White knuckle straining
Gripping the laces
At the edges of my thoughts
Praying the laces
Don’t come off
I am screaming
You cannot hear me
Because I am learning
I am learning what is healthy
And tearing down the dry wall
Until your nail beds are bleeding is
Not.
I do not hate you.
How do I say
I hate the way
I have to relearn how to think
How to speak
I have to weigh every opinion
Every porcelain inkling
So that I do not break
It
Break
Me
Break, you.
Break through!
I can do this sober.
Unless
I can’t.
String me up by my neck
There is only silence
Until the next
The thought
Rips its way in
Unfamiliar nasty little friend
I white knuckle strain
And grip the lace
Hoping for a soft landing
A greeting
A whisper instead of the screaming
I am gritting my teeth
Praying
And they call this
Healthy,
Self understanding.
But thinking for me
Feels more like disease
Punishment seeping internally
Pushing my face into gravel
Threatening to leak
Through my teeth
And onto my life where
I’ve rebuilt
Piece by piece.
Silence.
I breathe.
Release.
Repeat.
I would never be understood by any man
I can't put up a pretense of who I am
I'm very simple and want very little
But they can't seem to handle my mental
I'm not sure if the rejection would cause me to change
I'm not sure I'm appreciated or want to remain the same
I could try to be that average woman for that average man
Wrapping them around my finger and screaming demands
Just take everything for granted including their pride
Take every moment as a joke and just go along for the ride
Playing head games and toy with them while leading them with lies
Treating them like a puppet for what's between the thighs
No one seems to like or want the person I am within
Sincerity and Faithfulness just flows beneath my skin
Do I need to change the person I am just to be accepted
I'm tired of being misunderstood and getting my emotions affected
It's only so many females like me that are left in this world
Who request from you little or nothing just to be your girl
If I start to come off different, it's the men I'm going to blame
You're the reason I doubt myself and wonder if I need to change.
You pour your heart out in a poem
bursting with emotion and sincerity,
then share it with the world to see.
You rush delivery ignoring any typos.
Your readers may not be too understanding
that you did not care to make an effort.
Readers honour you with their time
when they read the lines you've written,
the least you could do is make it worth their while.
If you don't think highly enough of your poetry
to warrant scrutiny and revision,
you'll find many will not take you seriously.
Not only will you be overlooked...
but you may just come off as the amateur
in competition with a fifth grader
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
on papers of divorce after decades of union
just a cheap biro not even a cherished fountain pen
no more tears no more drama and the well is dried up
a reservoir of joy and the agony of separation
consigned to memories and pain of suffering
acceptance of impermanence and closure of delusion
the hope of liberation and new beginnings is still nascent
but the fear of the future recedes into a new dawn
mutates into concern and care for what is and will be
curiosity flickers from scented candles and incense
her perfume is fading and the wedding band has come off
as the vows of togetherness remain a shadow of promise
there is a rainbow of spiritual prisms faith and longing
for growth change understanding and intimate love
some sort of anticipation while staying in the moment
and deep emotions cannot change with the blink of an eye
they will have to live together until the house has been sold
are both still deeply in love while God had other plans
they wish to remain friends with the only benefit
of not destroying what has been a miraculous journey
from start to now inevitable finish and dried ink will fade
Red brick walls of the highest quality,
hell or high water the last one standing.
My resilience never rubber-banding,
high dollar construction’s a shield for me.
No need to fight what I was meant to be,
always protected while I’m expanding.
A harsh silhouette that is commanding
up close still appears rock hard easily.
With this architecture of solitude
the strategy can be hidden from view.
Glass windows only added to the top
tend to come off as aloof attitude.
Crippling loneliness can overtake you,
let someone in if you wish it to stop.
Cursive lines don’t always flow the same,
this sometimes brings a hiccup or hitch.
There are other ways to spell my name.
The sound’s like a sick and twisted game,
I have come to loathe this sudden switch.
Cursive lines don’t always flow the same.
When I begin to feel like placing blame
it tends to come off as a technical glitch.
There are other ways to spell my name.
A few of the letters just miss the aim,
phonetics lend a smeared apart pitch.
Cursive lines don’t always flow the same.
When I find an error I want to proclaim
‘I’m so sorry but I’m a bit more niche.
There are other ways to spell my name.’
Any translation of a language will reclaim
the identity that I was brought up with.
Cursive lines don’t always flow the same,
there are other ways to spell my name.
When Christmas nears, I reminisce
about the ones that won’t be there
for gift exchange and scrumptious meals.
I visualize each empty chair.
Then one by one, my picture books
come off the shelves. I dwell upon
the photos of my nephew, brother,
Mom, and Dad. Dear God, they’re gone!
Nostalgia can be friend or foe.
At times like these, he is a friend
who lingers only long enough
to help me wipe my tears and mend.
It’s time to load the gifts and food
to share with all my family.
No signs of grief will mar my smile.
Just joyful love is all they’ll see.
To honor loved ones we have lost,
we’ll share the special memories
that make us smile instead of cry.
Our praises won’t be eulogies!
This world is wicked, the system is crooked.
Nobody wanna talk about how suicides been committed, how people on the streets stay trapped and addicted, or how innocent folks get convicted
for things they never did.
We spend our whole life going to school, trying to be "successful," but nothing they taught me ever felt helpful.
Half the stuff they drilled in our brains felt heavy, felt resentful.
I'm starting to think this whole system
was made for white people.
If I can't understand
what's going on in grade school, I might as well break the rules-the mind of a fool.
It might come off cruel, but I'm just trying to figure out what it even means to live.
The wind blows your words to my deaf ears,
and I wonder,
where have you been all this while?
I grew up believing I slipped
through a hole in the sky
to trudge this sand.
My mates went to school,
but I stayed back, always waiting for bells to ring
and bring them back on pitch
to kick the round play joy.
My father debarred my scents
from seeping through his walls
because of his wife.
So I thought I was like our Saviour—
only that unlike Him, I have neither mother nor father.
I took to the street,
and it welcomed me.
It groomed me
and taught me how survival looks like.
I made it big through the backdoor.
But here you are,
telling me you are my mother.
From whence did I come—off the hole in your womb?
Mama… or mama-to-be…
please let me know.
“The Darkness Can Be Shattered”
by Positive Mark
My Father died, mid-argument.
An email never opened.
I hear him sometimes in the night, when I’m vomiting and groping.
Maybe the next rhyme will immediately restore hope, and
the darkness can be shattered by the ember I’ve been stoking.
This is a matrix, a puzzle with high stakes.
Where twenty of wood has you feeling so good that you cuddle with rattling snakes.
You’re numb with olfactory flakes.
Wake up with your face in her cakes.
A twenty year stretch, where you stick out your neck, as if life has but so many takes.
So tell me what’s real when you swallow that pill.
You came with a nine. Who you fixin’ to kill?
I hate to come off like my name’s Jimi Hendrix, but this is my hundred. I’m ‘bout to go spend it.
I’m taking this dame out to dinner and sports, while you sit in the dark, sucking down them Newports.
And you’re thinking of popping a round in your head?
I hate break this to you Homie.
You’re already dead,
like my Father.
Beau, our hound dog mix,
got himself in a fix,
a minor wound on his paw,
to keep from licking it raw,
he has to wear a plastic shield,
‘round his head til it’s healed.
Oh, him and his brother Gus
do zoomies in the yard,
a source of laughter for this bard,
in the autumnal air-
they chase squirrels, no cares.
They chatter at Beau with no dread,
because, well, Beau’s a buckethead!
He sleeps with it o.k.,
but Gus would rather not play,
with his strange looking brother,
he’d prefer to nap with another.
Beau waves his noggin around,
looking comical, a canine clown.
Soon, it will come off, he’ll be free,
but right now Beau the buckethead
is funny!
strapped to a chair while wires
pierced my skin, tested my knowledge
Will this ever end? Come forth not
My tongue tells all lies, as it splits
down the middle towards your
demise.
My eyes turned black my skin crawling
With fear, as my speech comes out
I feel endless fear. strap me down as
The room shakes, come forth as my
Shackles come off I'm going to my
happy place.
If I could go back in time,
I’d go back to when I believed in soulmates
the way I believe the stars in the night sky
guide us to a predetermined destiny.
Poorly illuminated by the moon,
leaving you to seek yourself intentionally.
Well,
I’ve learned you can throw away fate
when you make an extremist choice,
deviating against that destiny.
Like salmon in the springtime,
we kill ourselves only to respawn,
and reinvent new regret
in search of things we think we need
but already possess.
Now,
I don’t mean to come off as nihilistic or depressed,
but I’m slowly starting to stop believing in prepackaged outcomes,
and have come to the conclusion
that only children believe in soulmates.
At least I did when I was a kid.
Now I know for certain,
love only exists when it’s convenient,
and the stars, more often than not,
pick favorites.
The world now is overflowing with filters,
fast five stars, and a multitude of clickbait.
Society has become an abstract definition,
devoid of any type of civilized boundaries.
I want the honesty of naked conversation
and the ability to discover truth for myself.
We have a license to be phony.
Go on I dare you, take off that mask.
Mugwump mentality is an easy out,
opinions that flex with every audience.
How to research with contaminated tools,
the sixty four thousand dollar question.
It’s getting so bleak sadness is hot,
how can I relate when I honestly don’t.
Pushed aside because I’m not drowning.
Yes, I do have an air of confidence.
We have a license to be phony.
Go on I dare you, take off that mask.
I won’t play the victim when I’m not,
nor wave a flag I don’t fully understand.
Authenticity is the only brand for me,
whether I am the black sheep or hyped
by that brand new trick up my sleeve.
All the make up will come off in the wash.
We have a license to get phony.
Go on I dare you, take off that mask.
My life is my life
It’s not yours so I can’t do what you want me to do
I have to live for me and live my dreams
Who knows when I’ll take my last breath?
I want my life to be full of dreams and success
I might come off mean but I’m doing the best I can
I can’t allow anyone to change the route I have for myself
Life can be hard and sometimes people make it harder
I have to find a way to work smarter
You think they love you but then they eventually show they only wanted to use you
They never cared about you
I’m always going to make myself my number one priority
These men don’t love me
My life is my life
I’m going to be alright
I make the decisions for myself because all I got is myself
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