Author: Charleston Poets

A young girl sits on the floor of her living room, watching the news-

Flash another person, found dead in their bathtub, gun still in hand-

“Over the remote little girl” said her older brother “you’re too young to understand this-

Is the end of us Mathew, i don’t deserve the ridicule you-

“Are nothing, you don’t deserve to walk this world. Go kill yourself” said mommies boyfriend. hes mean-

ing to tell you that you’re gonna stay over at grandmas this weekend hun-

dred and one, one hundred and two, one hundred and three…. Ready or not here i come! i’m so glad grandma had stuff to do today-

Another person found dead in their bathtub by her daughter, gun still in hand-

In hand, 100 persons found in the woods, all seemed to have drunk poison last night-

After night i can sleep, my girlfriend killed herself in that cult, they took her in when her mom died. i should of been there for her-

ts, yeah ill tell him its my head that hurts and not my heart. dad will give me some meds and ill over-

And over and over again, it dosent stop. Kids arent taught in school how to deal with things. People arent protected from themselves. Mental abuse is just as bad as physical. This isnt anything new. Tim Carter, he was a football player, he hanged himself. Iris Chang, she was a writer, gunshot wound to the head. Chris Kanyon, a wrestler, overdose on anti-depressants. John McLemor, a watchmaker, ingested potassium cyanide. Leelah Alcorn, a transgender teen, jumped in fromt of a car. No, it dosent stop, it gets worse. It becomes culture.

What if it all stopped
What if it all just went away
What if it was all just over
What if I never saw another day

Would people miss me
Or would I just be a memory
Would people come visit
Or would it take too much energy?

What if I never saw you again
What if you never saw me
What if I went away forever
What if it was a guarantee

Bio: My name is Summer Miller, I’m 19 going on 20 and someday I WILL be a writer.

Strands of her golden hair blowing in the wind,
She’s yearning for peace, convinced she’ll never feel that way again,
The sun shines on her, reminding her how bright she is, how warm she is, how indomitable she is,
no matter the storm.
She doesn’t feel warm,
She feels weak,
out of control.
The wind seems harsher now.
Memories storming around in her head,
The voices booming, hands striking, tears pouring,
The sun is no longer a source of warmth, but a reminder that each day the sun sets, and the darkness reveals itself
In the form of longing
For love
For security
For a different hand of cards
For brothers and sisters lost
For just one more chance.
The wind comes to a stop.
She opens her eyes
She survived the storms.

She felt warm again.

Oh I wish I was in the land of cotton
look away
look away
look away Dixieland

because that’s what we do
we look away

Even as we hold up signs

black lives matter
immigrants get the job done
we stand with you standing rock

but we look away
because that’s what we do

we can’t see
we won’t see
we don’t see

The black
the brown
the queer
the trans
The immigrants
The people “not not like us”

the melting pot
A transparent lot
we stir the pot

We are the problem
we are the solution.
I…am the solution.

But we look away

look away
look away

Some people hate when they like someone, 
because chances are; 
they’re already taken.

What makes it worst; those people’s feelings are not 
here today and gone tomorrow; they linger.

They can’t say how they truly feel;
it wouldn’t make sense
because they only know of their crush.
Unlike the chosen one,
who has been through the storm, hurricane, 
sunshine and rain. 

How much can you really see,
when you’re not the chosen one?

You may see a few drops, 
but the chosen one will see every weather there is.
It’s easy to say, “There are others,” 
but could you make that stalemate to the heart’s ears 
and not the ones on the head.

I guess this crush will have to stay in thee imagination, 
but don’t be like “The Temptations”
and let it run away with you,
because the chosen one
will always have the person you’re crushing on. 

So, push the feelings aside
the best way you know how;
hopefully they will disappear,
never to surface again.

Some people hate when they like someone 
because the truth is; their crush will never see
beyond their chosen one.

Kortisha Y. Baker (Ms. Yo’Londa)
born on May 11, 1989 and raised in Augusta, Georgia. The daughter of Diann Davis Baker and the late Edward G. Baker. She is the youngest of two daughters. She has been a member of Beulah Grove Baptist Church for the past nineteen years and sung in the children’s choir for five in a half years. She attended Meadowbrook Elementary, Glenn Hills Middle & high school. She is a honor graduate of “Thee Fort Valley State University” with a degree in Bachelors of Art in Mass Communication with a concentration in Journalism as well as Broadcasting. She always wears a heart ring on her right hand because it stands for bravery; someone that has moved beyond the fear; courage and love.

First light
First sent
First call
I linger
Your voice
To touch
My ears
My heart
My soul
While dreams
Have passed
Have gone
You yet

For I
In love
With you
Still am
And will be
Even as
The shadows grow
As the hours
Pass us by.
The warmth
Of days
The cool of night
The driving rain
Shall find us

For we are one.

-cl ward


The words
Are few
The full
True void
You left

So I say to Wind and Gulf
“Hold her not beyond her time,
send her swiftly here- to home.”

To Me.

Inviting warm and peaceful – soft on the feet – Toes sink in and you drift In time – You go to those warm sunny days — locust , buzzing , grass blowing, blue skies, birds chirping- each step into that sandy driveway- takes you closer to your journey- that day.
Each day on a sandy southern driveway – is a journey – drifting in time backwards like a row boat floating on a pond carefree without out worry.
The sandy driveway guides you to your destination – maybe the house full of love – maybe the pond full of dreams- maybe the willow cool and sincere- the sandy southern driveway gets you there.

Poem by Kenneth c Carlson Part of the Southern memories series

With equal measure devotion and dread, you bravely assess what lies ahead:
The burdens beyond bedcare,
The fickleness of family,
The detritus, the very dailyness, of dying,
The ambivalence of holding on while letting go,
The ambiguity of “transitioning.” Transitioning toward what?
The loneliness of leaving,
The grief that surrounds me, and its unfettered expression,

Above all, the lifechapter with no sequel
Which illuminates our mortality.

With equal measure grace and grit, you warmly commence the caring:
The palliative power of total presence,
The ineffable honesty, be it blunt, brutal or beautiful,
The irony of humor, the humor of irony,
The surprising re-tiltings of relationships,
The stability you bring to this time of transition,
The dignity you bring to my growing dependence
The catharsis of acceptance.

Above all, the one vocation for which we can never fully prepare,
Which illuminates this flickering life.

For your kindnesses we see, and those others we may not,
We the dying thank you.

​​For stamina in this struggle, in which no atom of your being goes untested,
We the dying say,
Care first for the caregiver. This life, such as it is, depends on you as never before — as never again.

Take comfort in the inevitable. The one terminal condition we can celebrate is life itself.

​W​e the dying can ask no more.

The flitting, fleeing thing
Darted quickly through the gloom.
Scarcely did my blinking eye,
Did register the sprinting spirit,
Streaking through my living room.

But soft! The cat did descry it,
Just as quick as the nervous nit did
Zip and nip into my field of view,
And just as fast, found at last
A glowing pane where it stopped and hid.

And just as sure and just as calm,
The feline stretched and did wait,
As the sighing bug took one last breath,
Realizing not this was his very last,
Or the eyes that watched him beat and bate.


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