Literary Magazine

Tag: Poetry Page 1 of 6

She’s Not A Monster

“She’s Not A Monster” is a brief and shallow look at my experience with disordered eating. This piece came about after I felt like I needed a way to get my feelings and experiences out.

By an Anonymous Author

She’s not a monster

Not some devil on my shoulder

Not some disfigured creature who wishes me harm

Who whispers curses and promises into my ear


How dramatic

And easy

That would be

Because really

She’s me

She is me who pokes me

She is me who laughs at me

She is me who tells me I’m not good enough

She is me who is always happy

She is me who is always loved

She taunts me

With empty promises

“Just a little farther,”

She lies

“You’ll be so happy.”

She is cruel

But she says she has my best interests at heart

It is foolish that I believe her

Because she is heartless


By Kaya Callahan

I am the wood to his fire
When he speaks his words keep me warm
But when he yells his words burn me
Blacken me.
Break me apart from the inside out.
Have me question my worth.
Crack. Crack. Crackling.
Until he would soothe me with his warming words again.
But this dark pain, charcoal stained spots on my heart and mind
Never truly go away.

“Firewood” is about how my ex boyfriend would go from loving to being emotionally/ verbally abusive. Even after he would briefly apologize and be “loving” again his words still stuck with me.

It’s What I Deserve

By Humberto Valdez

My hands have no flesh, not even bone.
Texture and sensation are no longer present in my fingertips.
My hands have been chopped off by life itself,
only severed wounds and nothingness remain.
The universe figured they were of no use to me nor anybody else.
They were a gift I was given and chose to neglect;
a waste of space.
How selfish I was, to ignore a blessing simply because I was too afraid.

Had only there been somebody to use them,
to put them to work like a mother.
A mother who caresses her baby’s cheek.
One who cares for her child, not because she needs to,
but because she desperately wants to.

I wish I could know how other people feel.
What is it like to caress somebody, or even to be caressed?
It doesn’t matter,
I don’t want somebody to tell me what it feels like,
I want to experience it for myself.
But, I guess I’ll never know.

For now, in this life, I shall be useless,
left alone to rot and bleed to death.
Well, maybe not bleed to death,
but to die of neglect.

I think that a lot of us teenagers feel that we won’t fall in love, and this is kind of how I would describe that feeling, by having your hands chopped off. Because, when you think of having a partner, you imagine touching them, holding their hand, running your hands through their hair, and without your hands, you can’t do any of that. It might possibly be the worst punishment in a sense, but if you keep this mindset, you almost feel that it’s what you deserve.

Untitled Poem

By Sophie Chapman
I know you need someone to teach you
That your actions have consequences
That a heart can break from empty promises
But I will not be a butterfly
Pinned to a wall
For you to study
The inter workings of my mind
How to convince and put to rest

Your learning is beautiful and torturous
My love for you grows ever stronger
As you pick my brain apart
But the pain aches
And I understand that the butterflies on the walls are happy being dead

I wrote this poem awhile ago and I never submitted it for fear that everyone would know I still cared. But now I am content in the fact that I did care, and that’s enough for me.


By Ema Mondragón

on january 24, 2018, USA gymnastics team doctor and michigan state university physician, larry nassar, was sentenced to 175 years in prison after being accused of sexually abusing over 300 girls

this number has recently moved closer to 500

before his sentencing, nassar wrote a letter to judge rosemarie aquilina which she chose to reference in court to justify her ultimate decision stating that this man simply had no respect for women 

within his letter, in the parts where he was not vindictively victim blaming his juvenile patients, nassar condescendingly used the phrase “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned”

and boy, was he right

throughout my life i have seen the women around me shoved into tiny flowered boxes tied with pretty pink ribbons

i have seen them planted forcefully into molten glazed pots not large enough to allow their roots to grow or thrive  

i have seen them confined into kitchen pantries with locked doors and nothing but dirty dishes and unfolded laundry to pass time 

i have seen them suffer, and hurt, and be silenced 

but i have watched these same women cut those ribbons with knives carved from a desire for autonomy and independence 

i have watched their roots grow nevertheless cracking clay and ceramics and allowing their petals to blossom and bloom

i have watched them smash their locks with the sparks of an experienced welder and renounce their titles of domesticity 

i have watched them overcome, and fight, and prosper 

because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

you see, women are the unforgiving sun that burns and blisters your skin when you’re around longer than they want you to be 

women are the heatwaved blurs along the asphalt that will melt your ice cream cones and defrost your iced tea in the summer without a second thought 

women are the loose sparks leaping from the campfire that ignite the dry brush around your sleeping tents

women have more power in them than fire, and stars, and suns 

because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

aly raisman, simone biles, my mother 

audrey hepburn, oprah winfrey, my aunt 

serena williams, michelle obama, my older sister 

malala yousafzai, laverne cox, my best friend 

the women who when thrown into pits of snakes did not succumb to the venom, but emerged like medusa

fierce and unbothered 

because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned 

so the next time that you bruise the flesh and break the bones of a woman who denies your advances or questions your authority 

the next time that you dismiss her thoughts and opinions because her hormones invalidate her knowledge and wisdom 

the next time that you write legislation depriving the safety and health of her body though it has nothing to do with yours 

the next time that you place a mentor, a trainer, a coach, a physician, a doctor, into power only to enable him by silencing his victims

don’t say i didn’t warn you when you are engulfed by her flames 

because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned

“Hell Hath No Fury Like A Woman Scorned” was written in a chaotic outburst of internal passion. I had recently watched a documentary about the survivors of the USA Gymnastics scandal and was in the midst of reliving the anger and frustration that had consumed me when the news first broke out. That, combined with an immense appreciation for the powerful women around me, inspired me to somehow assemble a small piece of art to tie it all together. This slam poem serves as reminder of the strength of the abused victims, as an ode to the goddesses who have raised me to become the woman I am today, and as a personal reminder that the power of united femininity is unfathomable.


By Morgan Clark

I am angry in monsoons,
here out of nowhere and gone just as quickly.
My forgiveness is the crisp, clean scent of creosote,
once the storm finally breaks.
I grow cactus spines,
to keep people at a distance.
My despair beats down like the sun,
evaporating the precious drops of hope-like-dew I have left,
in the desert soil of my soul.
But my joy is the countering breeze,
bringing sweet relief from the crushing heat.
I smile in thousands of little yellow blossoms,
bursting into life on palo verde trees.
I am the ocotillo,
reaching always for the sky.
I relax in the coils of a rattlesnake,
bathing in the warm sunlight.
I love strong and permanent like mountains
in my Santa Rita-Tucson-Catalina-Rincon heart.

I look,
and see Tucson in the mirror.

I love Tucson and I wanted to find some way to show how growing up here has impacted me, so I wrote this poem to show how much Tucson is a permanent and irreplaceable part of who I am.

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.

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