in grammar school, they introduce to us the verbs
but is it not elementary to be taught
how to think in the third person?
I am unsure, still, who Steve is
will be, should be
and to be Frank, Steve is not to blame
and nor are any of you
it would be conceited and godly to view
life from a top-down perspective
so if you ever catch yourself acting
in a rash, incalculable manner
remember: it is just your humble way
of not being
Steve studies agro-environmental biology and economics in his penultimate year at McGill, but writes poetry and explores other forms of art as hobbies in his free time. His themes mainly include love, loathing and lust, life, aging and death, self-love, self-discipline and self-awareness, while incorporating comparisons with nature. His work can be seen at the Instagram handle @stevespoetry.
Copyright © 2018 by Steve’s Poetry. All rights reserved.
Despair knocked on my window
And I let her in
She sat on my window sill
I looked in her eyes
And began to cry
I reached for her
She stripped me bare and cold
Scared and all alone
I cried salty tears
I prayed to God
I asked for my ultimate wish
Please let me wake up to the touch of his soft skin
I won’t let him leave again
I promise I will reprieve
My tears flooded my room
She had closed the window
The water had reached my waist
I couldn’t live with the choice I had made
To wake up in a lonely bed
And never love again
Why did I allow for this to occur
Surface water just above my neck
Before I die, I wish to hear his voice and see his face
Pictures never granted justice
I held my breath
God never came
My tears reached the roof
I floated in a room filled of liquid regret
She continued to look at me
I continued to resist
I could live without air
I don’t need to breathe
Until I desire to inhale
I know how this ends
I shouldn’t have let her in
Victoria Blanco resides in Northern California where she writes for her blog, The Panty Junkyard. She has published a book of poetry entitled, Chocolate Mint Nite Drives.
Copyright © 2018 by Victoria Blanco. All rights reserved.
I look upon my memories
like a goddess, I loom over the world I’ve created
And something has changed, as most things do
but I look through this forest of remembered
feelings and episodes and ask:
Where is my father?
Where is the man who I so lovingly admired?
Where is the man who I thought was the greatest?
Where is the man I smiled proudly at
and wept bitterly for when I thought of all he had done for me?
Where is the man who I thought loved me?
Where is the man who I said, ‘love you’ to and meant it?
Perhaps the man who walks in his manner
and talks with his voice, perhaps that man
who now inhabits my father’s fleshy shell
tortured him to death, or maybe
offered him a better daughter, and sons,
he probably threw in a better wife.
Because the man who drives me to the metro
every morning, knows nothing about me
And my father does.
Or maybe I remember it wrong, maybe
this man who I think is my father
only exists in my dreams.
Yemoja-Osun Tomori is an aspiring writer who recently moved to Montreal from Lagos. She is very dynamic and outspoken, and is always finding ways express her creativity.
Copyright © 2018 by Yemoja-Osun Tomori. All rights reserved.