Poetry: The Bleeding Scream by Afia Faiza Khan

 The screams of the bleeding voice,

Echoes throbbing, seems to be no choice.

She yelled, "Save me! I can't bear!"

Loud grief, the crowds didn't hear.

Dominating hush, extended bruises:

Hopeless limbs against abuses. 

Tears dried up yet blood still flows,

Breaking the door, came the death blow.

After each thump, her fate cries,

The horrible thud; silence never lies.

Why are we blind until she lost?

Our sight demands a life's cost?!

Why are we deaf until she dumbs?

Do we desire her to numb!?

Beasts as humans or humans as beasts?

Oh, awful souls spare the hallowed at least!

Spare the hallowed at least...

Poetry: Pink vs Yellow by Nina Anin

On Wednesday the bus ride was full of ladies in pink

elephants in pink

A girl in yellow crashed through the roof. No pink, like, say

a lemon in a bouquet of roses, vomiting over the golden floors.

The King would faint.

The economy crashed, and you got to wear pink, the ladies in pink say.

New billboard has new commitments: 

coping in pink, screaming in pink, weeping in pink

You could, the girl in yellow says.

Yellow was later designated public enemy No.1,

ladies in pink began to advocate for

old metaphors & overused colors & cleanliness 

the rest of Dvorak's symphonies looked on doubtfully.

On Thursday the girl in yellow tripped down the stairs

On Thursday the ladies in pink died of a heart attack

Memoir: You Are Not Kurt Cobain by Mich

Note: You Are Not Kurt Cobain contains graphic descriptions of suicidal ideation. Please keep any possible triggers in mind before reading this memoir.

If you or anyone you know is considering suicide, please reach out for help. The suicide hotline for the USA is 800-273-8255. Find other suicide hotlines around the world here: International Suicide Hotlines

You are loved, and your life is worth living. Even if it's hard to believe right now, things truly can and will get better. Stay strong, and stay safe.

 If you'd like, you can read the memoir here: https://oneeyedbastardfrog.neocities.org/youarenotkurtcobain.html

Photography: Bee by Anonymous

 

Poetry: transient form by Srishti Pandey

my eyes, darkness receptors, seem to freeze
my cheeks, cling to the hollow skull, seem to burn 

my hair is dry and rusted, and waiting
to be yanked out of the swamp (brown matter) 

by my fingers - short, stubby, charred tips
everything is slightly singed by my touch 

sweat, that lines my neck, is sliding to evaporate
my shoulders are bent forward; undue burden 

my arms are bent inward; shelter self
deflating chest, bleak from dissipating heat 

my pelvis aches from smoldering flowing iron
and my gut from churning acid 

my knees are covered by cracks, with ice filling in
filling up the weakening lengths, splitting them 

splinters, coiled in a scimitar; shelter from self
calves distorted by spasms, ankles turn to stone 

it is all - fractured pipes and broken ceramic
tracing back their path, from my sinking toes 

through graying tissues. crumbling
it is all - condensate and plasma. exploding 

mine is another cursed mortal form
weathered away by the changing seasons 

dwindling to dust // returning to earth

Photography: In The Dark by Kat Le Blanc

 

Photography: Bananas and Cream by Adrielle Lanae

 

Poetry: Cassette by Jiah B

the midnight sun cracked 

open the sky in half.

the spent days oozing out of the crevices 

like smothering honey; scorching liquid amethyst 

that blisters skin raw and stops air tight.

memories weren't what they were called anymore, but

a cassette that played itself every second over and 

i was too much

of a masochist to press pause, for

i would rather evaporate in the heat of the tangible ugly 

than learn what it feels like to make brand news.

the window deluded me into comfort, made me sit 

on the sill and bask in the poisonous wind,

for the stars were pretty that night; pretty selfish.

didn't want to be looked at so asked the clouds

to kiss them through the light year,

like specks of aurelia smeared over velvet,

protected by a veil.

but the same melted into a repulsive canvas 

of tar the very next 

second because i remembered

everything that glitters is not gold.

music flowed out of the player and onto the floor

in a shiny puddle, blinding.

making me wonder where all the people who would

want to write a song about me went.

did they collide? 

burst into new galaxies before i

even had the chance to feel their skin;

kiss them enamored under the moon?

it suddenly feels like a different dimension,

and i'm not a part of it anymore.

it scared me.

how it morphed right before my eyes.

my own demise; a constellation on fire

the sun fluidizing away into another nebula

far away from mine.

it happened then and there

but all i did was sit and 

stare beyond myself, into the magnetic nothingness, 

looked at the stars one last time before closing the window

and drawing the curtains shut.

Photography: Urban Inferno by Adrielle Lanae

 

Poetry: Ink by D.Z. Roshal

 Some nights, I break down

And write song lyrics on my bare legs in permanent marker,

As if I'm not going to regret it the next day.

But ink washes away faster than grief does

And scrubbing at the ink the next morning gives me something to do.

Some days I can almost convince myself

That the sweet-smelling soap will wash away my loneliness,

That the towel will wipe away my anger.

But a few days later, I'll write on myself again,

And all the cleaning will have been for nothing.

 

This poem was also included in a recently-published short collection of poetry, short fiction, and personal essays. Check out the author's book here! https://www.blurb.com/b/10764047-wanderer

Photography: Blanched Skeleton by Adrielle Lanae

 

Oil Painting: Best Friend by Jane Forrest

 

Poetry: Dear Comrade, by Samar Jain

 Dear Comrade, I always wanted to understand you more, 

Alas! I wish I could know what life had in store,  

I wish you could know; you were the one, whom I most adored, 

I wish I needn’t say, but those times will never be anymore, 

I wish it could just be a nightmare of sore... 

Dear Comrade, you lifted me up when I felt down, 

Brought a smile on my face, when what I wore was a pity frown, 

You were there as a ray of light, 

Always tried to make me cheerful and bright as the fifteenth night, 

You helped me fight the bitterness of life, and perhaps made it more of a delight, 

Dear Comrade, as years pass by, 

When there is desolation that envelops me like the charcoal darkness of night, 

I wish you could stand strong by my side… 

Dear Comrade, when melancholy is what I only feel, 

I know a Midas touch of yours would make all my scars heal… 

Dear comrade, I wish you didn’t have that malignant mass, 

For it led me to helplessly look onto your carcass, 

Which left me shattered as a glass, 

Dear Comrade, we used to disagree, 

But at the end of the day, it was all but glee,  

I miss those good old days, days that never will be…

Oil Paintings: Endangered and Breakthrough, by Jane Forrest

 

Poetry: Rivet, by Sarah Chaudhry

 a golden crown perched upon a sea of colored hair

that thrives upon the regality of drunken power

as it lives on a head that is no stranger to the uses and abuses of power

the power it symbolizes is a mere comparison to the power that comes from 

what such a crown could permit -

life and death at the hands many see as too feminine to unsheathe a sword and run wild

but such hands drive blades deeper than most, 

knowing when and where to extract blood that most wouldn’t dare to dream of 

Photography: Bananas and Cream by Adrielle Lanae

 

Oil Paintings: Empty Highway and Floating, by Jane Forrest

 

Photography: Rearview, by Anonymous

 

Poetry: The Pier, by Michelle R

some people sing like sirens, deadly and cunning.

i speak like a sailor, in swears and chanteys.

will you cry then, cry to the sea?

the nymphs cannot hear you,

but will you cry for me?

people slip me sympathies

out of the palms of their hands.

i can survive on my own,

but they think i can’t. 

i may be a bit rare,

that much i’ll concede,

but that doesn’t mean

i don’t care, when

people laugh at me.

Poetry: I'm Grateful, by Samar Jain

Today and everyday I’m grateful for the forest, flowers and trees, 

Fruits, petals, and green leaves.

I’m grateful for the animals, birds, and all the beings,

I’m grateful for the lakes, rivers, and seas,

And for all that simply heals.

I’m grateful for the love, and the one who does,

For the divine dove in the blissful above.

In these unusual times, I’m grateful for the covid warriors, couriers of hope.

I cry for those who grieve, mourn for those who leave,

I feel sad about the dearth,

But I still love my Earth.

I promise to care for Earth, anywhere and everywhere… 

For I am aware of the nightmare, you must also beware,

I promise to value our home by doing my bit,

I promise to care for our earth and everything it has to offer, 

I choose to celebrate Earth day, today and every single day.

Poetry: Tomorrow's Flight, by Sarah Chaudhry

tomorrow, tomorrow, i love you tomorrow, 

even if you don’t love me,

with muffled sniffles late at nights and the essence of nature’s cries down my cheeks, 

cheeks that know this sort of rainfall better than most, 

for better or for worse.

but i’ll love dear tomorrow still, 

even if dark eyes that have seen the wonders of the world don’t open to tomorrow’s wonders, 

and time stands still for while the world keeps moving and laughing and crying,

for tomorrow will come once again in a new world and a new light for me to rise and take flight.

 

Poetry: A Dot In The Death Toll, by Praniti Gulyani

 

my father is a bit of verse 

strangulated by the razor-sharp sentences

of political poetry, of news reports

that move forth, swaying to the metallic wind  

of a mechanized monotony

my father is a bit of thought 

that comes in, a bit of thought 

that goes out, a bit of thought that lingers 

for a while on family albums, on dry cheeks

and then, a bit of thought that disappears

like every other thought 

my father is ill-pronounced english 

strung together, with the crude touch of 

vernacular verses, the bitter-sweet flavors 

of abuse, like the sourness of a betel leaf 

my father is entangled in the numerals 

of their conversations, as they spend four minutes 

and forty-five seconds discussing the death-toll

and possibly, a millisecond or two extra 

when they mention the digit that he occupies 

''Forty seven thousand, eight hundred, sixty four. . . ''

my father is a mound of sand, beneath which 

a young boy lies a butterfly to rest,

a butterfly with wings, tenderly crumpled 

like a poem, which is good enough, but 

just does not satisfy him

my father is a gunshot 

tearing through the sky, shredding the clouds

disturbing my mother 

who sips chai and sings to the mountain 

making her drop her cup of chai

and making her hands shake

making her cheeks whiten 

making her fists tighten