Broken Glass

Carver Lawson, Special Projects Manager

I’ve realized recently that I rely on my sense of sight too much. 

I’m so fascinated by the image in front of me that I don’t notice my posture is craning my neck, 

and I don’t feel how my body is knotting up from spending all day analyzing the feedback from my eyes, 

and I don’t feel the emptiness in my stomach and the headache from my hunger, 

and I couldn’t sense how my spirit was dead and dry because my fixation was futile, 

and it all didn’t even occur to me until I felt every sensation hit me in one go. 

So I broke my glasses, 

and now I can’t see. 

But I can feel the heaviness weighing down my eyes as I hear my body calling for rest, 

and I can feel the tension in my shoulders and neck that my back left behind, 

and I can even feel those muscles relax with every breath I take, 

and I can understand that I am not upset with you but my own inner turmoils, 

and I can feel my heart soften towards the world and people in it, 

and in these moments I can know my senses have returned to me, 

that I can taste my passions, 

hear my subconscious desires, 

smell the peace in the morning air, 

feel the love of the sun, 

and see through a lens of clarity. 

I broke my glasses and I’ve never had a better sense of sight.

Honesty

Carver Lawson, Special Events Manager 

I’m sorry,

In my defensiveness,

I denied you your humanity.

The truth, is I’m always asking myself what makes a person lovable,

What causes someone to be so fascinated with another like it’s an obsession they’ve always had?

I thought I stopped asking myself that question and I did for a good while.

I was going to let love find me like friends told me to,

so I stopped searching and then I was in your bed, 

and it felt right,

I was just bored and didn’t want to sleep alone that night,

but I thought that maybe the universe had finally rewarded me,

that I finally mastered what it meant to be lovable and enough of a fascinating person to get you hooked,

but I know now this isn’t about you,

these are about hard questions I ask myself for no good reason, a pattern I must have picked up somewhere 

It really isn’t about you and that’s what makes it hurt worse because this chase of love has always been about me, 

I was hoping that a stranger could tend my wounds just this once,

yet again i’m the only one who knows of secret doors and the shortcuts in the labyrinth of my heart,

It’s not your responsibility to tend to my garden like that, 

I have flowers so strange that no botanist has ever seen and that leave gardeners dazed,

so yes, I am sorry in my defensiveness I’ve denied you your humanity, 

I should have remembered the mazes and flowers I saw in you when I looked through your eyes.

The Storyteller

Austin Price, Editor in Chief

There was a great storyteller

Who told tales of you and me

The sweet songbird of literature

Who relied on his ABC’s

His currency was parchment

Stained deep with black paint

He often spent his days alone

It gave him time to think

He was a chameleon of sorts

You could never tell what mask he wore

You might recognize him in the after

But he stays a stranger in the before

He drives the yellow bus on your way to school

He cleans the conference room after meeting

He’s the quiet neighbor who lives across the street

He doesn’t answer the door when you’re trick-or-treating 

He’s a hoarder of words

He captures, categorizes and collects

Your deepest, darkest secrets

Your ultimate regrets

He speaks countless languages

He is the ultimate translator

He shares your secrets

He is history, it’s mediator

With the words he writes

He exposes humanity

Illuminating the good and the bad

Revealing the ugly

He scribbled his thoughts

Ancient hands begin to shake

The splotches of liquid color

Mark the page with intentional mistakes

The storyteller is a narrator for us all

Documenting our best and our worst

He remains neutral in his writing

For the naked truth must come first

With a mind like a mouse trap

Enticing the reader in

Only to take them hostage 

And let the games begin

The work of the storyteller never ends

There will always be more to record

The secrets are shared

And the readers are never bored

When his days of writing are over

The storyteller does not quit

His tasks are passed on

For new stories will always exist

Once the pages are drying

And the stories have been told

He seals the letters tightly

And signs them in gold

Rain on the Roof

Austin Price, Editor in Chief

The rain patters on the tin roof

Split, splatter, split, splatter

Continuous pounding of cool water

Onto old, rickety metal

This metal has formed a rust

A visual of the continuous abuse 

What once was pure 

Is now cursed 

Never ending wallop of wretched water 

Taking a clean slate 

And tarnishing it

One would argue that the roof deserves it 

The roof is a shield 

An impenetrable, fixed structure 

Honored by time 

The patterns may change 

But the roof stays the same 

The wind blows and the fires glow

But the roof seems sturdy

But seeming is often not sincere

Seeming is a deceptive ingredient 

Underneath that roof 

There is rot 

There is pain

There is death

The continuous molestation of the rain onto the roof 

Breaks it

From the inside

Out

Some things never change 

Like the endless onslaught of the rain 

But nothing gold can remain

And nothing refined can deny the wickedness of pain 

The roof has withheld more than her fair share

Fires, tornados, blizzards, hurricanes

Temporary calamities are easy to withstand

But consistent cruelty is the roof’s demise

The pouring rain is constant

It’s inflection is consistent 

There’s no variation in the rhythm

And no end in sight 

Rain is a part of life

But when all we have is rain

We have no time to heal 

The roof begs for a reprieve 

For the sun to come out 

And to dry her skin

For the metal to be warmed

And the water to be dried 

Unfortunately, a break in the rain is rare

And a rarity becomes a fantasy

Despite the rust spores

And creaking structure 

The roof’s groans are unheard

And no change is made 

Warning signs are given

Premonitions are shown

And yet nothing changes 

Until the roof falls in

And the home is destroyed

The Forest: Destruction

Carver Lawson, Special Projects Manager

The lumberjack visited my forest often,

I’d see him sweetly swing that axe

and for miles you could hear the thundering whack. 

I’d always admire

how he could chop down

any earthy spire

and I thought “what dedication he had to show up everyday”

but it was only when it was too late

that I saw the price I would pay.

I noticed a wicked grin

as he cut my greenery paper thin 

and he got bold, no longer taking one tree at a time but thirty-three

—that day he brought a whole damn machine to decimate me.

and how could I not have seen these callously cruel crimes 

in all those traitorous times

he’d take and take 

until I had nothing left to give

his fortune was always at my sake,

to him my prosperity had to die for his to live.

How could I not see it

in the way he’d cut to my forests core

removing thickets meant to keep him at bay, all for him to ensure I had nothing more.

But since him I’ve regrown,

as nature always does,

and I’ve been shown

visions of infectious insects 

that swarm his mind

eating away at stolen solace

and now I can finally find

the justice in all of this

Purple Sea

Austin Price, Editor in Chief

Lavender blue

Lavender green

Those are the colors

Of the purple sea 

The rain

Pitter patters

The salt

Spitz and spatters

Sailing ships

Seagulls cry

All beneath 

The purple pink sky

Jagged rocks

Like shark teeth

Sink into the souls

Of our flesh, fragile feet

Outlined in sand

Soaking, seaweed

Heavy waves of water

A new way of being

Salt in our hair

Sun in our eyes

Sand under our nails

A painful surprise

The sea is a haven

For the creatures of the deep

Both strong and tall

Small and weak

Lavender blue

Lavender green

Those are the colors

Of the purple sea