Feb 22

Winter Flowers

Feb 08
pbellomo2021's picture


Stop, look in the mirror.
Take a good long look,
Do you see her?
In the good old days she was clearer.
Where there were no more worries,
Damn I miss her. 
When there were no more photos for the gram
Or a boy to hold your hand,
Somehow I don't understand how I got here. 
When I had no more second thoughts 
And my beauty wasn't bought,
When I didn't feel so flawed like I do now.
But I'm turning it around,
My feet are on the ground.
My roots are weak but my will is strong.
I'm finding my beauty from the inside out. 

Feb 04
poem 1 comment challenge: 4Photos
Ms. Naugle's picture

The Tunnel

Far away there is a tunnel full of fears, and full of dreams

Far away there is a tunnel full of hope, and full of wishes

In this tunnel full of fears, and dreams, and hope, and, wishes

There is a light that burns in the night out of sight

And this light is the fears of the fearless

the dreams of the dreamless

the hope of the hopeless

and the wish for the wishless  

Schuyler Hagge
Grade 5
Killington Elementary School
Jan 30

You are still here

Next to my shadow I see yours,
for a second.
We were here,
this beach,
just one year ago.
Feels like yesterday.

You are still here.

I can hear your laugh as gulls screech above.
You always hated the way your laugh sounded.

I can hear your voice,
calling for me,
in the cold spray throwing itself onto the sand.

I can hear you whisper
carried in the wind that whipped our hair into tangles
and left salty spray on our dry lips.

I can feel you next to me,
huddled, snug in each other's arms,
like we were when the sun was just about to go down,
just barely heating our bare, freckled shoulders
and covering the earth with a soft orange-pink glow.

And as the waves draw back,
pulling soft sand out from under my bare feet,
battered from hours of play we'd have here when we refused to wear shoes,
I can feel you slip away.

But yet,
Jan 27
fiction 0 comments challenge: 70°

Fahrenheit, or France

I had just sat down in my seat for literature when I saw her.  70 walked through the door, her long curly hair bouncing slightly as she walked.  Everyone called her 70, for 70 degrees because the perfect, pretty weather matches her.  My pulse quickened a bit as she traveled through the rows of desks. Many eyes stayed attached to her as she passed by.  Her sunny smile gleamed. I was shocked when she plopped her things down on the desk next to me. She smiled and said, “Hi!” in a cheerful tone.  “Er, h-hello,” I mumbled back. “What’s your name?” she asked kindly. “I know you’re in seventh grade, but I don’t know your name.” “James,” I answered.  “James.” She seemed to be tasting my name on her tongue like a new food. She smiled again. “I’m Fahrenheit,” she told me joyfully. “Please, though, call me Francesca.  On second thought, France! It’s the place I want to travel to most.” Her beautiful, unusual dark brown eyes had blue and gray flecks in them, like the sky.
Jan 26


I am not fragile
or brainless
these things I must remind myself of

you know how your lungs start to burn while you're
running and it gets hard to breathe?

that's what it feels like but not in my lungs
it's in my stomach and my back
and a little in my throat

it curls its way up my spine and down my legs and up  
throughout my arteries
hitting every nerve along the way

it glitters and sparks
which draws attention, of course
people stare as the lightning
rips a path under my skin

when it's finished slowly, excruciatingly
electrocuting my body, it lingers in my eyes
purple ropes and wires wrap themselves around me
stinging like rugburn

Jan 24

Truly Alone

It's easy to know when you're alone.
It's easy to know when you're truly alone,
not alone as in nobody's watching.
But alone as in truly alone.
As in nobody there to care,
as in nobody there to remind you you're human.
Nobody to lend you an ear,
nobody to love you and nobody to hear.
It's easy to know when you're alone.
You can feel it deep inside every bone.
You can feel the chasm inside,
yet it's still so easy to hide away.
But no, don't turn around.
No, don't trade your smile for a frown
because someone is waiting for you.
Someone who'll always be true.
Someone is waiting and someone is hoping
to meet you.
So please still be you.

Dec 02

Your Words

Your words make the sun shine brighter
And make the stars fall to earth in petals. 
Your words mean nothing to you
But everything to others. 
Please stay a little longer
So you can speak your mind
For as many hours as need be
And I will always be here
Listening to the honey of your words. 
Nov 20
Qwen Block's picture

Protagonist Demands Change

Hey there!

You've come to read my story. Well. You know what? I'M TIRED OF IT!
I'm tired of being read and read and read! Maybe I want a break for once! You expect me to just deal with people putting their dirty hands on my book without permission? That's rude! I have no idea where their hands have been!
I'm tired of reliving this one story one story! I want new adventures and new endings and new outcomes! That's it! I want to be a Choose Your Own Story book!
I want to live through different events each time someone reads my book! That would be so fun!
I'm going on strike. If you want to be able to read my story then make my book a Choose Your Own Story book.

Your favorite protagonist <3
Nov 20
poem 0 comments challenge: Snow
CksEH's picture



           Driving through the woodlands with a blizzard, a blizzard I say, coming my way. On route to town, down the road I go, but instead I might just go home. I very much just may. Make way I say, make way, for I have to go home I say! For a blizzard, a blizzard may just be heading our way. I rush home, passing the speed limit. Until I start to slip and slide down the windy Vermont road until my car crashes. I get out, out! And start to run, I scream “A blizzard is coming, a blizzard is coming!” Then the snow starts to fall once more, for it is not a blizzard, nor a storm, it is a peaceful Vermont snowfall. At that very moment, I realize that winter can be a beautiful season, but at the same time: catastrophic.

Nov 10


She pauses, and puts a hand on her chin thoughtfully, 
Wishing that the fire crackling in the woodstove 
Would swollow up her thoughts 
And create a picture for her to watch 
Because it would be less painful
If it wasn't inside her head. 
The colors swirl 
And let her eyes inside the thought
But never let them out
As they fall like snow 
And melt like snow 
And dissapear like snow
But it is not snow
It is the fallen ash of her cloud
Of her thought
As bright as winter 
As cold as summer
For her hands will not rest 
Until all of the thoughts are thrown
Onto the ground.
Maybe it's snow after all.  
Nov 08

evening thoughts after not writing in awhile

getting better
what even is that?
what is better?
how are you supposed to know when you're better?
is it a feeling?
an unconscious drift in the mind? the body?
honestly, i have no freaking idea how to know when you get better 
but i'm still getting better
every day, even the bad ones, i am getting closer to "better"

performance poetry is hard to write but easy to think of
at least for me
i've always liked performing, whether it's by myself or with others
but doing anything by yourself is scarier than doing it with others
i write when i'm feeling things and i'm almost always feeling thing except when i'm not
but couldn't any piece of writing be performance poetry?
i mean if it's being performed it's a performance
i could perform this if i wanted to but that would be lame, i think
yeah that would be so lame

is this even poetry? can anything be poetry?
Oct 23

When Your Footsteps Fall Heavy

When your footsteps fall heavy
Like shadows,
Echoing behind you
Attached to your feet.
You can’t breathe,
You can’t speak despite
Oh, despite how your tongue
And teeth and mouth urge you to.
When your breathe comes fast and rapid
Closing the space it exits behind it,
And the chill of words settle over your bones. 
Your hair standing on edge with unpleasantries,  
Head screaming and banging. 
Thoughts sinking towards your soul,
Questions float to the top of your brain
Like oil on water. 
When your eyes hurt, 
Your fists are sore, 
Your skin cramps, 
Your imagination begins to become vivid
With a fantasy that will never ensue.
A dream of anger, lust, sadness, 
Emotions. You believe,
No person should have to comfront
That is when you know, your heart has been broken.
Oct 02

Right and Wrong (The simple difference)

You are wrong when you say
"feminists cannot make change."

You are wrong when you say
I cannot be part of that change,
and contribute to something
that the world has never seen before.

You are wrong when you say
that I do things like a girl,
with that teasing tone,
when I am a girl,
and you struggled to keep up,
you struggled to go the distance.

You are wrong when you say
I'm not strong enough
I'm not brave enough
I'm not "man" enough,
when I know that I am brave and strong.
You want me to prove it?

You are wrong when you say
I did absolutely nothing
when my group just created something incredible,
changed something once considered unchangable,
conquered something that nobody has ever conquered before.
What have you done?

I know I am right when I say
I don't have to prove anything.
I don't owe you anything.
Sep 24


I am no one
I sit alone in my room
Writing words that no one has read
I dream
The stars call me
Tell me what I could have
But they're not going to give it to me
I learn
Sweat and exaustion and yes, tears
But someone told me it would all be worth it
Someone handed me the world and said
No one is going to give it to you
Dream it
Earn it
Live it
I am empowered
I hold the power to create my own future
No one can take that power away
Sep 22

song #2

a smoky haze
it's coming from his lips
drinks are orders
"this one's on me"
a spotlight on the stage
sequins on the floor
it's dark
but darker outside
kinky hair
yellow and purple satin
mouths too close to microphones
psychedelic light
smoke in the air
stars in their eyes
Lucy clings to her diamonds
adrift in the sky
the stage is slick with sweat
it's too loud
Sep 22
poem 0 comments challenge: Greeting
kat_writer's picture

Dreaming of Home

Walking around the city,
a place I had never been.
Feeling lost, in a pity
and nowhere near being found.

Desperate for a trace of home, was I
Wishing to again see myself,
sitting under a tree eating pie.
Happy as could be at home.

Reflecting on how I got here,
wondering how it could be.
Longing for my friends, wishing one was near,
those neighbors I should not have left.

I jumped as I felt a tap on my back,
but from somewhere I knew
this was no attack.
I turned around and said "Hello!"

It was my best friend Jack.
Sep 21

song #1

fabric flys
twirls in humid air
drinks are in hand
sticky table
holding hands, pulling away from the crowd
to be alone
a soloist takes his turn on the keys
the dancing never stops
after it's over, cheers
a slower song
love, in pairs, floats on the floor
Sep 20


     When I was eight years old, my mind began to find loopholes to obsess over in everyday life. Some things would randomly freak me out, and some things would bore me to death. One night, as I was lying in bed, I was obsessing over the image of a pool ball rolling on the green carpet in my mind. I fell asleep eventually, and when I did, the image of the ball rolling was still in my mind, but it was rolling closer and getting larger and larger, but it never seemed to reach me, and sometimes it would get small again and start its journey closer towards me all over again. The green carpet turned into grass that was getting torn up by the ball. 
     When the ball was at its smallest, it was so quiet that the silence was almost deafening, taking over every corner of my mind. As it got larger and larger, quick tapping sounds would grow louder until it was shattering me from the inside... 
Sep 12
Icarus Blackmore's picture

Language (words)

I love language.
the way it sounds,
the way words
roll off the tongue.

Its roots stretch back,
through time
to that first, single,
unknown, utterance.

Yet still it grows,
branches twisting 
and turning.
They sprawl off
into the unknown
with words growing
like leaves,
every one there
because it was needed.

because there was some
thought, or emotion
so complex,
that all the words
that had come before
could not express it.

In this way language grows. 
Some new shoot of life
Or another original utterance
emerges and changes.
Meanings blossom
then fade
until the flower wilts,
forgotten by time.

Yet still,
the tree stretches,
back, back to the beginning
and that very first,
unknown sound.