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Dev Aug 1
I once drew a dinosaur scene on my grandparent's wall.

T-rex and long necks over 30 feet tall.

My raptor looked lonely so I thought I'd draw double.

"Wow. You're going to be in so much trouble."

My sister's comment came with such great surprise.

She didn't stop to see the detail in the Triceratop's eyes.

No compliments or critiques, she just walked on by.

She returned with a smirk and someone by her side.

My feeling of joy was replaced with pure dread.

Like the crayon I had dropped, my face, pure red.

Grandpa picked up the blood colored cylinder

He than showed me how add our family signature.

My grandpa would jest, as I nearly **** my long-johns: 

"You’re never too old to draw with crayons."
Challenge: Write a poem including the line, “You’re never too old to draw with crayons."

For the sake of rhyme, I hope you pronounce it "cra-yons".
When I look into the small eyes of him
A piece of me sees you
An innocence that radiates
Back then I wish I knew

A mother's cry
And your first steps
I did not know why
Such a secret was kept

Or was I just blind
With eyes full of ignorance
With my childhood mind
That remained indifferent

Such a small fragile hand
Held such a familiar feeling
Paired with curious eyes
That were constantly seeking

How to perceive the world
Through an unfamiliar lens
Easily confused, not knowing
What was wrong again

Every time I look at him
It feels like a second try
To guide you from the beginning
With your small hand in mine
Jonathan Moya Jun 19
Icarus’ sister exists only in living stone,
the watchful daughter of the craftsman
in the middle of his own labyrinth,
once his prized creation, placed in
the prime line of his drafts, design, eye
of his genius, now a relic existing
in a dusty nowhere cobweb corner
stained with Minotaur blood,
watching her fleshy father
falteringly stitch wax, feathers, twigs
to a frame that could not
take the water and sun of every day birds,
not even the weight of a son’s pride
who complacently raveled and unraveled
his father’s clew, half hearing  cautions,  
his mind flapping beyond the planets.

She cried over how Daedalus could
dote over such mortal error
while she exists in perfect neglect,
cried a tear turned prayer that
mixed with the dust, the murderous
blood crusting the rusty teeth of Perdix’s saw,
knowing hence  that men **** their best dreams,
fear the successful  flight of  their ideas, and  
that her faith, trust now forever lived with the gods.

Hephaestus heard her and bellowed her mind,
taught her to seek inspiration in the rejected
metal slivers that littered the workshop
like the sand of Naxos where Theseus
left Ariadne in her abandoned dreams.

In the cry of that other lost daughter
she heard the sound of ascent,
saw father and son in erratic flight
and followed to the top of the labyrinth
to watch two glints align in descent
and one splash into the sea.

Graced with the knowledge
that forbearers would
name the waters below for this fool,
she deposited Icarus in their father’s arms,
and flew away on brass wings of her own design,
wingtips skipping waves, seeking the sun.
Lost Jun 2
At my brother’s
Graduation party
And they all know
What I did
Three months ago

They try to talk to me
But give up eventually
Because all I have to share
Is how is continually fail

“How’s school?”
“Not great, but that’s okay.”
Inside I know I flunked the semester
And didn’t bother to check my grades

“Where are you living?”
“At my mom’s still.”
“Oh, that’s great!”
Little do they know
I’m moving away
To live with a man
I know they all hate

Sneaking away from the crowd
To smoke cigarettes behind my car
This is the only time I’ve felt
Safe and comfortable so far

No more lies
No more “I’m doing well”
Just alone with my poetry
Alone with myself

Three months ago
I thought of them
Before I swallowed those pills
And tried to leave them

I knew they’d be sad
But I knew they’d move on
Nobody cares
About a no one
Nobody at family gatherings has ever really cared to talk to me beyond the polite surface questions besides a handful of family members who handle socializing better than me and are busy talking to other people. Since I tried to commit suicide, I feel like the judgement I felt before has deeply intensified. I didn’t like family gatherings before, and I definitely don’t now. It’s draining, fake, and isolating. I’d much rather spend time with people who aren’t secretly scrutinizing me. Don’t get me wrong, I love most of my family, but I guess family gatherings just aren’t my thing. If you really care, you’d bother to spend time with me or talk to me outside of these gatherings. That’s how I can separate those who actually give a **** versus those who don’t. I am grateful for the ones who do care and who have checked in on me or touched base with me since my attempt. It made it much clearer to me who really cares. My cousins, grandparents, and great uncle are the only ones I feel like I’d really be able to depend on, but I still feel so estranged from them. I don’t know what my problem is. I wish I could just open up to them.
Steve Page May 1
Tough as a girl
Loud as a boy
Big on dreams
and bigger on joy

Quick with laughter
Slower with spite
Happy to hug
and happy to fight

Short on patience
Longer on play
First up in line
and last to give way

Shorter than me
but not by much
Likely to smile
and not hold a grudge

Sisters as siblings
are harder to bear
Sisters as friends
tend to be rare
I have three.
nova Apr 2
When he was seven and I was ten
I kept a collection of things I loved on my headboard.
A watch from my grandma.
A war medal of my great-grandfather's.
A medal I had won after a hard match.
A small trinket that he had made for me.
He asked me about it once, then things started appearing on his.
His first knife from our grandpa.
A picture of great-grandpa in the war.
A small flag pin.
A small cross I carved for him.

When he was ten and I was thirteen
Grandma and Grandpa died within the same month and left things for us.
A eagle sculpture for each of us.
A ring for me.
Grandpa's collection of ties for him.
A switchblade for me.
An old .22 for him.
When I was getting ready on the day of the funeral, I heard a soft tap on the door
And when I opened it to see his sheepish expression framed in the collar of a button up shirt I didn't say anything
and taught him how to tie a tie.

When he was thirteen and I was sixteen
I saw him spiraling down the same path I had.
He sunk into himself.
I noticed.
He didn't want to talk about it right now.
I didn't make him.
When he finally came to me with tears on his cheeks and admitted he needed help,
I helped.
That Christmas, I bought him a wallet and he gave me a small wrapped present
That rattled slightly when he handed it to me.
It was a cross on a silver chain.

The wallet is getting worn out
and the cross still hangs on the inside of my shirt
close to my heart
just like he is.


Dear Little Brother,
You might be three years younger,
and your green eyes still filled with wonder,
but you're learning how the world works
and how to understand each of its quirks.

You need to be careful out there
that you aren't scared and caught unaware
Learn from my mistakes, and you'll find
We're separate people, not of the same mind.

Don't forget to breathe sometimes
I swear to God that it's not a crime,
and though they may tell you you're too soft,
Do not, Do Not let your heart become frost.

Little brother, learn to fight your own fight,
and learn to let your light let others shine bright.
You are not a waste of space,
and you'll need to find your own place.

When I'm gone, I need you to understand
some things are worth taking a stand.
You need to fight for what you believe
and don't you dare waste time to grieve.

Don't you dare waste time to grieve.
C James Mar 7
"Hide in here."

I shut the shelter,
securing my sister

within the hanging
fabric shells,

shrouding her
in my protection.

The first bomb erupts,
shattering peace into pieces

of cheap glass,
coating the floor

like ice on a bridge. Danger,
bridge freezes before road.

Mom begins to wail,
but the siren signals too late

to escape the collision:
His words—Her heart.

And I will never fear
Sticks and Stones.

Instead, I will fear
Words. Disgustful

syllables strung together
to guillotine my mind.

I wish it had been me
sealed inside the shelter.

"Dad is home."
Feedback always appreciated, whether public or private.
We were all forged in fire,
some of us cooked longer than others
sizzling away in a *******
cast iron skillet,
popping and steaming.
It's sounds like the beginning of a gory old
Grimm's fairy tale, doesn't it?

We all cooked until
we were hard,
and cracked.
dull in appearance
harsh in action.
But you,
you are soft.

You must have been born
with a map of the stars
printed on your eyelids,
and silver snowflakes
on the tip of your nose,
the smallest brother.

The air is thick with expectation.
The words people utter into
the atmosphere
all hang in the air like smoke.
We all live and breathe it.
not enough,
too much.
The expectation is in our blood.

But you,
you're laying on the ground,
below the smoke and toxins
on your back looking up at the sky,
and deciding for yourself
who it is you want to be.

Kitchen conversations
in the late weekend afternoon,
my hand pressing a damp washcloth
to your arm.
The summer  had baked your cheeks
into a freckled pink,
we giggled together.

Off the washcloth came with a flourish
to reveal a pink
scented temporary tattoo,
our forearms matched
in colorful decoration.
We wore them with pride
for a week,
until they faded.

You make me better, somehow.

The little things we do together,
my smallest brother
and I,
they make me better.
You've got a healing magic
in your lack of expectation,
your blind acceptance.
I think that's what the world needs,
Temporary tattoos
and magic.
For my little brother.
Only a matter of moments
Going the wrong way
Around the sun
Would take me back
To before
Your identity.

One day I woke up,
And you were bleeding
other people.
In a million different colors,
And never ending faces.
I woke up,
And you were no longer small.
You were something that
Could put planets on a leash,
And puzzle piece together
Entire new people
In your mind.

But little brother,
I still treasure
Your simple inexperienced lines
From long ago.
The crooked hand,
And the claw like
Seeming to crash down
On a raincoat figure.

I spilled water on the sheet of copier paper
You printed your masterpiece
Out on for me,
Smudged the rainbows,
Bled yellow into the raindrops.
But I love it.

This beautiful imperfect
That you were once
A child.
Delaney Feb 4
the best gift I have ever gotten
was given to me as soon as I was born.
you held me in your arms
and whispered "mine".
I would learn later on
that I was minutes old when I was given
one of the greatest loves
I will ever receive.

-I have the honor of calling you my sister
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