I'll Be Your Muse, You Know You're Already Mine by Nicole Maulella

I lend you my voice to accompany your every word
& give you my heartbeat to keep perfect tempo
for my aching desire to break free.
You bring me closer with every strum of your guitar.
I'll sway along to the rhythm
and be your personal metronome.
Boy, I'm begging you to be the beating in my chest
every time you bang that drum.
If you just keep playing,
I'll give you all of me and more-
just for one chance to feel forever free.
I'm not alone in this ritual.
Crying out every word I know
with countless strangers beside me,
joining in the chant.
I'll barely have a voice in the morning
& I'm sure I'll hardly be able to hear
life's droning worries
because my ears will ring in memory
of your beautifully blaring bass
and that angel voice.
Being your audience is my favorite purpose-
I wish it was my only one.
It's the only thing that makes me feel alive,
the only place I know I belong.
You remind me of why I exist.
I don't think I could do any of this without
you.<3

Kay's Tattoo by Chris Gampat

En el cine by Julius Motal

Back and forth through the grain
A muddled view of the flat
Images on a grand scale

Epic sequences in motion
Devoid of all illumination
In a modern day Coliseum

The quiet commotion
Of heightened emotion
In a world of imagination

The Troubadour by Julius Motal

Blinded by the screaming lights,
the Troubadour is lost
in the flashing sounds
of interconnected steel.

At the weathered entrance
to the metal snake’s tunnel,
the Troubadour strums for everyone,
but is acknowledged by no one.

Over the roar of the metal snake,
He looks to me and screams,
“MY BROTHER! Have a good evening.”
The words echo everywhere.

Countless beings full of vitality
walk on past the Troubadour.
The sounds pound on their drums,
and seize control of their minds.

The Troubadour’s pouch lays empty,
the sign of another day gone by.
The Troubadour remembers nothing,
only to begin again tomorrow.

photo by Chris Gampat

Today before yesterday by Julius Motal

Let me run through the halls
of your memory-
your secluded maze
of countless thoughts.

Where is the key to your door?

When do I find it,
if today
is before yesterday?

Our conversations carry on
without sound
while I keep searching.

Speak to me,
but don't say anything.

I'll find your key
within me.

But when are we
if today
is before yesterday?

The Wandering Wizard by Julius Motal

The wandering wizard
had a very naughty dream
about the mistress
and the maiden
and the young bride to be.
He had dreams of such persuasion
when he slept on occasion,
and the only commonality
was that the girls were all Asian.

To not be by Alyssa Conigliaro

To be nothing to erase yourself into the void of unbirth celebrates a kind of euphoric liberation from the four walls from the physical entity. Welcome to the demention deemed delusion to the blind. Beyond the real suddenly silence speaks and you the space vagabond reflect back at the world as a phantom, a conversion of colliding colors that whispers in the ears of children that posses imagination blinking in and out of their so called “reality”. Looking down, you can’t help but smirk as they question “is this it”. My god, you want them to see as you see. To watch the dreams burst into florescent flower petals and purple paper suns. This is real or as real as it gets. Feel it feel it feel the spiral of the dawn and death of time ensare you from your Self and ride the electric breath of the open mind into the mirror- then you can see, then you are nothing.