As I lay down at night to sleep
And think about life in general.
I cannot help but think to myself
Is it a wonderful world?

All around the globe,
Chaos is the only constant.
From turmoil in the Middle East,
To poverty and disease.
From global warming,
To bombs exploding.

Even domestically
Everything is getting messy.
From homelessness and drug addiction,
To systemic racism and a broken prison system.

What has the world come to?
And does anyone know what to do?
Seven and a half billion people roam the Earth.
Confused and afraid of what the future holds.

So as I try to put myself to sleep.
I think of Louis Armstrong’s famous song.
Then I think to myself
Is it a wonderful world?

Michael Hymowitz ’18

Was it her fault? Did the universe despise her curly locks or the way she handled her
dolls? Perhaps it was merely bad luck or the fact that her mother did not believe in God.
Nonetheless, the child, in the winter of her ninth year, was diagnosed with stage IV leukemia.
For weeks, the girl refused to consume the grilled cheese sandwiches her mother prepared or to
role play with her porcelain dolls. The lights dimmed in her eyes. Now all her hopes of
becoming a lawyer and having two children of her own had been snatched from her. Death
stared her square in the face, for she had only three more months on earth according to her
supposedly “optimistic” doctor. She needed a miracle.

Erin Louie ’19

The attic of the house is painted in shadows
With blood colored paint cracking and chipping along the walls
A musty odor permeates the dingy furniture
Drenches the walls
The carpet once white and pure now grey
Only a reminder of what once was
The woman’s hope now gone
There are no windows in the attic
Light flickers on and off from a broken lamp
Sporadically bathing the room in yellow
Illuminating her harsh reality
And there, in the corner, sits a mahogany dresser
Coated in a thick blanket of dust
Completely bare but for an oval mirror in the center
Like an eye carefully watching over the room
Its stern gaze unforgiving
There is no lock on the door of the attic
Nothing preventing her escape
But the woman stays in the attic
A prisoner to the demons in her head
Sara O’Halloran ’16

It’s not your fault,

even though I say it is.

Even though I connect the way you
measured my meals at the dinner table
to the way I
measure my waistline at the bathroom mirror.

Even though I insist that
the bang! of a pan hitting
the oven door,
and the roar of two voices from downstairs
justifies
the smack of my fist hitting
the living room wall,
and the shriek of my voice from my bedroom.

Even though I suggest that
your insistence on hiding
my body and our family
from others
has led to
my insistence on hiding
my life and my emotions
from you.

Even though I realize now that
I’ve used the ways
you have tried to help me
to explain
the ways that
I have hurt myself
and you.

It’s not your fault,

even though you say it is.

Gina Cusing ’16

He’s a young man
With a gun
And a plan

He had not a prayer
But the gang was there

Got in some fights
When he lived in Logan Heights

With a lock n’ a sock
On heads he’ll knock, knock, knock

When the Sons hoped for Silence
He hoped for rain
But no amount of water can wash away his inflicted pain

And when you have the need he’ll sell you speed
That you can burn up the road with

Be you blue or red
There’s a price on your head
You were red when you bled
And you’ll be blue when you’re dead

Street life is rough
But it made him banging tough

A brother’s mother cried
When that brother’s spark died (it’s okay that he died, it’s all for group pride)
We all wore black to the funeral
And to the boot party right after

They’ll off ya
When your in the Mafia

Violence
To Silence

MC
OG
MOD
ABZ
One. Three.
OMG
Latin King
Wa Ching

Now the hat and bat
Has taken his gat

Thought he’d be twenty for life
Now he’s serving the same
Cause’ you can’t rewind bullets
And you can’t rewind shame

Annabella Lynch ’16

We soak in an addiction.
To know how to do things without ever being taught,
To know how to succeed without ever having failed,
To know where we are without ever being lost,
To know who we are without ever losing ourselves.

Our spirals grow bigger as our climb grows longer,
And we pressure ourselves to go farther with each step.

We step higher and higher
Unsure of where we are headed.

We push and we push and we push
And we consider stopping to catch our breath
A weakness.

We are immune to our own achievement,
And we no longer recognize great,
But we expect it.

We get caught up in a lifestyle that reads more like a factory.
With each day,
We’re scheduled to produce the bigger and the better.

We grow afraid to fail,
Afraid to be confused,
Afraid to ask for help,
Afraid to disagree.
We grow afraid of ourselves as we realize
We are not perfect.
We conform to the idea that our endeavors are worth nothing
If they won’t lead to success.

We’ve absorbed and adopted a false realization:
That we must not only be ashamed of our shortcomings,
But that we must justify them for others.

We realize everything but the truth:
Complete perfection is a figment of the imagination.
Perfect is just a word
And its definition is nothing but the opinion of another.

We are not perfect, we are flawed.
Stopping to catch your breath is not a weakness.
Confusion leads to a greater clarity.
Asking a question leads to a greater knowledge.
Failure leads to a greater success.

So while many of us may not find ourselves
To be our personal definition of perfect,
We can find shelter in knowing
that to some,
To be perfect is to be flawed.

Olivia Mohun ’19

He wants to live
right now!
The high school student sits sighing at the screen delirious from deprivation of sleep sleep sleep desperate for sleep he feels the caffeine the sugar gnawing away at his spongy brain struggling to stay awake to study for the science exam shiny iPad glow but not quite like the stars he would rather see the moon the sky the trees fall asleep under the blanket of darkness late at night he stays up cramming his eye bags burrowing into his cheeks I can endure hell a little longer until lunch tomorrow then I can live
right now!
He sighs of relief feels free failure is a possibility but who gives an F I finished now for the next class new assignment new exam new project next class new new new next he sets into speed of the week but he would rather run on the sand the wind the endless sky the tides swallowing his worries why is the week only halfway done drowning in his work just a couple more days until Friday then I can live
right now!
He goes out gets wasted on the weekend after waiting a week returns to drag himself on the endless road running running low on energy enthusiasm for life like a machine making mom happy good grades good reputation all good I guess so much due so much he would rather do so screwed he can’t screw around for the next few months not long until summer then I can live
right now!
He feels the sun makes new friends new lovers at music festivals now a freshman in college parties sports enjoying beers in between boring classes Bachelor’s in business because big bucks he would rather find philosophy but just wait until my first job then I can live
right now!
He makes mountains of money stability for his family but he would rather take them to climb the chill the clouds counting down years until retirement then I can live
right now!
He waits waits waits for a
right now without realizing it’s passing:
the right now.

Valerie Kau ’16

Falling down with ease and serenity
Drifting off the tree with an autumn breeze
Dropping slow trying to find its destiny
The breeze could carry it far overseas

It has a color of brown, green, or red
Landing on the ground, it crumbles in ten
People walk around crushing it dead
Season of pretty leaves stumbles again

Children run around looking for memories
Through the rivers, rocks, and stone they find me
My aged body, found after centuries
Running around like it’s a Grand Prix

Taking me back from my aged willow
Putting me beneath their warm pillow

Michael Maciejewski ’18

Before I put on the helmet, people sum me up using simple terms:
red hair, white, wealthy, privileged
But I am much more than that
Before I get on the bike, you can’t know what makes me, Me.

Throw the leg over, clip the helmet, and
Attention, row!
Push, pull, push, pull, circling up up up the hill
Boom Stroke, One, Two
The bow surges forward
My whole body writhes in pain, but I cannot stop
With the next stroke all the skin tears off my left thumb
The closer I get to top, the harder it is to pedal
Power 10, hardest strokes in two
That’s one, TWO
My body explodes
I exert all the energy I have
I’ve reached the top

Air rushes past my face as I fly down the other side
Kick, snare, kick, snare,
The steady beat pounds out
As I coast to the finish line I can still taste the sweat of the climb
Almost there, the crowd roars in the distance
Drumroll, crash
I soar through the finish line

I jump off my bike,
Home at last,
My true sanctuary, where I can be myself
Shy outside, kind inside
Someone who finds it hard to talk to new people
But once I catch their rhythm I can’t stop
So please talk to me.

Walter Nicolson ’16

They came in closed cars.
Silent.
For they hated what they had to do.
Caught in something longer than themselves.
Controlled. By the monster.

The pressure is building.
They think; I’m doing something wrong.
God knows. Everyone knows.
But it’s too late.
The monster’s sick.
It can’t wait, it can’t stay one size,
It needs—wants—insists—must have.

What justifies such greed?
Men created it, but they can’t control it.
Just a part of the monster. A robot in the seat.
They were no better.
Loved the land no more than it did.
Controlled by the monster that was stronger than they were.
It doesn’t breath air, it breathes profits.
Robbing the land, sucking all the blood and innocence out of it.
One house after the other.
Like factories.

Something is deeply wrong with this town.
Families no longer fighting to stay in their homes.
Aware that they cannot keep up.
Accepting the traumatic consequences of trusting the monster.
Watching everything they lived for disappear.
Born on the land, worked on it, and died on it.
That’s what made it theirs.
It belongs to the monster now.

Then, everyone leaves.
Nothing is left to remember the town that once was.
As if it never existed.
Completely stripped of all its content.
The land was not loved nor hated, it had no prayers or curses.
A piece of innocence, devoured by man’s greed.
It no longer has a purpose.
It belongs to the monster now.

Natalie Long ’18

overpopulation.
individuality.
what we see and what we desire.
not intertwined but standing at opposite ends of the room
refusing to comply but agreeing to live in a world of differences.

you. I know you.
you who sees the world
as both too big and too small.
can you change the world?
will you fall into oblivion or
live on in the books?
the choice is not in the heavens,
but in yourself.
conquer what you can
and I promise,
you will make a difference.

you. I notice you.
you can be whatever
makes you happy.
yes, this overpopulated world is large,
but I recognize you.
you are important to me.
you will defy the odds and conquer this world!
you created this world.
do not let this world
recreate you.

Lauren Cueto ’17

Mesh strapped to back
Time pressed
Feet scurry
Flight approaches
Faces interrupt
Don’t look
Ears plugged
Heaven of voices
Mind dancing
Subway vibrates
Breath to breath
Don’t speak
Foot tapping
Numbers glowing
Head glued
Elevator echoes
Heat radiates
Don’t touch
Screens up
Sudoku down
Eyes shut
Lips pressed
Free fidget
Pass along
Just Don’t

Valerie Kau ’16

You are spring while I fall.
Preparing for summer while I winter.
Our differences caught in fiery maple leaves,
crackling, strung together in light breezes,
only to fall in a forest and sink in the soil.
For I know we are both beautiful.
And who am I, to restrict such beauty but instead
use my fallen leaves to raise your light of
vibrant green, pastel blossoms.
If not enough, I know that
as the sun travels and pigments mature,
your creations will shift their beauty
to be with me once more.

As done for all existence, it brings me great joy
to know that as I fall to the end of the cycle,
my resurrections remain appreciated
as you create beauty from mine;
as I create beauty from yours.

I wish to greet you, old friend.
To connect the beginning and end of life.
To know if you too grow impatient, like I in summer,
watching, waiting to see what arises from my burnt ashes.
To scan the horizon and see a world of new color.

But to never meet is torture.
For summer and winter are beautiful,
but separate a love like no other.

Lauren Cueto ’17

You have strange abilities to destroy
And innate and strong powers to divide.
Many people have seen their lives lost of joy
Due to the pains you have caused vast and wide.
You are a sickness in society
Stopping at nothing to enforce your will,
Filling people with deep anxiety,
And driving others to brutally kill.
Many know your name of pure obstinance
And refuse to acknowledge your presence.
They will not look at you for one swift glance,
And fight when you’re around to find pleasance.
For you are fear, and while few test your way,
I am your one true foe and will not sway.

Will Lawrence ’18