The following are poems written by student participants in the Creative Writing Workshop.

Walking into a Nightmare

Hate. Disgust. Grief and shame.These are the feelings—of me.As I enter into a sudden silence. Darkness.Of a memory that belongs to more than six million.

I live the life of others for only a few hours.But it feels as if I am the life.Walking for my freedom through a couple of miles.

The opening flames over innocent soulsbring tears to my eyes, that seem to flowonto burned, lifeless bodiesburied beneath my feet.

As I walk through other peoples’ livesI seem to hear them scream for help.Survival. Their lives.

But I have a fear of waking up into this dream.Of being treated this way, told to do this or that.Knowing when I’m going to die.Seeing fear before my own eyes.

This is all a dream, flickering within my mind.But I choose to never again treat people as if they were a sin.

Kiana Murphy

Burning Souls

Never shall this nightmare live again.Childhood memories being burned on train trackslong gone.The flames burn with horroras Nazis laugh with sinister voices.Never again shall a bystander standwith grief and shame.We will not walkdown the path of fear.Weary bodies being worked to death,golden stars being stitched onhard crusted jackets,the dark buds cry for the hungry bodies,numbers of people being killed everyday,the shadows of souls floating in the sky.Never shall this happen again.

Reginald Conway

A Dream

I look through my glasses,seeing a wannabe world.Instead of bursting into an eternal mistit will be torn into a glorious aftermath.

I abandon the reality of the wrong things in the world—the guns, the fighting, the racism upon the atmosphereI see getting along, and peace around the worldthrough the lenses of the made-up world.

The heroic soldiers are under a roof of love and carerather than bombs coming from elsewhere.Lives will last for an eternity, not for two secondsupon the earth’s layer.

But when I take the glasses offit will turn back to reality,under many tragediesThinking that violence is the world’s sanctuary.

Kiana Murphy

Portia Spreewell

A lady that is made of onionson the insidebecause of her sour attitude.

Her clothes are out of style,checkered skirt, plaid shirtand green and purple socks to top it off.

Her head is smaller than an acornbut she choosesto wear oversized hats.

She wears sandals with socksand likes to dancebut can’t stop.

She dances until dawn (or until her feet hurt)goes to sleep in bunny pajamasand knows they are too small for her.

All the food is rottenbecause she could care less if her food was eitherfresh or twelve years old.

Her mind is blankbecause all she thinks of is dancingand what she will wear the next day.

Portia Spreewell doesn’t like her nameso she changes it into a dancing name,“Disco.”

But in her filthy heartshe still loves what she doesdancing until dawn.

Kiana Murphy

My World

I look towards the crowdTalking into the microphone with a heroic voiceMy words are going through torn heads like a blow of windNone of my words are left abandonedInstead they rest in the soothing memories ofpeople’s headsAnd soon we start to see a change inthe world, for violence becomes peaceThe prison rate goes downhillThis is my world of striving dreamsThere are no more enormous tragediesThis is my oasisInstead of physical confrontationThere is bursting loveThe strut of prejudice is endingWhile the march of joyfulness is startingThere are no more crying eyesBut instead preaching soulsThis is my placeMy dreamMy world

Reginald Conway

A Poet

pencils draftinga paper being tauntedwhile the lead is coming down like a waterfallthe pencil writes like the tempo in a songthe paper is still being stabbed by the pencil’severy movementthe pencil is the basketballand the paper is the hoopthe pencil moves with no hesitationthe pencil makes rhymes as if it wascelebrating wordsThe lines on the paper blind mewith its rejoicing wordsas I read them they pop out likekids on a playgroundthe words come togetherin a poem like a blueprint designand behind this designis a poet

Reginald Conway

When I am like the world

Ironically, it is when I’m most self-conscious;it is when I care what everyone else says.When fatigue is festeringand I won’t die until I’m gently burnedby the gracious sun in the morning.

Lying in the bed, fresh out of the showermy belly is filled with food, my homework is done.I’m in my PJs, and these late-night re-runs effectively sedate me.I’m ready.

Lying in the bed, I fight this impending darkness.I have the world to blame for this fear.It’s their fault.Every night it comes.And when it comes, I am like them.I am then concerned with their humanist notions of life.I am then fearful of going to sleep,to die, and not to wake in the morning.

I’m no longer this outcast, rebel-type of guybut I’m one of them.I’m scared, just like them.

James Saunders

His Future

He comes from bologna and government cheese sandwiches,and juice, just juice.

He comes from corruption.He has been blinded by the myths that promise him dope boy statusif he is true about gettin’ this money.Senile senior hood-rich celebritiestied the blindfold real tight, didn’t they?Ironically, he’s otherwise insouciant, until he’s filling his mindwith false dreams of hood stardom.

Corrupted, thoughtful, consumed, anxious.He thinks of his future; it’s like he’s reading his own palm. And the doom that he experienced leaves him in awe.Now he has this moment to choose: Life, or death.

James Saunders

May

Fresh trees blossomingBlindness beyond the horizonPlants blooming, the sun slightly askewThe fading fall of the sun holds a dreamThe fragrance of the strange, exotic mistcomes at random

A salty, bitter taste from natureFlying left to rightThe memories of dawn,holding a blankness only a slight laughter might seeThe forgotten glow of a ghostholds a secret of many disbeliefsThe flight of feathers blowing backwardsbeyond a hurricane of eyelidswanting them to fly away

The mystery, howlalmost a blur, behind the secretrhythm of a guitarwhich is a comfort, by a candleof an exotic empire.

Kiana Murphy

In My Opinion

In my opinionLove is unconditionalNo matter whatThrough thick and thin.

In my opinionOverturned skies,With blue eyes—What is that?

In my opinionGuilt is optionalCourage is a mustDeath is a reason.

In my opinionLife is intertwined withHateDistrustDisgust.

In my opinionChange the forecast.They’re telling you liesHidden in disguiseGoing with the flow ofMade up storiesWithin a path of cruelty.

In my opinionMy intention should perishMy thoughts should be burnedMy feelings stirred.

In my opinionBlack thoughts are all thoughtsLingering in the airWhere no one really cares.

In my opinionFriendship is keyBeyond a shallow bendWaiting, repentant.

In my opinionNo one cares about opinionsThey walk around like there is no lifeNo presenceNo destiny.

In my opinionThis world is overThere is no means for survivalOr even deathSo which one is there to choose?

In my opinion?Where are they?Those thoughts of others?The inner-self confidence?The life-after-death?In my opinionOh, just forget it!

Kiana Murphy

In my opinion

In my opinion, fireflies should have to eat acorns,and gravity should pull you up on a cloud,and distance should mean together, forever.

In my opinion, silky should mean rough and uncomfortable.Immortal should mean to die quicker, and to die means to live, forever.

In my opinion, to have your heart crumblemeans to build it up.Hazy should meanclear as day.

In my opinion, guilt is forced on youby sadness, and love is withheld by anger.

In my opinion, the Grand Canyonis just a small bowl of dirt.In my opinion, thorns are the ones that bleed when they prick you.

In my opinion, shallow means deep,and hard-headed,and it means to kill.But to this day,my opinion doesn’t matter.

Nichell Kee

Slave Haikus

IFettered togetherPackaged with malevolencelike fresh frivolous sardines

IIBarefoot and bound tightThis great peregrinationwas far from the end

IIIAlienatedIn this inhuman hospicemy fear can’t be tamed

IVI sat and ponderedFathoming what my crime wasand couldn’t find one

James Saunders

Misty World

The evolution of a misty worldImpossible morning of footstepsSo breathless That a flute’s voice may secretly Depart you from the fog

The eccentric sizzle of an ancient drumHypnotizes a trumpetTo secretly stay on beat

The loss, beyond a graveSpeaks for itself, within a speechThat no legend may hear

The windswept voyageWithin a wicked prismThe glimmer of a brightly lit caution sign

Telling youTo never walk out of the evolutionOf a misty world

Kiana Murphy

Haikus: Why?

You should speak your mindDon’t hold everything insideLet your insides out

Within a rude worldWant to come out from withinLeaving the bad outside

Eternity comeWe have been waiting too longFor the worst to come

Today we wonderWhy are blacks killing each other?Forever death waits

The last breath of lifeThe wicked voyage beyondDrags the lifeless loss

Kiana Murphy

April

April—Its smooth fragrance, Its random howl

I can hear the fascination in her toneBy the silent guitar And the fading laughterIn the distance.

I can see the gathering Of the crimson wingsBeating their exotic colored rhythmThe glow in their moonlit eyes The risen dawn or The ghostly blanknessThat comforts my shadow.

I can feel the unwritten thermalBeneath my ragged unstable skeletonFalling under the rainPouring down, Breaking my every bone.

James Saunders

Untitled

Who am I . . . I am blackI’m strong, I am intricatebut also decent. I am the drumsto my heartbeat.

I am a glimmer in the dark.I am an ancient legend who’s slept for too longand is now awakening. I am my own souvenir.I am my own breath that I breathe in the morning.

I am a long, never ending speech.I am my own little secret that can getloud at any timeI am my own footsteps to greatness.

I am a dream that everyone thinks is impossible.

Nichell Kee

Fly!

my soul is flyingsoaring in the sky real highjust want to be free

free to soar the skynot wanting to breathe in dustto just be ahead

be smarter and bravefor the things to come aheadfly to reach the sky

fly to get your dreamfly to hear the beating drumsfly to the footsteps

fly to see morningfly to the breathing uncletake a souvenir

Nichell Kee

Secret evolution

My souvenir came from the heartbeat of the drumsThe footsteps of a brightly lit voyageThe blasting trumpets over the soft melody of the flutesGoing along with the windswept morning sun.I also got it from the glimmer of the soul passing its graveThe ancient departed person who is now breathlessThe filthy fingers running over the wet coralThe secret evolution of the world soon becomes a legend.

Nichell Kee

I am, I am . . .

I am the writer behind the poemI am the first breathof the newborn babyI am an inspirational leaderI am the grave of thedeceasedYou may think I am losingbut I am gainingI am the secret of the legendI am the souvenir inthe gift shopI am the trumpet thatmakes the musicI am the rhythmthat keeps the band marchingI’m the caution behind the signI’m the microphonewhich projects the voiceof a speaker while saying a speechI am an impossible challengeI am the calm blow ofthe windI am

Reginald Conway