“Song to Myself” by Stella Gleitsman

Song to myself.
Sweet song to all of the parts of me that make me wince in the dark.
Lullaby to my bad and blurry memory
Sonnet to all of the times I have woken at 5pm and treated it like morning,
My heart’s houses and rooms are full of lonely people staring very solemnly at the wall. The walls are white and clinical. They smell like hospital soap and the starchy taste of a pill.
In the back of the house there is a love song shrieking from of a stereo that sounds like bones rattling, sounds like pouring sugar into cuts to make them taste sweet, what goes between the cracks on the sidewalk, all the gum and dirt and clues of life that live between those small and unexplored walls of cement.
At the edge of my lungs contains a warm shallow pond that sits stagnant. It is not familiar with enveloped or kissing flesh.
I am a poet of the Body and I am a poet of the Soul.
I tear apart the body like a wolf until I think I see a soul peeking out from within the guts.
Turns out it is all just dead air down there.

*Inspired by Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself.

“Lonely Boy” by Gio Lee

The lonely boy is lonesome, no doubt
That should be rather obvious, to a fault
The lonely boy is lonesome, but in exactly what way?
Is he just really lonely? Or does he push people away?

The lonely boy watches while the people walk along
With their fancy little dresses, on their way to a prom
He longs for it and envies them, for he will always know
That no one will ever love him. At least, not enough to show

The lonely boy is lonesome, and though he wishes it weren’t so
He just can’t help but love it, pushing people about
To push them in and away, an endless game to play
Forever ruining the life he just longs for himself.

The lonely boy cries while the people walk along
With their judgy little thoughts, on their way to and from
He does not care for it and hates them, for he will always know
That no matter how many people say no, he’ll always be alone

“I Dreamed a Dream” by Anonymous

As my eyes droop, ready for sleep
My head is filled, with my heart’s desire
I want to grow old, with someone deep
To spend my life next to one I admire
I fear the one will never arrive
A setting sun that has not shone
Across the river I see him stride
Will I float in the water chilled to the bone                                                                          Or swim with grace to the other side
To meet the one and build a home
And to never, ever be alone.

Untitled by Anonymous

I want to be called honey or sweetie or baby. I think about the warmth in my heart when I hear my lover call me honey. Honey, like he’s known me for decades and my presence is honey: the good, long way home, like the feeling of the roof of your mouth covered in sweet. And then I say a prayer to the softest parts of me — the space between my breasts, my earlobe, my lips. Hoping he will kiss me there, and everywhere, oh, I want to be kissed everywhere. I want my lip gloss all over his body. I want to feel his head on my stomach after we make love I want to feel hot skin on hot skin I want to taste him. I want to run my fingers over the sky of him, the neverending soft outer space of him. I want and I want and I want but I know these wants will never converge into the precipice of reality. He is not my lover. He has never been my lover. He is just a boy who does not think of me when the night unfolds a long day and I guess I am ok with that. I guess that’s fine. I guess we can exist separately and I can still be in love with touch I have not felt. His touch is something I will never feel and I sleep ok with that, my eyes getting a little wet as I repeat that to myself like a deafening hymn, like an elegy.