Creative Writing DAYDREAM


By Kyah Joseph

i don’t have time to daydream. what does daydreaming even mean when my head is running 100 miles an hour?

i don’t sleep, i don’t eat, i don’t have time to relax. my brain is clouded, but it’s not a fluffy cotton candy cloud. it’s a thunderstorm with torrential rain.

i’m not dreaming about my happily ever after, i’m worrying about failure at the end of my chapter.

daydreaming is overrated anyways. if you have time to sit and dream then that means you’re not doing enough, not working hard enough, not pushing yourself enough, not stressing enough, 

not crying enough.

my brain is clouded, and i’m left feeling foggy and empty. 

i want to daydream, but i don’t know how.

Creative Writing poetry

paint from my teeth

By Abby Karstrand

The paint on the ceiling creates crunchy bubbles

Water damage accumulates over time

But not that much time

From my seat I can see the delicious gaps between the paint and dry wall

I pull a step stool directly under the water stain

And reach my fingers up to the ceiling

Into the ceiling

And the paper-like layers of paint 


Under such a light pressure

And crumble

Covering my fingers in flakes

I press into the paint

And use my finger nails to scrape it off the ceiling

Feeling the flakes gather

Kind of sharp, but not stiff enough to hurt me

When I rub my fingers together, the flakes turn into dust

I bring my hands to my face and examine

And eat the paint flakes

The particles get stuck in my teeth

I run my tongue over

Trying to dislodge

Paint from my teeth.

Paint mostly tastes like dirt

A pretty neutral flavor

Then I brush

Decide to floss

Undo the damage

And wear lipstick when I’m alone.

Creative Writing DAYDREAM poetry

On the Spending of My Tax Return

By Izzy Braico

I’ve been feeling empty

just like my junk drawer,

so I’ll down another beer

and drunk drive to the junk store

where I fill my basket 

with misuses of space,

of time,

of money,

God, it feels good to waste.

And when I crash my car 

on the mile drive home

the junk will go in all directions

and my body will, too. 

Ashes to ashes, 

junk to junk,

but at least I can say the time flew. 

Creative Writing DAYDREAM poetry


By Hanna Webster

—on our seventh anniversary, i believe that you love me. we are twirling
in the rocks on a frigid beach somewhere in Washington & our feet get slit
from the shells & you lick
them and laugh—

fingers interlocked i laid
on your thighs you played me
a song you wrote
you are a part of it you are a part of it you are
a part of it
a part of your life. no evidence
besides this i want to take back

when you made me
spill over onto you staining
that porch couch at four am

i want to transform
into an unfeeling creature
take my confessions; haul them
out to the sacrificial fire, looming

i want not for you
to sense your own absence inside me
like a phantom limb.

one day—after
I saw through the bone—I’ll forget
your voice, singing.

Creative Writing DAYDREAM

I Don’t Want to be Pretty

By Ava Coglianese

I don’t want to be pretty

Like petals and delicate lace

I want to be pretty 

In the rough sorta way 

That an old barn 

Is pretty

The way chipped nail polish

And wind chimes 

And heat lightning 

And creek water 

Are pretty 

Not the way you think of 

But when the light hits me just right

I can be something ethereal 

Creative Writing

the apex of the heart

By Jarrod Sage

the apex of the heart, by                                     
                its projection       beyond 

                the thinnest part,         passed through.
    					                                  passed through, 

                             left laid 		   open, the walls removed.
                             admitting only 		two,		

                             it is      		         	 in. 

	                    it is      
               surrounded by a 
              dense, fibrous ring—the lining     
              membrane of the 

							            the aortic opening 
                                                                    is a circular aperture, 

from which      it is separated by one

Creative Writing

Language Barrier

By Izzy Braico

I’m not practiced in the art

of calling things by their names,

in stating what is plain, what is true.

No, I prefer to lounge 

in the language of metaphor,

where most things are either borrowed or blue.

Every tree in the park

reaches, desperate for the sky. 

I find that time creeps,

but often it flies.

Every new bit of knowledge

an artifact unearthed.

Every morning I wake early

is a blessing, is rebirth.

So I will try to speak clearly,

not to obscure my words

(but I guess that’s a metaphor, too). 

No, I just don’t know the language

of things as they are

Is this why

I couldn’t understand you?

Creative Writing


By Maggie McHale


the blinds hide her essence.

Creative Writing


By Maggie McHale

Never foretold but always behind,

                     you strive.

Creative Writing


By Maggie McHale

3 was hungry,

i threw him a bone,

in the only way i knew how to proclaim “home”.