He Said She Said

He wrote, she wrote

I wrote, they said:

I have been besieged for too long.

I said, she said

They wrote, he said:

Why am I no longer a victim?

They wrote, I said

She said, he wrote:

How is this not about me?

I said, I wrote,

I tried, I cried:

Why can't anyone see me?

I bleed my life

on paper with pen

to people with words.

It's only a certainty

my brand leaves me sober

knowing my story

is half of the battle.

I said, she said,

they said, he said:

I have taken my place

at the chair,

at the table.

I have to stop you

from taking me over.

He wrote, she wrote,

I wrote, they said,

They said, he said,

he wrote, she wrote:

My joy is a fable,

my friends are untruthful.

Can you please help me?

I need a moment.

He said, she said,

she wrote, he wrote,

they said, we said,

I wrote, I said:

Things might get crazy up ahead;

so I've taken my place at the chair,

at the table.

He said, she said,

He wrote, she wrote,

I tried, I cried:

I am a lie

and so are you.

by Owen Loscar

Snow Passing

There's an entrance to these woods I call my own

that no passer-by has ever been shown

where leaves exceed and flow over the trail.

Under these white December skies

as shadows form above my eyes

I find myself wandering the dreamless snow

though I know my steps will lead me back

to where I was before.

I'd much rather be lost in snow

and never see another soul

where the lamp lights cross over pastured fields

and no sullen eye wakes from midnight drear.

Beyond the trees far off from here

an endless field of blanketed white

where I find no word but silence still

I find my clarity in the snow

where seldom travelers ever go.

by Joseph Ostapiuk

Something About You

Keeps me waking

from oblong nights to morn.

It's not those worshiped pleasantries

traversed between yours and mine,

or the halls of untouched volumes

that occupy your mind.

It's not the gowns

that you have worn,

or the countenances that have adorned

the mantel of your eyes.

It's something deep within those eyes

that lie upon your cheeks,

a false memory, perhaps

of what was there that lied,

a place not unfamiliar

to angels, when they sigh,

a home I know, but scarcely go,

and where would gladly die.

And if, perchance, I should fill

your heaven-sent eyes with mine,

I scarcely know if I should go

beyond those eyes again.

by John Montana

                                                                                                Byzantium

Why hide behind your philosophy

As if it were a knight's shield?

Hate is always a fallacy,

Especially behind your cold veil.

Love is all you need?

If that be true,

Then how come you smoke weed?

Why do you glue yourself

To computers, to phones, to TV?

Why don't you just go see her?

Look, look with your feeble eyes:

We sail to Byzantium

Only to grow bored.

We sail to Byzantium

Only to grow old.

Byzantium is a place

Where the young grow careless.

Byzantium is a place

Where the free become trapped.

Byzantium is a place where your emotions cease,

And Byzantium is not a place anymore.

by Owen Loscar