Standing by himself under the streetlight He sings the same song that over and over again as he waits for the car to stop for a star to fall and for someone to change his life. He stands there and continues to grow older than me in many ways. People pass by and say stupid things to him, but he just looks at them and without blinking. Years pass by and I still watch him out my window, wondering when he will move a muscle.
"Forever Trapped" by Insia Hakim
Emotions wash over me like a tsunami cascading over land as I kiss myself goodnight and attempt to sing myself to sleep. Hot tears burn my skin as images of my dead parents flash in front of me.
Picturing the aroma of love, I toss and turn in my bed, waiting for sleep to come. But I don’t really want it to come for, with it, will also come the nightmares.
The world has over seven billion people, yet they say it’s a small world. How strange is the logical reasoning of mankind. We live under illusions and falsehoods. We are men. Therefore, we are all that is evil in the world.
Weren’t we supposed to be the only hope that this wilting world has? All the world is a stage and the mighty strings of power move us along as puppets. We remain in blissful oblivion as we are brainwashed and robbed of the right to think and live.
I will myself to stop dreaming and my mind goes completely blank, deprived of even the simplest of thoughts that we once used to take for granted.
They say tomorrow is a new day, but is it really?
Will we finally have opinions and feelings? Will we finally have things to care about? Or will we remain forever trapped in this endless chasm? **The Essence staff would like to offer our sincerest apologies to Insia Hakim. During the crazy rush of "crunch time" our minds are going a million miles a minute and somehow we managed to overlook a large error in our publication.
We admire your work and creative talents as a writer. We again apologize for the mix up within the magazine.**
"The Weak" by Rachel McMullan
On Monday, you ask if she’s really going to eat that second cookie and on Tuesday, you observe that her jeans look a little tight so on Wednesday, she reaches the conclusion that she needs to go on a diet and on Thursday, she tries not to eat at all but she’s so hungry by Friday, she eats all of her lunch and most of yours, prompting you to inform her that she has no self-control, (as if she wasn’t already aware of the fact) so on Saturday, she pinches her jiggling thighs as punishment for wanting to eat that second cookie, and on Sunday, she is covered in bruises, but she’s still hungry, so on Monday, she takes out the razor blade.
Because every word you felt the need to tell her, every sentence you rationalized as “for her own good,” every judgment you thought you had the right to make, was a shovel-full of dirt That became the grave Of the carefree girl that she used to be.
"Rainy Days and Revelry" by Matt Sharpe
Each drop is a separate memory, splashing on top of me and seeping into my skin.
On rainy days we start to smile at foolish ways.
And by the time the day is done, as the grass is dry, and the sky is blue, we are willing to accept the sun.