pain imprisons me
in the tightest straitjacket
again sleepless night...
I call upon the angels
to help me in endless fight
SEPARATIST TRAP
DANIELLE SMITH LOOKS LIKE A SAP
FOR HER FEELS LIKE SLAP
A painted smile,
A hollow laugh that rings too true,
Bright, blinding eyes,
That weave a gorgeous lie for you.
A borrowed hug,
That feigns a warmth it cannot hold,
And sugar words,
To trap you in a web of gold.
Sweet, fleeting hours,
That hide the rage they try to drown,
A heavy truth,
That wears a lovely, lying crown.
Old Mrs. Gable stared from
her porch with cold, hollow
eyes.
Children avoided her rotting
mansion, fearing her sharp,
bitter tongue.
When she died inside, the
neighborhood breathed a
sigh of relief.
Yet the heavy velvet curtains
still twitched whenever
anyone walked by.
The rusted front gates would
screech open, inviting the
curious inside.
Those who dared enter
found her scowling portrait
watching their steps.
Her rocking chair swayed on
the hardwood with no wind
around.
A raspy, phantom voice
hissed from the dark,
demanding they leave.
Then the doors slammed
shut, locking the trespassers
in her trap.
She is still entity, and now
they belong to her house
forever.
Like veering on the highway, once learnt material creates an erudite maker yet while this holds true, the cessation of the wayward knowledge must also be acknowledged. One cannot rouse a dog prone and toss meat only to regret that the dog feasts instead, the callowness must be abrogated wherein one can avoid the booby trap where momentum from learning creates both an initial wave and a shockwave from that event, with which one would incur deleterious effects that are beyond the scope of the acquisitions and the assignments, like a comet delivering an impact instead of a showy sign in the midnight skies.
The midnight bell chimed through
the empty halls.
Dust settled softly over trophies
on the walls.
Lockers slammed shut with a
metallic, sudden boom.
As freezing air flooded inside the
history room.
Footsteps echoed sharply down
the dim West Wing.
Through no one was there to hear
the sirens sing.
A phantom chalkboard wrote a
single name in red.
The roster of the students who
were long since dead.
I hid beneath the desk, my
breathing sharp and fast.
Trapped inside a prison built of a
horrific past.
The heavy smell of smoke began
to choke the air.
As phantom fire crackled wildly
down the stairs.
Then shadows stretched out from
the dark gymnasium floor.
And skeletal hands began to rattle
every door.
The guidance counselor's door
swung slowly, widely wide.
Revealing teeth and glowing eyes
that waited deep inside.
The hallway lengthened out into a
endless maze.
As glowing red eyes locked into my
terrified gaze.
Cold floorboards groan beneath
the weight,
Of shadows trapped inside the gate.
The walls are bleeding memories
past,
In rooms where dying breaths were
cast.
A sudden chill, a phantom stride,
With nowhere left for you to hide.
The staircase creaks without a
foot,
And all your courage turns to soot.
The mirrors distort a twisted face,
That claims this dark, forsaken
place.
You hear the latch, you feel the
dread,
The house belongs to what is
dead.
A Lineage of Vultures from Hell
I crossed an ocean to unearth my roots,
To find the branches of my hidden tree.
Thirty-eight strangers wearing friendly suits,
Thirty-eight wolves who smiled to welcome me.
In that old village, secrets wore a mask,
Their cunning eyes disguised as open doors.
But stripping me was their intended task,
To leave me bleeding on their wooden floors.
"You're filthy rich," they hissed into the cold,
While robbing every treasure that I kept.
They traded blood for silver and for gold,
And showed no mercy.
Your ghost
lives under my bed,
comes out
only at midnight,
wandering around
messing with my head
and vanishing like phew
moment the sun steps in.
In the noon hours I forget
what's that all about.
But often reminisce
once the sun says goodbye.
Like any other night
I will face you again,
looming over
and me looking back
like nothing unusual .
I am just curious.
Are you not willing to leave?
or
am I not ready to let go?
This spider has high ambition.
She'll be catching the next passing truck.
Got her family to feed.
AP: 2nd place 2026, Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2026
There are no steel bars.
Just society's
Natural confines.
Birds fly off freely.
Quick fish swim away.
Men mull over their wrongs.
Loves traps, are all around, they trap us in our thoughts and hearts and mind.
Love traps are like an addiction, we work night and day to feed our lust of love.
Love traps are like a desire that we have, like a desire that leaves us sad and thirsting for more.
Love traps us and makes us weak, we long to have more and more to feed our need.
Love of money, of power, of food, or something we think we need to survive.
Love traps are all around so be aware and let the fake love leave and live a life of love and take care.
True love is kind, patient, and forgives, and is always near and gives us good feelings just to mention a few of the qualities of true love.
Lifting prayers to God, today and always.
Two carbon entities
exhale green miasmas
and throttle white throats
in a noose of iron.
The cored captives
diaphanous and rasping
plummet to frightful circles
where sardonic wraiths
gnarl wingèd flesh
in screeching packs
as time loops reverberate
manic and mindless.
I have a great aunt who can blether and blather about nothing
she drops hints about her wealth as she spits her gobbledygook
Since she is 97, I ignore her nonsense, but she has no idea
For I have her on speaker and every once in a while I grunt
Or I say “uh-huh”, or “oh, yeah”. I never have to say tell me more.
Her claptrap hogwash tripe is longer than the longest freight train.
It stretches from Omaha to California. Empty talk, for sure.
I put the phone down sometimes and vacuum a room.
Or take the clothes out of the washer and put them into the dryer.
When I return, she is still talking. Balderdash nonsense, for sure.
She loves the fact that I do not call her on her bunk and bull.
I check her off my list of people to call for a month. Win win.
Having their own existence
Though not really a thing
But a way cleared of things
Constituting a means to fall sideways
Beckoning horizontal gravity
Proposing purpose, pointless promise
Lots beguiling by sweet sticky
Olfactory wipings
Subject pushes like a fooled particle
Discovering networks
From an inside perspective
Looking like tubes.
From outside, arachnoid;
The infinite trap
Divine vision of spider
At the universe's centre.
What you see, you get.
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