Newspaper Staff Members Share Poetry

Newspaper Staff Members Share Poetry
A Moonlit Summer

A Moonlit Summer,

talking to one another.

Was it 1, or 2, or 3?

I don’t know.

You’re staring at me

like there’s no one else in the world.


You’re twirling, singing, “Help me!” 

You’re breathing. 

I can’t help but seem to be believing

of time travel — as time stands still.

Hold me in your arms as you begin to heal.


The only way to have fun is to grip my hand.

I’ll take you away to the fairyland,

during this shallow

Moonlit Summer.


All great leaders fall broken by their little power trips, eaten by their greed 

Drunk off power idolized by fools even in little school groups, we train our 

Narcissists grow in power, we tell them “YOU WILL BE THE BEST OF US.” 

The same dance is played by puppets in our little muppet show, which we

Have created our demons, which scratch at the door, screaming to make 

Humanity, better yet humanity, opens that door for them; we say, “come 

On out then, we shall show you the way which we have chosen.”

We put them into special classes and tell them they are great and that 

They will solve problems when they are the problem, and they create the 

Problems we choose these people like god chose Jesus when the scum of 

The earth does not deserve such respect, so the question is asked the bells 

Have tolled the answer is spoken, but no one will hear it ever.

When the Sinking Stops

Nobody talks about the mourning for oneself, the process of losing who you are – hating who you are. 

They say when the sinking stops, everything will be still, in peace. 

Yet, if that’s the case, how come the water still ripples in ease?


Every now and then, a stone is thrown without warning and I am left to drift it off into the sea far away. 

Every now and then, I am furious, shaky in breath, and despise those days.

“But the water is calm,” they say.


I wonder why they say the river is clear, the river is pure. 

Take a step forward and notice how your reflection does nothing but stir.

I wonder why they say the beauty lies within, when all that is within is just a part I had to play. 

“But the water is calm,” they say.


If the water were calm, I say, the wind would stop stirring.

If the water were calm, I say, the rocks would stop hurting.

If the water were calm, I say, the world would stop turning.


Everybody talks about the hope for oneself, the process of finding who you are – loving who you are. They say when the sinking stops, everything will be still, in peace. And if that’s the case, the ripples won’t cease, because that is the true meaning of peace.


I knew this kid.

And even if he didn’t want to admit it,

He knew me too.


He liked music and reading and art.

Liked taking photos, talking with friends,

And doing lots of math.


It seemed like he was good at a lot of things.

But he had trouble with a lot of things too.


See, he had trouble writing about himself.

Could never quite grasp the concept

Of a personal narrative.


And he had a hard time saying no to people.

Always followed along,

Even if it was off a cliff and into a sea of burdens.


“They’re your friends.

You don’t want to disappoint them.

After all, they’re all you’ve got.”


This kid, he had trouble accepting compliments.

No matter how nice, how sincere,

He couldn’t see what they did.


“Why do you deserve praise from the audience?

You’re merely an actor

Playing something you’ll never be.”


And he was constantly dragging around

The weight of all his burdens –

A ball and chain of guilt around his neck.


“They’ve done so much for you.

And yet you’ve done so little in return.

Who are you to call yourself their friend?”


He always had so much to do, so little time.

So little to do with so much time.

But he couldn’t move on, so the time flew by.


You see, I knew this kid.

Knew him pretty well,

Probably better than he knew himself.


Writing about everything bad about him,

Every good thing he’d never do –

It gave him something to call a hobby.


Something to do instead of sitting around idly

Like a paperweight, weighing down the lives

Of those who placed him atop the stack.


And this kid?

He’s me.

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