Middle School Poetry Winning Pieces

Pictures by Camille R.
Old pictures show faces of the kids when they were young.
I always recognize them as the seven-year-olds they were.
I feel like next time I see one of them,
they'll be that seven-year-old again.
But each time
they don't look like the faces in the pictures.
So it makes me sad.
I wonder how they see me.
I wonder if when they see me, I'm not the little girl they remember.
I wonder if they even think about it
like that.
I think that they probably forget.
Do they remember what we used to all have?
I'm always caught wondering why we can't jump back into the past.
I'd love to relive every sweet moment that my life
used to
bring me.
I want to talk to these little kids from the pictures again.
Because I can't talk to the strange people they've become.
Because I don't know these strange people like I know those little kids.
I wish they will someday be seven-year-olds again.
I know my wish is nothing more than that.

The Light in Darkness By Abby McIver and Emma F. Oh. Hello there. Yes, you. What scares you the most? Could it be, perhaps... Blood? Scary monsters under your bed? The darkness of night? Sadness? Death? The devil himself? Do you know why you’re frightened? That’s what I thought. Have you ever thought of your fears as beautiful? Or even kind? Blood; just the sweet, scarlet, juice, leaking out of soft broken skin, healing it for the better. Scary monsters under your bed; just saddened creatures, looking for a friend to protect, from as many nightmares as he can. The darkness of night; just the slumbering sun, rejuvenating itself for the next day break. Sadness; just the release of feelings flowing out of you, like a river, twisting back and forth, weaving in and out of the murky waters that rush out of your eyes. Death; just simply putting you to sleep, resting your eyes, until it is the time to awaken again. The Devil himself; just welcomes you with open arms into his own world, making you feel appreciated, wanted, and accepted. See? It’s truly not that bad. Well, I hope I helped. I must depart now. As you know, life is short. Good bye.

I am a storyteller by Annie J.
I am a storyteller.
I tell my stories leaning into the wind, making up what I can and borrowing
What I can't.
Oh that girl?
She's not crying because something important actually happened, her heart isn't broken.
She's sobbing because she hurt her hand.
That girl?
She’s sitting shivering in the car, arms wrapped around her in a ball because
She’s cold.
Not because she can’t-can’t-can’t get out and IT is coming for her but she doesn’t know what IT is.
She’s not scared at all. No way.
Nothing phases her, she’s got it all together.
IT’s not coming.
And the sad part is
I believe it.
But the worst part isn’t the sad part.
The worst part is me.
The crying girl is me.
And I won’t say I’m broken.
Because on the outside I’m fine. Sure, I’m
Just fine.
My shell is doing great!
But on the inside?
Anything scares me. IT scares me, but I don’t know what IT is.
School scares me. You scare me.
I’m a black-hearted sobbing critter shivering in the confines of a happy, smiley, smart, athletic girl.
She hides the creature in me and I love her.
She’s just so happy!
I wish I were her.
But the creature is me.
And the creature is gnawing and dying and I won’t say it.
I want to be that girl, but I can’t.
Because things from a black lake of horror and fear aren’t happy. They just aren’t.
So I’ll hide in this hell, and I’ll do my work, and I’ll plan and I’ll go to dance and I’ll talk to my friends and-No I won’t.
I’ll sit in a shell quivering, and the shell will do those things. And she’ll laugh. And I’ll tell her what to do.
I’m still in charge. Am I? I’ll tell her to put on clothes and
do her hair and shower and wash her face and put on makeup and talk and coat herself in a
mask of lies and denial and despair and she’ll cake herself up because I’ll tell her to and I’ll hate it and I don’t know and she might love it.
I won’t admit anything.
I’m fine.
Not broken.
I am storyteller, and my stories are the lies of my life.

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