This semester, members of Elements – Writer’s Club wrote creative pieces of their desire. Look through our collection of poems, short stories, and even freestyle writing! Page 1 will have our poetry, page 2 has short stories, and page 3 has descriptive writing!
POETRY
A Witch in My Headlights!
By Sylvia Victor
The girl that sat in front of me,
sat with her dark black hair,
sat with her black cat,
and sat with all her hands in her lap
A crow landed upon her shoulder
As I fetched her a pail of water
there was not much that she wanted,
but I could tell, I knew she looked for a curse—
A curse upon me!
That was her final intention
and would I find that too late–
too late, too late, too late!
She sat across me
false niceties lining her face,
as her wrinkles would
or her dimples.
Circe, as my mother would’ve called it
Oh! how I missed the comfort of her blue eyes
My mother, my mother, oh mother.
Yield me strength to deal with this witch!
How now, I could become
a folktale,
like snow white, or cinderella,
in the snap of her slimy fingers.
As if she heard my voice,
she heard my thoughts,
she seemed to drift,
a final “thank you,”
before she drew out.
Soar Together
By Chloe Kimmelman-May
You are the reason that I breathe,
The reason my knees buckle like gravity itself is drawn to you.
You are the reason my life’s worth living,
Lighting the shadows, I forgot I was trapped in.
You are the reason my heart keeps giving,
Our souls colliding, a promise written across galaxies
Filled with constellations of us.
Your arms
The only home that can heal my scars cut in silence.
Our hearts are a melody crafted by the universe.
Our curves, our dents, our lines
Meant to intertwine like puzzle pieces forgotten
Until found.
But—
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry loving you feels like apologies covered in shame,
I’m sorry my problems spill over like rivers after a storm,
I’m sorry my endless tears have soaked your cheeks
Saltwater paving roads I never wanted you to drive.
I’m sorry for my weight—this grief, this noise—
That lays in your arms when your weight is already heavy.
I’m sorry I’m a burden seeping into your veins
Like a house you never knew was burning.
But even as I say these words,
I know I’m more than the weight I bring,
More than the cracks you see.
I am a fire that refuses to go out,
Burning brighter because you stand next to me.
I am sorry, yes,
But in your arms, I feel my strength building.
You hold me, not to fix me,
But to remind me that even broken things can soar.
A Lesson in Poetry
Chloe Kimmelman-May
Writing a poem is a treacherous path,
Spilling emotions and secrets on a page,
Words struggling to capture what the heart can’t say.
To write a poem is to search the darkness of your mind,
To sift through shadows,
To find the blood and tears you let dry.
They say write about your feelings,
So here we go:
Ideas, ideas, ideas.
Oh, my happy childhood,
The warmth of laughter, the innocence of play.
Surely, that’s a good story, right?
But no, that’s too happy to be published.
Let me try again.
Make it sad, make it angry, they say.
Alright, then, here we go.
Why is there no one there when I need them the most?
Why does no one see through my fake smile?
Why does no one hear the cracks in my forced laughter?
Why has my trauma become a story people call cool?
Why is my pain turned from tears to gossip?
Why do I twist my life to fit others’ needs,
Yet no one bends for me?
Is that good enough? Is that deep enough?
Because I can go deeper.
Shall I strip my soul bare?
Lay out every jagged edge for you to admire.
Shall I bleed ink onto the page,
Just so you can call it art?
Does my suffering only matter when it is served to you,
Pressed in metaphors and poetic rhythm?
Tell me, is joy too dull to sell?
Is contentment too quiet to hear?
Must I carve my scars into shapes you find pleasing?
Must I relive the pain just to make it real for you?
Writing is a treacherous path,
And you demand I walk it barefoot.
Every step scraping against the stories of my past,
Every stumble a new stanza.
But if tragedy is all that you value,
Then take this:
The weight of loneliness pressing on my chest,
The echo of laughter that no longer feels like mine,
The hollow ache of a heart that beats to be understood.
Is that enough?
Or shall I keep digging?
Patience
Lena Spetter Mendoza
Flowing, the stream
So clear. Its purpose, its path
Bubbly crashing sounds
Always falling, always getting back up again
Silence. Nothing, silence
It knows you cant disturb it
Frozen in panic but hope and calmness inside
Easily hurt but if left alone turning into a beautiful stream
Atlantis
By Anonymous
I often think of that far and secluded island,
Where it lay larger than Libya and Asia combined,
Ruled by great kings of divine and spiritual blood,
So advanced in their knowledge, blessed by the gods,
A utopia so immense in its richness I cannot even fathom,
They proudly declared— “Our glorious land so high and mighty
Will not stand next to those so wretched and unsightly,
We endlessly yearn for more, we yearn for expansion!”,
Overcome with greed and ugliness,
They were struck down, plunged
Deep into the abyssal coldness,
Where it lies far and secluded,
Their haughty laughter unheard,
And their stories claimed absurd.
Heavenly Ghost’s Waltz
By Anonymous
Twas the witching hour
The spirits float up
To the dusty ballroom
The organ blares out a sombre hymn
Moonshine splashes the room in silver
Through the cracked windows
Of the grand ballroom.
The dance begins,
Gentle sways and swishes
From the graveyard’s residents.
The waltz picks up pace
The spirits plod around the floor,
Their lips twisted into eerie grins,
Their eyes were hollow.
Howling, the wind flutters
Through the broken chandeliers.
Their footsteps are heavy,
Bound to dance
For an eternity.
Their faces melt, murmuring.
Forgotten tales.
Twas midnight, as the clock
Blares out a peaceful tune.
Don’t fret, the witching hour is over.
The spirits are awoken.
From their heavenly trance.
Trudging back to their graves,
Until the next All Saint’s Eve
Their whispers haunt the day.
But, if you listen closely enough,
You may catch a glimpse of the
Heavenly ghost waltz
Orchestra
By Lylah Wallbridge
The truths which hide behind tight-lipped smiles,
Which strain to break free of prison walls
Filled to the brim with salted seas
And soaked through with iron oceans.
The man who sits on the rusted bench,
Blanketed with an old newspaper.
With parting dry lips which hold his survival,
And wooden hands plucking at dry strings
Tears which soak an empty four-poster bed.
He lies in old crimson sheets, still smelling of her.
He refuses to get up, to eat, to drink.
Tell me, what’s the difference?
We all play a part in the conductor’s orchestra.
Where we sit on a creaky stage draped in spider webs
And repeat haunted melodies we heard in our past
Floating from two deadmen’s scorched lips.
There’s no escaping death’s gloved hands,
Which curl around a splintered, molding baton
And direct us in entertainment from hell
In dramatic, sweeping motions.
We’re porcelain puppets which break when dropped
Ice crystals which melt to the touch of a lover’s hand
Butterfly wings which tear in a light breeze
Cherry blossom blankets which embrace the ground
We’re delicate, broken souls ready for manipulation
By death’s eager, outcast fingers
So what’s the difference between
A homeless man and a heartbroken one?
We’re all assigned the same rusty instrument at birth.
All forced to play in this burdened, soulless orchestra.
Restless Dream
By Emir Abdellahi
Elements Magazine 