There's a wall,
A rather odd wall,
Towering over the trees.

Made of glass bricks,
Giving you the illusion
It's not actually there,
But you can't really
See through them.

There's a portion
Made up of carnival
Mirrors,
And lined notebook
Paper,
And pens.

There's a paper flower vine,
Every few feet.
And a herd of excuses
Here
         And
                   There.

Some half painted
Canvas',
And song lyrics,
And poem verses
Stretching highest.

And a mile of it
Made of nights I held
A cold wash cloth to my face,
So no one could tell I was crying.
And a few bricks of a
Sense of ongoing.
And some cement blocks
Mixed with loneliness
And longing.
All dribbled over
With coffee, mod podge
and candle wax.

There's a boy,
A rather strange boy,
Trying to dig through
The laughs and jokes,
With nothing
But a couple well place words.

There's a fire,
Started by a lighter
In my hand,
On the inside of the wall.
The laughs and jokes,
Giggle nervously
As they're tossed away,
And evaporated.

But they keep
Breeding,
With the smiles
And sarcasm,
And everything I use
To keep people
Out.

And maybe,
I'm not trying.
Maybe sometimes,
We grow to love
Our mighty walls.
But maybe we all need to
Remember...
They aren't only blocking out
What we're afraid of,
But what we hope for.

By Arcassin B & Olivia K


OK: On a cold March day I was stranded.
In a place all lined with darkness. Walls enclosed me real tight, I have a huge desire to fight, They say there are responses, one or sometimes two, fight or flight is what they say, looks like I'm here to stay, a cell phone in my pocket shines just a little light, on the wall to the right in silver pen be wrote, welcome to the wishing well, is this heaven or is this hell,
AB: Trauma speaks in silence letting me know in a state of euphoria, Things are not what it seems by any and all means When your own people ready to Bury ya, looking at the four walls like "how are you doing sir" never felt more than a burden in vain to the rest of the planet of sleepless individuals with no time on their hands just walking around for the next transit.

If these walls could talk, they’d tell me to stop writing.
To stop hunching myself over a glowing laptop screen for hours at a time,
battering my brain for a story more unique than anyone else’s.
But these walls can’t talk,
so I continue to do this even though I know I shouldn’t.