Creative | Posted by Nicole T on 07/15/2011

The Dishwasher’s Daydream

The sink-washed dishes clap thunderously as you dry them

against one another, as if attempting to ignite a fire between

two friendly sticks. The result: a broken dish

or another proclamation that “This cup…plate…bowl is cracking.”

The washed skin on my hand is growing apart, like the leather on

a cow’s back, and it goes down the drain, and gets cozy with the debris

along with the blood that came from cleaning knives too quickly.

You scurry around the kitchen, telling me about your day

as you shove the dishes into their proper places. The plates go

above the larger plates, and ceramic cups go into a different cupboard

next to the other things that aren’t identical in size and shape.

And if I were a bowl, I would be …

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Creative | Posted by Talia on 07/1/2011

He Promised Her A Rose Garden

It was 1976.

Peak of the women’s lib movement.

New York, New York.

Peak of the peak.

She was going for a PhD in psych.

She could, thanks to Betty Friedan.

“After you finish your PhD,” he told her,

“We’ll move to Long Island.

Have three or four kids.

Buy a house.

With a white picket fence,

And a rose garden.”

She was nineteen.

She fell for it.

A week after the wedding

He got fired.

It wasn’t such a surprise.

Between the mental illness

Never showing up

And long sick leaves

It was just a matter of time.

“I won’t get a job immediately,” he told her.

You can type anywhere.

I have to do something important.

I have to have a career.

I’m the man of …

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Creative | Posted by Halee K on 06/24/2011

Feeling Beautiful

I can shoot lightning bolts from my fingertips

Poetry spouts like jewel-encrusted bullets

From my chapped lips

Soul shining like a beacon

Behind my eyes

Creating tiny worlds

With each sleepy sigh.

Beautiful is a fecund seed inside

Empowering all, despite the lies.

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Creative | Posted by Tesneem A on 06/17/2011


I’m sick and tired of you,

And I’m sick of the things you do,

I’m sick of the things you say,

And how you insist you have your own way,

For how can I forgive someone who can’t respect me and the choices I make,

A person who turns every rule I make into a rule to break?

My body is my temple and what happens to it is for me to decide,

And no, it is not just a matter of pride!

Shower me with all the sweet words you can say,

But I am not one you can easily sway,

You can try to make me cry out of guilt and sadness,

But it is all emotional blackmail I will not process.

Call me unlovable and stupid,

But …

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Creative | Posted by Tesneem A on 06/3/2011

My Anthem

I won’t follow your conventions; I’ll lead my own way,

And I will refuse to listen to those that say nay,

I’ll speak my mind and do whatever I like,

Whether you think I am wrong or right,

For who are you to judge me or the things I do,

When you have barely spoken to me for a second or two?

I’ll welcome your friendship with open arms,

Yes I’m kind and cool, don’t be alarmed!

But the day you treat me like dirt on the floor,

You’ll sling your hook, and there’s the door!

I am a person of value and high esteem,

No matter how anyone else tries to make me seem.

Bash me and bruise me if you dare,

I’ll still trust my convictions sans any …

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Creative | Posted by Tesneem A on 05/27/2011

No Body Is Perfect

Colour me flawless, colour me pretty,

Isn’t it enough that I’m smart, caring and witty?

I have my scars and I have my scratches,

I even have my fair share of bulges,

I wish that the skeletons would stay in their closets,

And that those cans of worms would remain closed,

But I can’t deny that I’ve had my woes,

For perfection for me is a far away dream,

Unattainable and ever elusively seen,

I know that life goes on, but I still despair,

No matter how much it looks like I don’t care,

But I wish it wasn’t so hard for me to let go,

It’s time to be resilient and live again, to be emancipated and elated,

Because if it’s true that the sky is the limit and …

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Creative | Posted by Shvaugn on 05/6/2011

Red Sunflower Desire

I can remember

the first time I split

this earth open,

locked within the blooming

garden of sunflowers that

formed the upstairs bathroom.

I told you first

almost begging, asking about

how I should tell our parents.

You dragged me downstairs

and pushed me forward

spilling forth with the news

as we all sat there awkwardly,

my small frame I was already beginning

to hate

buried beneath the blue folds

of my bathrobe,

underwear pressing tightly to my skin

as if to brand me

with red secrets of shame that

I would carry through out

the years.

I checked off day one immediately

beginning a regular cycle

of forgetfulness and inconvenience for

I can no longer count

between the lines in my memories,

a stack of pads sitting

on the …

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Creative | Posted by Melanie Z on 04/8/2011

My Body Is

My body is not an object.

It is not another’s to sculpt or scrutinize.

It is not the canvas on which you paint your expectations and standards.

It is not your playground.

My body is not your project.

It is not where you decide.

It can’t be told what to wear, how to change, when to be available.

Its boundaries are not determined by the others.

My body is my home.

It is where I write my story.

It is where and how and why I reject your critiques and limitations.

It is rebellion in itself.

My body is a revolution.

It is the personification of my soul.

It is the vehicle through which I dance, riot, love, explore.

It is my choice.

It is my reclamation.

It is ever …

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