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by Eliphia, age 14, from USA

Paperless lines; the knives that chisel purity into a ream of bleeding
wrists,
and re-compose themselves to coax down our throats, the pill of mortality, acidulous by it's nicotine sunshine.
Glassless windows spatter our radiance onto concrete coins of independance.

Searching for Utopia, are reflections of teeth gashing away at so many
lieges,
so many cobwebbed souls.
We remain with but one bruise,
the purple rose of heavenly skies eventual breath.
Her hand becomes the only reality, so you swallow entirely,
convincing the lines; lies; compromise;
that the children have been poisoned by their candy.

Ramned deep into mother's nest, eyes abide true,
and your bruise deteriorates into the smoke contained sky, whispering.