a frame
fearless and fragile
with skin that skates
until it settles
into a creamy repose
houses little lungs
which
suck
the dust of dusk
under the mustard moon
“Mustard Moon” by Meaghan Merrifield
Category: Poetry
You Make Me
those gobs
of greenish muck
that slide off your tongue
in petty,
privileged,
lumps,
make me yearn for
the sight of humiliation and
soupy mutilation
“Stop Talking” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: I got Your Back by Keith P Rein
So Tired
I’m so tired
of spitting up pinkish chuckles
and periwinkle grins
for the sake of polite
conversation and
I am so tired of
those blunted, whispering pains
just above my belly button-
where acid has swallowed my
parties
and my
friends
and my
life -as it was-
And I’m so tired
of leaving this room and walking out
into a world where there is too much sunlight
because Iamsotired and
I just want
to
rest.
“So Tired” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Tired by Nina Schroeder
Little Girls Lost
She is
glitter-coral nail polish
chipping
like the white on an aging picket fence–
no more lavender ribbons
or dainty satin shoes
to protect
her virgin skin
from the dirt
of the earth.
Just the
picked
and peeled remains
of
what used to be
brand
new
“Little Girl Lost” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
For more information on artwork, click images.
A Wrinkle in Time
in the corner,
where the top lip turns into the bottom lip,
is a fine crease
that reveals the laughter
and devastation
of life already lived–
it is not red and tough
like the scar of a healed incision,
but gentle and strange–
and sometimes concealed
by
flattering lighting.
And although it is elusive
it is there to stay–
a faint reminder of the years
resting in lost
memories.
“A Wrinkle in Time” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork: Valbona by Dessie Terzeiva
Time Tells
black becomes grey in a dim cigarette haze
convictions cool
crystalize with age
eyes fond of,
familiar with time
settle in their native
knowing
gaze
“Time Tells” by Meaghan Merrifield
Artwork by Leigh Viner
The Faceless
Behind those nostrils
-those eyebrows-
-those tongues-
are
swirling clouds of nothing
weighing down the wings that
free
troubled minds
“You’ll never Fly” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork by Johnny Greenwood
Before We Grew
Before we became
pink
and mean,
We ran through freshly sprinkled yards
on summer nights–
and teased the misty breeze –
as
our sunburned noses caught the familiar scent
of wet concrete.
But in the holes ahead
were burnished, brassy pupils
warning of degradation
and pain.
Warning of the end
and the beginning
of us.
“Before 13” by Angie Hoover-Hillhouse
Artwork by Daria Hlazatova
The Show Tell Project 
