Who are you and what is your life like as a teenager in 2023? In words or images, explore, but don't feel limited by, questions such as:
Who are you at your core? How, when, or where do you most feel like your true self?
What most inspires you? Where do you find awe, joy, contentment, kindness, love?
What are the major influences in your life – people, places, ideas, creativity, the arts? How do they help to define who you are, what is important to you, and what you hope for in your life?
What issues are teenagers facing that adults don’t understand?
PRIZES AND PUBLICATION IN TWO CATEGORIES:Writing: Poetry, prose, essay, commentary, songwriting; Visual Art Category: Photography, painting, sketching, sculpture, collage, digital art. If your chosen genre or medium isn't listed here, that's OK, go ahead and submit it! NOTE TO VISUAL ARTISTS: Responses can be abstract, literal, symbolic, interpretive, realistic – whatever best conveys your message. DEADLINE: March 1, 2023
I think that maybe I'm not really growing up, but just growing older. Years can fly by, but I still feel the same as I did when I was a child, crawling and crying and looking for attention. I suppose no one really ever gets over that stage in their life, but when I think about myself, all I see is a smaller version of what's on the outside. My heart, my words, my hands and my lungs are always in continual growing pains, confusing me into thinking that maybe, I'm going to change.
When I was little i didn’t know a thing about what was happening All I knew was what i was told, that I would grow older and it would all make sense But I’m older now, and I’m still confused They don’t want me to forgive they want me to forget Forget all the lies and tears that I cried And maybe I will forget. But maybe not.
All the things I was told mean nothing to me now, How could they? Only half of them were true And they thought that it was fine, what do I know? I’m just a kid But I grew up, and boy do I know now. But they would have me forget it all, and maybe I will But maybe not.
“But wait just wait, remember your toys?” “Remember your smiles?” “Remember your joy?” Yes I recall but what does that mean? That I should put it all aside Forget the rest and keep barbie in mind? I suppose that would be kind so maybe But maybe not.
Dark red eyes. People being beaten. Burning flags like rainbows. Children ripped, Out of the arms of their mothers. No money, no chance of salvation.
Chants rioting through streets. "No Justice! No Peace!" Cop cars plowing through people. Mothers birthing their unwanted child, A child whose father likes to hurt little girls.
Alcoholic, abusive, arrogant dads, Ruining families. Victims not getting the help they deserve. Giving power to the fat orange boy. A boy who does not deserve to be called a man. A boy who thinks of women as objects, Seeing his daughter only as a woman and not a daughter.
The hands of the government, Hurting our people every day. Oh, Mother, Should we really trust the government?
I. Because to you, I am just one more face in an ocean of blinded students. I swim my way to the surface, and I am at the top. The smart one. But My eyes have grayed from glazed over pages of studying thrust into my persona, and my lips are white. I go through the motions, leaving stick straight lines in my wake, and rattling the waves as little as I can. To you, I am just one more face.
II. There's a fire in me. The lines waver into zig-zags and waves, releasing the reigns of control. There's a fire in me that you, you couldn't even picture lying there all along. Every tremor and terror is nothing of that notorious an-xiiii-e-tyyy. It is rage. Rage towards society, systems, all that social-ness fuel the flames that tickle my placid grin twenty four seven, threatening the grin to meld into a grimace and the smile to weld into a scowl.
The paint drips from the canvas onto the floor, swirling with other colors to create new hues. It evokes warmth in your heart, excited that it all came out as you intended. Inspiration from the world around you – each color, shape, and movement intertwines to make the final product.
Through art, you make your dreams come to life and show the world that you can accomplish anything you set your mind to. You come home, run up the stairs, and are ready to start a new piece.
However, the disappointment on your parents' faces when they see your grades is overwhelming. They compare you to your siblings or cousins, saying, "They have good grades, they can do these things. Why can't you?" But you are different individuals, living in different worlds.
I wrote this for an assignment in my English class. We listened to a spoken word poem, "How To Be a Person" by Shane Koyczan, and the assignment was to write a 5-stanza poem inspired by it, about how we can be better people this year.
i. love simply. notice the little things — the sweep of hair after a gentle tilt of the head, eye meeting eye in the midst of a thunderous crowd, a hand’s sigh as it drops to the side. love does not have to be grand or extravagant. learn to love people as they come.
ii. welcome passion. do not let sentiment become an Achilles’ heel. feel freely, feel dramatically, feel painfully, and feel fully. let the world change your mind and let people hurt you; scream and cry and shout if you need to. you will be all the better for it.
iii. be a poet. see the beauty in life despite all its fractured pieces and learn to accept them.
Teens are afraid We worry Do I look okay? What do they think of me? We obsess over how we look We worry that we're not thin enough We think we need to be skinny and perfect to fit into todays society But there's no such thing as perfect Perfect isn't real But it's what we try to be
