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by Alexis Pendleton I’ve seen your face a thousand times, from dreams to people in the streets. I prayed that one day we would meet, and all would be normal once again. Because my knuckles are clenched, and my lips are pursed, wanting, Oh so wanting, to find heaven in your arms. Alexis Pendleton is a young writer.

by Faaria Asma Khanam One more year young A fleeting moment, barely begun 10 more years gone 10x more ahead, waiting to be spun Sweet knock knock, 20’s at the door Even though it’s right in front of me I’m unsure of what lies beyond Tick tock, 12 AM Staring at the lady I’ve become Blowing the candles, hoping I don’t burn everything around Wishing I could be my sister’s age Giving the performance of my life on the stage Where the hell did she go? The girl with the doe eyes, innocent smile Same name but an altered soul I’m ageing, stressing over being Ms.20 But here I stand, Ms.20, writing new stories Stepping in with shaky legs and sweaty palms But it’ll be okay right If not at 20, maybe at 22 It’ll all be okay, Ms.20 Faaria Asma Khanam is a young writer.

by Shamik Banerjee My dearest Cynthia, I kept my vows On this day of our anniversary. I sweeped the breezeway, pruned the Beech's boughs And watered the long-swagging Peony. Our bed is neatly done; a coverlet In crimson-murrey is upon it spread. At eve I'll play your favourite cassette And on my bosom gently place your head. As promised, I have lacquered your long nails And helped you don a camlet red and bright, I've locked the door to mute all outer wails And shut the louver to dim out the light. Long you have said, "My husband gave me naught." Now look at you—all complaints are suppressed. Now maybe you are smiling at this thought— 'My husband's good although he's not the best.' How meekly now you're sitting on the chair, Your cheeks don't have the former fury's speck— I wonder if your comportment was fair I would not use that blade against your neck. Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India.

by MG I love being alone, I said. And I wondered what it feels to have someone waiting on you. To have someone thinking of you, talking to you, listening to you. To have someone who loves being with you. I want to be alone forever, I said. And I wondered what it feels to have someone to call yours. To have someone who treasures your existence as much as you treasured theirs. To have someone whose eyes would light up at the mere sight of you. I don't want anyone to love me, I said. And I wondered what it feels to have someone who would notice the little things you do. To have someone who respects you, holds you dear, puts your best interest in mind. To have someone who would rather die than to lose you. I don't really like romance stories, I said. And I wondered what it feels to live stories beautiful enough to be carved between the pages. To have one turned into poems and songs. To have one people adores and envies. My heart may dream. But so long as my brain exists, I knew better than to wish for the nonexistent. My heart may dream. But so long as my lungs breathe, I knew better than to expect something only reserved for the lucky. For I am not one born with luck. So be quiet. Let me drown in my own lies. Do not prove me wrong. For I'm content to live the rest of my life this way. MG is a writer, graphic designer, content creator, social media manager, and student. Her poems can be found in some literary magazines, and soon (hopefully) her novel would be out for you to see to! She is accepting graphic design commissions, for more info, check her out on Instagram: @melifluousgelatoo.writes @mgsdesiigns

by Linda M. Crate a person isn't defined by what people think of them, i won't crumble like a falling building because someone doesn't like me or see me as i truly am; i am me— with make-up, without it; with jewelry or with none: i am the same person— a woman armed with ambition, big dreams, big hopes, and a drive and intensity to push her forward even in times of heartbreak and longing; night doesn't last forever and dawn's light will spill upon me one morning— so even through the tears and the fears, i push on; because this is me: the one who never gives up, the one that persists, the one that will live forever. Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has twelve published chapbooks the latest being: Searching Stained Glass Windows For An Answer (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2022). She is also the author of the novella Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022). Her debut book of photography Songs of the Creek (Alien Buddha Publishing, April 2023) was recently published.

by Kaleb Scope I scream at the top of my lungs for you to hear the wonders of my truth: "I will not stand idly by like my ancestors had done so in the past and let you harm those I love and care for! Your devilish and demonic ideas will never bring harm to them. I will do everything in my power to ensure that you cannot bring destruction to those I love and care for, the same way you have brought onto others." Yet, notice something, Throughout my bold claims of protecting those I love and care for, I have forgotten a single soul who matters the most above all else. Me. Can you hear me now? Can you? Can you hear how much I hate myself, but also love others around me? No, you can't, and you refuse to ever understand the complicated relationship that I have with myself. You fool. Kaleb Scope is a Canadian writer, primarily focused on fictional writing and poetry.

by Taya Boyles - a crows - surfer swan-diving off stage - good faith as a lure - a cherry - pit in your throat - a real backseat princess - rifts caverned form expectation - expiration dates on their last day Taya Boyles is a young writer.

by Yuu Ikeda when i fell in love with you, my words became powerless. how deep my love for you, the moment that i feel that your love for me is vulnerable, the reason why i want to touch you, the logic that i fell in love with you, the cause of pain and loneliness. when i fell in love with you, i gave up explaining them. when i fell in love with you, my words lost power and meanings. Yuu Ikeda (she/they) is a Japan based poet and writer. She loves writing, reading mystery novels, sugary coffee, and japanese comic “呪術廻戦 (Jujutsu Kaisen)”. She writes poetry on her website. https://poetryandcoffeedays.wordpress.com/ Her first essay “DROPOUT” was published in MORIA Literary Magazine. And her latest poetry chapbook “Phantasmal Flowers in The Eden Where Only I Know” was published by Black Sunflowers Poetry Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram : @yuunnnn77

by Kushal Poddar We have a family technique to abort our thoughts before they become words, our bane. We force feed our tongues measureless silence and the usual squirrels the crumbs of our hearts. The nightfall will highlight the canal, cremation pyres, fall as a season. My father turns and says, "I find savouries tasteless these days. Ain't it tasteless to savour one's own griefs? " I do not know. You find the support for any belief you cherish on the net. Kushal Poddar, the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

by Alexis Pendleton I’ve seen your face a thousand times, from dreams to people in the streets. I prayed that one day we would meet, and all would be normal once again. Because my knuckles are clenched, and my lips are pursed, wanting, Oh so wanting, to find heaven in your arms. Alexis is a young writer.

by Maddison Sellers Every night my mother asks me to light a candle So the room is golden she says So the light is soft she says, turning off the lamp Then I reach for a thin white candle, the matches too And cut the wick a little shorter because My mother told me to do that each time she lit one when I was a child Then when I strike the match, I wonder If I look like my mother when I would watch her as a child I wonder how I seem, and what my mother thinks When she sees me doing something she once did for me Maddison Sellers is a reader and writer from rainy Washington State where she lives in a little apartment filled with books. She reads for the Chestnut Review, the Chariot Press, and is the graphic designer for the Cloudscent Journal. Her work can be found in Trillium, the Unconventional Courier, and On-The-High Literary Journal. When not reading or writing, she spends her time browsing bookstores and journaling. You can find her on Twitter at @maddi_sellers.

by Cansu Gökkaya Am I enough? Do I possess what it takes, To navigate this world, where everyone makes Their mark, their impact, leaving trails behind, While I'm left questioning, lost in my mind? Am I enough? In a sea of expectations, I strive to meet them all, seeking validations. But the bar keeps rising, out of my reach, Leaving me gasping, feeling incomplete. Am I enough? As I compare myself to others, Their successes shining, while I'm left to smother In the shadows of doubt, of my own inadequacy, Wondering if there's a place for someone like me. Am I enough? Do I deserve love and affection, Or am I destined to live in constant rejection? I yearn for acceptance, for someone to see, The worth that lies hidden deep within me. Am I enough? In a world that values perfection, I grapple with flaws, with self-correction. I question my worth, my very existence, Lost in a maze of self-doubt and resistance. Cansu Gökkaya, a young author, discovered her passion for writing at an early age. Despite her young age, she has already published impressive poems and made a name for herself. Cansu works tirelessly to perfect her craft and expand her readership. Her curiosity, ambition and passion promise a promising future as an author who will delight her readers with captivating stories.