like a kid again,
Because I know I never will.
Comments
The ways we come to view our homes as distinct entities, friends...! I was lucky enough to grow up in the house that my parents built and still live in to this day, so I'm lucky, too, that I can always return to the memories of my childhood. I imagine it's incredibly difficult to have to say goodbye to the place you were raised in. I hope writing this piece was cathartic, at least, and that it helps you hold on to some of your recollections.
Hawk Eyes
We have hawk eyes
watching
for the moment when the hills
can decidedly be called red
instead of green.
We have hawk eyes
watching
for the day when there are more leaves
on the ground
than in the trees.
We have hawk eyes
watching
the thermometer
waiting for it to drop
for the frost.
We have hawk eyes
set on fall
ready for the colors
ready for the leaves
ready for the chillyness.
Comments
Autumn Girl
She sat on the steps, enjoying the brisk autumn air. It was the day before Halloween and the smell of cinnamon hung in the air. She knew she’d have to go in soon, but for now life was perfect. The browning leaves floating around her, the rusty oranges and reds that hung from every treetop, a caramel apple in her hand, yes, that was Autumn.
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My Second Degree Connection With Michael Barbaro
“From The New York Times, I’m Michael Barbaro. This is ‘The Daily.’”
Back in April 2020, I would have balked at the idea of self-identifying as a podcast fan, but by now, I’ve completely mastered the intonation and rhythm of this phrase– I actually hear it daily. And thus began my relationship with The New York Times.
It was peak quarantine, and I, along with the rest of the globe, was sitting at home struggling to learn how to connect in this new world. Zoom classes occupied part of my day, but aside from that, it was just me, alone in my bedroom, trying to keep occupied. While my own life seemed exceptionally uneventful, the rest of the world managed to keep itself busy with Senate impeachment hearings, drone strikes in the Middle East, mass protests, and historic presidential elections. Although being cooped up in scenic Vermont sounded like a dream to many, and recent population and housing reports confirm this, I could only feel the overwhelming isolation. However, there was one thing that I always looked forward to. When my online school days would come to a close, I would put in my AirPods and play the day’s podcast. For 20 to 30 minutes, I was within the throws of it all; from Beirut to Australia to the streets of Philadelphia.
In those brief moments, I felt less alone. I dove headfirst into the world of The New York Times, even going as far as participating in their summer writing program, on not one, but two occasions. And that’s when I discovered that I was not, in fact, the only one to have had this experience of turning to “The Daily” in a time of disconnection. When one of my mentors, Liz Robbins, mentioned that she had worked with Michael Barbaro, my whole class audibly gasped and then erupted into questions and excitement. What a bunch of nerds.
This connection facilitated by The Times is certainly not limited to the fiends so invested that they take a class during the summer. I’ve lost count of the times that I’ve been in an English class and seen classmates tackling the whole slew of the day’s games: Wordle, Connections, Tiles, the Mini Crossword, the full Crossword, Vertex, Letter Boxed, Strands– even Sudoku during particularly dull classes. One of my favorite moments is when someone forgets to mute their device and, in the middle of a lecture, you hear the unmistakable “do do do do do do do do, dooo” after completing the Mini. If you know, you know.
If there’s one gift that Covid gave me for all it took away, it’s community in the most unexpected places. Through The New York Times, I’ve connected with classmates, engaged in intense philosophical conversations about a recent story, had a reason to talk to a stranger while waiting for the bus, and especially, found lifelong friends from around the world.
But most importantly, my passion for this newspaper led me to realize that I have a two-degree connection to THE Michael Barbaro, and I’ve found the people who think that’s pretty darn cool. So now, as I drive to school in the mornings and listen to “The Daily,” I am reminded of the small world we live in and the possibilities that abound within it.
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