Literary Magazine

Tag: Poetry (Page 1 of 5)

Don’t Think, Just Do

By Lola Martinez

Twangy guitar breeds memories that aren’t mine
But I pretend that they are

A lonely thought
Does nothing
Until you paint it

I suppose it’s just easy to call this thought “you”
Even though it’s
Really nobody

Not even me

Level headedness forbids equivalence between thought

And feeling.

But really
What the hell is the difference?

Songwriting and poetry are my mediums toward understanding myself and the world around me. I throw up on a page and whatever I read back is what I’m meant to know, and to me, that’s magic. I have a YouTube channel (Lola Sings) that I post my original songs on, and I was really excited to bring this poem to the table because my poetry isn’t something that many see, unlike my music. This is a poem I wrote about art.

the clown

By Justin Sims

05/01/19, 12.33
i am bobo the clown.
my words are meticulously chosen,
never naturally occuring
for fear of the consequences of speaking the truth.

i am bobo the clown.
every semblance of what i am, what i have grown to be,
all stem from the deeply rooted trauma of my past.
i have been drained, my personality nothing but a happy-go-lucky facade,
tested and perfected after years and years
of preventing my deepest and darkest feelings from ever manifesting on my tongue.

i am bobo the clown.
the me that i choose to show the world
is a far cry from the me within,
the one that desperately fights for a voice,
the one that whimpers and begs to be heard;
the one that gets crushed oh so easily
by my ever present fear of being a social nuisance.

i am bobo the clown.
the phony smile, the fictitious sound of laughter,
those six words, “no, i’m okay, i’m just tired”,
decree the laws of the land
like some tyrant monarch,
while the peasants that are my true feelings
suffer the consequences of starvation,
understimulation, being forced to uphold
the will of the king.

i am bobo the clown.
my true feelings cease to retain any meaning,
for the emotions of others are held to a much higher standard than my own.
so long as they don’t see me cry,
so long as they don’t emit the dreaded, “are you okay?”,
so long as i am not pressed into confronting the true me,
i can go on living forever
as the comic relief,
the bumbling idiot,
the clown.


By Elizabeth Young

I have days
Where I imagine how it would go.
You ask me if I’ve ever been in love.
Yes. Once. With you. When I was young. And Naïve.
When I didn’t know the difference between love and lust.
Want and Need.
When I didn’t know how it felt to actually be in love. I still don’t.
But I continue to try and create a new ending for your answer.
One that doesn’t end with me in tears-
Gasping for air.
As I finally feel what little part of my heart I still had leave me.
When I finally become numb.
So I finally ask you – Have you ever been in love?
And I don’t mean the drink yourself to pity love.
I don’t mean the stay up into 3 am love.
I don’t mean the moaning and thrashing love.
I mean the soul crushing love that makes you feel like you can’t breathe.
I mean the earth shattering love that leaves you aching for a relief when they’ve left you.
I mean the kind of love you’ve never felt before.
I want to know if you’ve ever healed instead of hurt.
Have you ever tried to change yourself for another person?
Tried to break your bones to fit in the mold they’ve built for you?
Have you ever seen the potential in a person before you’ve seen them for who they really are?
You have never felt your soul collapse on itself like you forced mine to.
You have never felt the ache of your own knife.
I try and create a different ending to our twisted Grimm fairytale-
But in the end I know
I am the unhappy ending
And you will continue to live-
Untouched by the pain you have created in people.
But god,
You have never felt love either.
That is what keeps me afloat.
That is what keeps me reading our story and expecting a different ending.
That is my closure.

i wanted to put the best and worst people I’ve met into something everyone can feel and can relate to. The emotions can in no way be put on to a sheet and feel the full effect but i feel as if i got somewhat close with this.

Nebulous Writing

By Rafael Grenier

Writing is inherently narcissistic
I’m begging for your attention
Like a drunk street performer
Or a three-year-old
But it’s dignified under the guise of art
No need to despise this wise guy
I’m a fool too, a jester
I might have lost you by now,
And kudos to you on that

For those still here, let’s see what else I can do
The flutter of a butterfly’s wings missed ever so slightly by a delayed camera shutter
Another flustered muttered phrase expressing regret and disappointment
“I just can’t catch it!”
Ether defeats the purpose
Therefore purpose defeats the ether
All I want is an ethereal image to claim as my own
A still shot of an insect going about its routine
I tempt fate
I want to capture and instant and prolong it indefinitely
That’s all I’ve ever wanted

Another check in for the more attentive
Maybe some congratulations will throw you off the scent
So here’s my two cents, I hope it makes sense
The sarcasm is palpable and my double triple quadruple negatives of meaning and intent leave me too wondering where I started and where I’m going
This is exhibitionist self-gratification
And you’re still here, gulping it down
Skeptically, I hope

Okay, now that only the truly faithful are left
I’ll tell you a secret
That was all a cover
I’m afraid to say I’m proud of my work
I wrote this all quickly but I’ve relished every moment and I think it’s actually worth reading
I like myself more as a result
It’s such a toxic piece of writing
I want you to read this and think
“How clever!”
Or to begrudgingly enjoy what you see
I’m terrified of mockery
And of pity
So I’ve left this big hard shell to protect the crab meat within
I think it’s a delicacy, crab meat
I wouldn’t know, but one can speculate
Now I need to do a little more covering in case anyone just skipped to the end
But you’ll know what it really means

Scattered tattered remains of the battered population
Flattered by our own voice
Flattened by reality
Flatulent in the face of God
Tell me that’s not funny
I knew bathroom humor could still get you
No one is safe
Anyways, I want to say none of us are grown up
I’m still wetting the metaphorical bed
And now my critical voice is in your head
Misguided and irreversibly misled

What did the French author name his final book about fish?


I like stream-of-consciousness pieces, so I wanted to make one of my own. I really do hope you enjoy reading this, it was a lot of fun to write.


By Evelyn Miller

Sound was here,
gently grasping onto
crisp ocean waves,
whispering in warm breezes

when I’d awoken from
a light slumber,
I was greeted
not with the chirping
of morning birds,
but with the sound of

Soft lips fluttering
over bright white teeth,
as words of
joy and pain
streamed out of people’s mouths,
then had no meaning
as my ears blocked out
any form of noise.
No longer
were my
useless ears
blessed with the
familiar ring of
laughter and family

My enforced silence
made me feel

I sailed
across the
7 seas of memory
in search of
my lost friend.
On a deserted beach
is where I found
Sound, sinking
slowly, drifting
further and further from
the shoreline,
sinking into
navy blue waters of loss.

And so,
as I dropped
into the warm sand,
faced the setting sun,
and closed my eyes,
a cloak of
dead silence
strangled me in a cold embrace
and ensured that
nothing would ever be the same.

I like to write to poetry, as it is a way to express creativity through words and images in different forms.

a different type of soldier

By Bryn Callie

when i was younger i never wanted to be a soldier. now i wait for my chance to fight in the war. war. a bloodless war. a fight for the sleek gray wolf that howls at the blue moon. the baby orangutan who cries as her home is destroyed. the coral bathing in acid that no one seems to understand. i sit here and wait. drawing up a battle plan in the endless corridors of my mind. maybe they don’t yet know my name, but they should, because i am who they fear, and some day, i’ll give them hell.

I wanted to express my distaste for the minimal effort that is being put into environmental conservation in our country.


By Hannah Vance

My lungs are filled with liquid and my shoes are filled with moss
My mind knows what she’s doing but my heart I find is lost
There’re paths that wind and die; I can’t remember which I’ve crossed
No longer can I tell which words are lies; potential’s tossed

The fossil of my fortune is foreshadowed in failure
Cursive makes my title neater, distracting from its nature
I find a bed my size, just right, I make it and I lay there
But Goldilocks cut her story short and we know she couldn’t stay there

The moon, my idol, always hanging far too low and far too close
Reflecting back a former figure in an unfamiliar pose
It’s blurry and unclear the line dividing friends from foes
A certain sense of certainty, up from the grave it rose

Don’t worry, before I know its face it’ll be back beneath the soil
Caterpillars change to butterflies; it’s illogical to be loyal
The fantasy’s fantastic the potential’s nearly royal
But you step too far from normal and feel your toes begin to boil

They’ll pluck your teeth straight from your head, make you think you’re still a kid
They’ll dangle them in front of you, remind you what you did
Bid insecurity goodbye, cap cups off with new lids
But something simmers under your skin, still filled with bubbling acid

Gentle, untouched outside, it’s hard to gaze past the gloss
My lungs are filled with liquid and my shoes are filled with moss.

Lunar is a poem about my personal experience going through different phases as a teen and the way that has shaped myself, the way I interact with others, and how I present myself to the world.

Raised By Saguaro

By Sara Ben Abdallah

I made this video as a final for my 1st-semester Humanities class. The assignment was to show a place in Tucson that holds important memories and show your understanding of it beyond basic characteristics. I chose the Speedway/Country Club area and wrote a poem on what that spot represented to me in terms of Tucson youth culture. The video features shots of my middle school, various sidewalks, Himmel Park, and Himmel Park library.  One day, I hope to show this video to my kids so they understand what it means to grow up with cactus spines.

German Boy

By Brooke Richards

(for the boy I can always see but never have)


A place of beauty

In a stunning world

Made more magnificent since your arrival

Who knew

That the stars could shine brighter 

That the lights could spark more intensely

That one of the prettiest countries

Could be intoxicated with the allure

Of someone much prettier


Some people need to see the world

Experience each city 

One by one

Explore every shop

Read every book and take every picture





The world needs to see you

A Prairie for the Weary

By Reia Li

We leave Kaibab National Forest
I feel relief, surprising relief,
under the arc of blue.
I’ve left behind
the polyester couch
of the hotel room,
the panicked arguments about where to go
(I’ll come back someday to hike Havasu Falls).
As we drive,
my soul
streams through the prairie grass
on the side of the road,
filters through the spiky branches of the junipers,
and travels on.

There is a certain frame of mind, which, when it chooses to visit me, makes me feel like every single little thing in the world has poetry: poetry in movement, poetry in stillness, poetry in the simple act of existing.  I love finding these pockets of inspiration that allow me to capture an ordinary occurrence in a poem.

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Carnegiea Magazine