They will never forgive you.
They expected an alcoholic beverage, a suicide,
a drug, or some form of senseless anorexia
to be injected into you.

You scoffed at all their prisons
and dived into a pool of shared solitude.

Then they ignored your plight,
derided your intuition,
responded to the questions with unsettled glee,
but long after you left,
they gathered all your gems 
and turned them into cash.


Author Bio:
Julia Hones had her works published in various literary journals and anthologies. She believes that healing Mother Nature is the path to progress. To learn more about her writing and published material visit https://juliahoneswritinglife.blogspot.com

Back to (Back) 
F0ur wa11s
....
...
..
.

Thr11 me with sti11ness

F0ur wind0ws 
?
?
?
?
Thri11 me with si1ence

F0ur winds 
!
!!
!!!
!!!!
Thri11 me in their t0uch.

Screens take me away

G0 Back (back)


Author Bio:
Benjamin is an interdisciplinary artist based out of Vancouver Canada. He holds a Bachelor of Performing Arts from Capilano University. Ben has an unhealthy fascination with escapism and enablement and hopes to explore it in his works. 

While Ben does not consider himself a poet he fantasizes that poetry is there for the voices without breath to speak and that even he can share in it. He hopes that if his voice is heard it will let another feel something of the moments in his mind. He thanks you for the time you took.

I am a villain
Not the kind that walks with a master plan of destruction
Thrashing and annihilating anything that comes near
Nor am I some tyrant
Hell bent on a power trip and a need for total control
But every villain is born from a lost love
And I have loved 
And I have lost
I have loved the love where every thought is a conversation
And not a distant memory
Where every conversation is with another
And not with your own thoughts
I have lost another soul that fought
And whom I swore to protect
Where every fight ended with an I love you
And not as a sole survivor 
So I have destroyed
All the well wishes
All thoughts of your happiness
All the desires of your success
All the love
All is lost
I am a villain 
I am a villain indeed


Author Bio:
James Flanders' inspiration and introduction into poetry came from high school English classes, where he learned about prominent poets such as William Shakespeare and Maya Angelou. Moreover, his deep love of music sparked a desire in understanding how words can evoke such strong emotions. He loves to play with word choice and structure to create pieces that detail certain feelings and reactions. 

From Far Rockaway, New York, he originally wrote to express how he felt about life in his community. Now, as a graduate of the State University of New York at Albany (2017) in the field of History, his passion is to write not only about personal experiences and emotions but also pertinent social issues. He hopes to one day travel more and write more about the world unknown to him.

I have been called many things
And I am many things
Yet I have not stolen
Nor dipped hands into documents
Altered figures from books
Bearing names and dates
Sums and cheques

I’m of course many things
Like the rags on streets
Paper in the wind
Reckless, unknown, forgotten
A tout, agbero, area boy
You name me

When there is a national convention
I have no representative
Mine are the potholed roads
Oil wells controlled by cabals
Dead street lights
Lying traffic lights

I have been killed multiple times
Taken to dungeons after torture
So death is not new to me
It is a friend
The only friend
Fateful and just
That tells me the truth 

A lie is living when you are dead
Praying when your words are dirt
Engraving your name
Yes, on the surface of an empty grave

So you can label me
Strap an IED reading my time
And let me die
But I will die the final death
With truth written
On my shallow grave


Author Bio:
Nathaniel Bivan has, from a very young age, been addicted to books. In the university was when he started writing poetry while studying history. Many things inspired him, mostly life on campus and girls he crushed on. Sometime in his 300 Level he lost his first manuscript, a tattered exercise book in a box filled with clothing and certificates. But losing his work hurt the most. After then he wrote for some years, never with the former dedication, and then stopped. Almost five years into his career in journalism he picked up his pen again. After working on and getting a couple of his short stories published, he felt it was time to get back to poetry. The agitation for Biafra in his country, Nigeria, floods and other disasters, terrorism, corruption and more called him to write passionately again. 

I wake up to a noisy rumble,
I get out of bed, half walk, half stumble.
I look outside, then look again
I see the world, drenched in rain.

As I stand there, a flashback surges through me,
A little girl, filled with joy, who I used to be
As soon as I saw her, she disappears, too fast,
And it dawns upon me: why do I dwell in the past?

I've always wanted to go back, and be that girl again
Who so happily enjoys the day where there is nothing but rain
Than I realize that as old as I may be,
I am still that little girl, only beauty is what I'll see

I don't see why people don't like cold rainy days
It ruins their mood, fills them with dismay.
It's harder to go outside, to do much, and to see
But that's not the kind of person that I'd want to be.

Thunder rumbles and lightning flashes,
On the ground, all I hear are splish splashes
A new world covered in falling diamonds
As vast and wide as the horizon

All senses of worry, pain and suffering fade away,
My responsibilities all are gone for the day
A morning so different and lovely as can be
When I'm in the rain, I feel free...


Author Bio:
Smile is 13-years-old and loves finding the beauty in the simplest of forms. When not busy with school, Smile spends free time writing and pondering life's questions and wonders.

People who do not enjoy the sky
Their reasoning evades me
How do you not love these colors
That change before your eyes daily?

How do you not love
Cotton candy pinks
And baby blues?
Shimmering golds
And even greens of the softest hue?

Do you not enjoy
A midnight sea
Dotted with white freckles and splashes?
Dark grey, a bright flash
Paired with thunderous crashes?

Neon pinks,
Blood reds
Seen just as the sun
Lowers her head

Soft yellows
And gentle blues
Witnessed as the moon
Disappears from view

Red oranges and purple pinks
Fade into a sky
Pitch black like ink

All these colors make up "sky"
And no one can truly deny 
The beauty of blues and blacks and greys
All put together in this array

Oh, of course 
There's the basic hues
With fluffy white clouds 
That danced as the wind blew

But lest not forget
The grace of technicolor views
Colors so damn riveting
But only lasts a few

Oh, the sky's a work of art
Nature herself played a part
This glorious mix of colors
Each so different
One is never another

So yes, I am fond of the colors of the sky
Every single one passes through my lips
with a loving sigh

And looking towards it
Is nothing short of a gift
And maybe, just maybe,
It gives my soul a lift


Author Bio:
Phoenix Jane began writing in 2015 at the encouragement of close friends and family. Jane is dedicated to their craft and strives to become better. They view every experience as a learning experience, for writing and for life. 

Let us play the moon with hide and seek
journey with me into games of the earth;

Game of leaves and trees housing the elders
in the placid wind of the night,

sketching muse from the gourds of palmwine.

Let us play the skyline with our hidden logos
on the face of tribal marks,
of Gombo,
Pele,
Abaja,
drawing maps on the soil of Oyo, Ibadan, and Ikare.

Let us tussle the game of lines;
of strength,
of bravery,
of fight,
of my father’s farm,
deciding the courage-foot to unsoil the line.

Let us gamble with the game of wedlock;
of blood,
of white hankie,
of my woman’s first entrance
to determine if protected
from the sniffing men’s sledge.

Let us amuse a game of theatre in an open stage;
inscribing lines with whips 
of Igunuko, 
Elegbodo, 
Eegun Alare,
and other colourful masquerades,
who appease the gods only in the parched season. 

Let 
us 
play 
a 
game

of

eke*
to find out the warrior of the land. 

Let us open the buttock of a fowl,
with lyrics,
idioms,
proverbs,
rhyme,
rhythm,
to write the lines about my father’s diary. 

* eke means a fight called wrestling in Yorubaland. 


Author Bio:
Nureni Ibrahim is a budding writer based in Nigeria. His poems have been published in Best New African Poets 2016 Anthology, The Red Pendulum, The Mamba Journal of African Haiku Network, Shamrock Haiku Journal and many more.