A Different Kind Of Expedition

    By Lucy

    The captain steers his mighty ship forward,
    With his feet planted confidently on its solid, oak floors.
    His crew is bustling around him as they journey
    Across a massive ocean of letters,
    Letters forming into words,
    Words flowing into sentences,
    And sentences cementing into life.
    The vessel cruised through the first seven lines with ease.
    The captain smiles and breathes in the crisp and unfamiliar air.
    The salty tinge rests in his nostrils,
    And the gentle breeze brushes his roughly bearded face.
    He is a man scarred by age and battle,
    But his eyes show his childish anticipation
    For what comes next.
    By the end of the fourteenth line,
    He is trapped in the scenery.
    The effortless glide of the ship over the page,
    And the peaceful rocking of the rhythm
              He stands frozen,
                             With his eyes wide open.
                                               He is speechless.
    The warning cry from his lookout breaks his trance
    As they reach the final punctuation point.
    A voyage is completed,
    Experience is gained,
    And realizations are made.
    Cheers erupt as the beer jugs are passed around,
    And the captain lets out a hearty laugh.
    Everybody is affected by the mixed feelings felt
    At the end of a poem.

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    Mistaken Identity

statue of a boy angel

    By Xingyi

    The knocking came late after dark,
    a dirty battered face peered up, eyes pleading.

    Mistaking him for a street urchin,
    I turned him away.

    When morning came,
    the body lay curled up on my doorstep,
    covered in a thin layer of sparkling frost.

    Wings broken, halo cracked, gown torn.
    The fallen angel was dead.

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    Mistaken Intentions


    By Xingyi

    Through the wind he runs.
    Though his shackles are broken,
    his mind is set on retribution.

    The sun disappears over the horizon.
    Now the moon is rising,
    casting its pale light onto the secluded garden.

    Shadows gather as the ritual begins.
    The boy draws a circle, sealing it with blood.
    Chanting in old Gaelic, he walks deosil three times 'round.

    A bolt of raw energy shoots up to the sky.
    Startled, the boy stumbles back,
    oblivious of what he has unleashed.

    Dark forces awaken from their slumber.
    Long forgotten gods peer down,
    frosty smiles on their faces.

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    Music Saves Me

music tree

    By Corina

    Alone on a silent cliff top.
    Scrambling for a handhold,
    Falling because there's nobody to pull me up.
    The music grabs my hand like a faithful friend,
    And holds tighter then anyone ever could.
    It fills my ears and I am strong.
    There is no silence anymore,
    Only music.
    And I don't have to fall,
    Because I can fly.

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    Procrastination Ate My Time

    By Xingyi

    Procrastination is water leaking out a spigot's mouth.
    Every time I wander by, I make note to turn it off,
    but I never do.
    Over time, rust creeps up around the rim.
    Days tick by; more water is wasted.
    It leaves a greedy puddle that steadily grows.
    Eventually, the water rises to a threatening flood.
    No longer avoidable,
    I grab the mop, feeling its familiar, worn-down handle
    and the green paint-chipped bucket.
    Looking down, the whole day is gone.

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    Quand Je M'Assois Sur La Plage

    By Xingyi

    Je m'assois sur la plage,
    et regarde pendant tout l'univers le révèle.
    Le ciel, encore rose du coucher du soleil, me regarde attentivement.
    Déjà, les étoiles apparaissent sur l'arrière-plan de bleu sombre.

    Les vagues écrasent à grève dans un rythme constant.
    Des rafales du vent soufflent de la mer. sunset on the beach
    Le sable froid chatouille mes orteils.
    Tout est paisible.

    Ce moment est parfait.
    Je ne suis plus moi, une individuelle,
    mais une partie d'un entier.
    Tout ce qui m'entoure bouge en         harmonie.

    La lune monte dans le ciel nocturne.
    Je faudrais partir, il est tard,
    mais Nature me détient comme         otage,
    elle est tellement belle.

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    Respect Your Fruits!

    By Bella

    I wish I weren't an orange, shunned into an empty yet bacteria infested fridge.
    I wish this fridge would miraculously mend its cracked up insulation, so that it would actually         keep me and my comrades fresh and crisp.
    I wish the humans would notice the apple rotting to the core next to me soon, so that the         unpleasant sour smell may fade away.
    I wish... no, I pray, that I wouldn't end up like the apple: dead and brown, like a corpse.
    I wish this fridge door would creak open so that I might be able to catch a glimpse of the         animated world outside I've always longed to see.
    I wish that the doors would immediately slam shut, now that I've witnessed a fragment of the         ungraceful world of junk and pollution. But the door stays wide open.
    I wish those humans wouldn't eagerly scan the fridge, hunting for food to stuff their greedy         faces.
    I wish I was back in the fridge, so that I can be at ease in my home, and not restrained on         this sketchy wooden table.
    I wish the humans wouldn't get a butter knife out of the tall cupboards, so that I wouldn't         need to sweat this cold fear.
    I wish I wasn't being sliced into pieces, so that I wouldn't feel so vulnerable and exposed,         with orange juice trickling down my peel.
    I wish I wasn't being chewed to a wet pulp in the human's mouth; it's deep, dark, damp, and         awfully uncomfortable...
    I wish I wasn't in the stomach, where I will be completely melted by acid, providing a         human's daily dose of vitamin C and essential nutrients.
    I wish you would appreciate what I've been through, because now I will never get to say
    "Orange you glad you ate me?"

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    Stars And Moon

night sky

    By Wawa

    The sun's arrogant flare starts to sink down
    Heaven's little helper ascends, eyes light         brown

    She takes out vibrant ribbon, handiwork spry
    Soon chains of delicate stars will sleep in the         pink sky

    The man with the moon admires his job done
    He floats down to help her, stringing stars one by one

    They work from Cassiopeia to Cygnus the swan
    Just about finished before the night melts to dawn

    The sun climbs up, a moment she dreads
    The little moon boy bids farewell before bed

    One more day without him, but for now she'll compromise
    Comforted by the fact they dream above the same wide sky

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    By Corina

    Imagination wanders across a vast inexpressible landscape.
    It stretches on forever, and is blindingly overwhelming at first.
    But focus soon narrows on what we understand,
    A small but deep river flowing swiftly through a glen of green willows,
    Framed by dabbles of golden sunlight.
    The river carries streams of inspiration: all intertwined and constantly in motion.
    An entire dictionary swims beneath the surface,
    Words leap like fish into open hands, forming a substance as malleable as soft clay that         bubbles and burns like lava under your hands.
    A poem, like an island, is born,
    A small piece of the land that stretches to eternity.

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    World Of Ink

    By Xingyi

    She stares blankly at the page before her,
    pen hanging limp from her hand,
writing     dead.

    Inspiration is her salvation.
    Ink dances across the vast unknown,
    radiating life with every step.

    The barren wasteland
    transforms into
    a lush jungle.

    No longer restrained
    to the boundaries of paper,
    she is forced to stop.

    Amazed by the master piece,
    she smiles,
    eyes shining.

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