Claim my burden but never

offer your shoulder

to confide, 

to cry,

But you have no tears to spare.

Trying to eat the slice of pie

I spent hours baking,

you spent seconds eating.

Those peaches were freshly picked!

Bathed in bicarb! 

I scrubbed the dirt

until it was nothing but

another piece of myself

for you to ******.

I do not swallow sweetness, 

I choke on copper,

throat bursting to the brim

with pennies-

the same pennies you offer

in penance 

for the burden of lead that

nooses my neck. 

You wear it by choice;

by Gold, 

by Glory,

believing our blood is the same drop split in two.

Though it is proven to be yours for the taking,

you will be tasked with breaking each 

frozen finger, 

forced to pry your prize from

my bruised palms.

Reach out to me
And for me is what you’ll need
I’ll turn you away
For I can not relay

I shall not repeat my sins
My desperate cries held within
Withholding my self dignity
My sanity not in vicinity

I can’t write you a goodbye
But I can close the door to all your lies
To welcome a more sane version of my kind
For I to have more peace of mind

I whisper to nothing but silence
My voice you ripped with violence
Where I’ve learned to piece together what was left
One day this voice you’ll regret

Sulfur yellow, a watery burn
Created in an alchemist's urn.
Water feeds fire as both
evolve--
The formula of hates resolve.

You waver rights to be treated fair
Like Sampson selling locks of hair
Or selling age to a 95 year
old--
Sheep follow only to die in
their fold.

Fiery seas begin as a rift--
Water being the only gift.
But nothing, nothing is ever
free
Once transmuted into this
sea.

But logs do drift and beaches claim
All that gave this sea its
name.

I cared to be loved,
Loved the adoring.
He swore that he did.
Oh, the great deceiving!
Was it him or me— who's at fault?
For I felt nothing, not for him, not at all.
If I were him, I too would resent me.
Then why do I not feel guilty?
He was the first to **** me with his—
Words or gaze; his entire existence
Drove me mad. There was no escaping.
If hell was earth, I was in it,
Burned holes into my body every time his two eyes found me, the lovely gazing.
I still bear the scars of thirteen.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                         Those Who Stereotype “These Professors”

                                                   Exodus 20:16

These professors

Dr. Moriarty was a PFC on certain Pacific islands
Who could bayonet an enemy
Clear a jammed machine gun under fire
See his pals blown to pieces next to him
And work out subtle textual analyses

These professors

Dr. Chambers was a retired colonel of Marines
A natty little man in blazer and bowtie
Who could bayonet an enemy
See his pals blown to pieces next to him
Deconstruct the minutiae of energy distribution
And toss a foul-mouthed football player out on his sorry ***

These professors

Dr. Dale was a butcher until his thirties
When he entered college for the first time
He knew your hamburger from the outside in
The economics of building a business
He probably could have bench-pressed a Ford Fiesta
And when he spoke of Wordsworth, Keats, and Coleridge
You could feel the air of The Lake Country

These professors

“These professors” were complete men
Strong in war and word and wisdom and work
Unlike envious Unferths who learn life only second-hand
                    From Fox News and John Wayne movies
                    And closed loops of echoing InterGossip sites