There are so many times everyday, where I lose myself to a daydream. So much detail, so much emotion. Like it could be truly real if only I knew how to reach out and make it so.

And then I'm dragged back, kicking and screaming into a reality where I've already given up most days. Where I'm just a guy with a head full of stories that no one can ever truly know.

I feel like if I really knew how to show them, people might be able to draw strength from them. To learn about themselves through the eyes and tongues of people they will never see. Places that agonizingly only exist in the naive and twisted psyche of just another human artist among infinite others.

I'd like that. I'd really like that.

But the war against myself takes up whatever time I might spend making my reality the kind of dream that I live out in my mind every single day.

A war with rules, no limit on the way that my mind commits untold war crimes on me every single day. The weight of every possible mistake multiplied by a margin so large that it loses meaning.

What kind of god would create a being that exists with the talent to bring impossible tales of wonder and growth to life, but is chained and tortured by that same talent, left alone on the outside of the things they create?

A stranger looking in.

Maybe I'm just another egotistical asshole. Who knows...

Yesterday, I drank tea at 12 noon.

Was it chamomile or black tea?

I have a lot of them, but I can’t remember which one.

Yesterday, my dearest brother called, and we spoke for a long time.

We talked about our childhood home.

It was a bungalow, but we shared the compound with others.

In front of us, there was a large open field.

My brother and I played there with the neighborhood kids.

Our favorite game was football.

There were 5 girls and 4 boys, all ranging from ages 6 to 10.

My brother was the oldest, and we had two teams.

It feels like yesterday; I remember it just like it was yesterday.

But I’m still not sure what tea I drank yesterday.

A vessel for dreams

Falling apart at the seams

Just trying to figure it out

What all of this means

Lost in my head

And drowning in dread

Never feeling alive

Until I'm lying in bed

The strife of life

Like the edge of a knife

An obstacle born

To keep me from the light

But when the curtain of night

Descends on my plight

And I find myself weary

Of the endless fight

A world that is forevermore

Free of the war that we ignore

Is conjured forth from the darkened core

Of this faceless spark that you abhor

One day that life will not exist

Any light they shared will be sorely missed

And the spark they brought, from which you sought

To covet and sell, and care for naught

Will be the hope

They use for rope

When they hang your ass

In hell you dope

Let this be a lesson

To those who would steal

The endless expression

Of the things that we feel

No matter how hard

You devils may try

You can't put a price

On the stars in my eye

She made me do…

He made me do…

They drove me to…

People drove me to…

I didn’t want to…

I wanted to…

I didn’t choose to do…

But they drove me to…

It’s all their fault, they made me do…

You see, I wanted to…

I had decided to…

It’s all their fault, and the others’ too…

None of it’s mine, I always wanted to…

By Yomika

You were viscously torn from the womb, ripped from the soft and subtle flesh of your loving mother.

The claws that resurrected you from the sac in her abdomen was the one of your own creation.

How did you, such a miniscule creature, and infant born of this world, manage to make such a heartless dark being of pure greed?

For it is not that you were a fetus of flesh, but you are a fetus of sin.

You are a traitor among the pure.

An anomaly in heaven.

Leave, now.

For your existence is forbidden.

To all the survivors

Being born as we speak

I can't promise you much

But I know you're not weak

You've fought a whole war

Where no one could see

But you're not really alone

And that shits the key

When you're lost in the darkness

And can't find you way back

Remember these words

You can weather any attack

You're a survivor

It's what we do

An emotional Macgyver

Who can carry through

I know that shits tough

And I'm right there with you

But that's how you know

You can see this shit through

So the next time you're lost

In a neverending nightmare

Just close your eyes

And know that we're right there

Patches was a Lovey

Made long ago

Hand stitched

Hand me down

Kisses and Hugs

Hand me down

scrapes of Pants

Favorite T-shirts

and Pillowslips

a Stuffy, stuffed belly

Full like Thanksgiving

With the Fluff filling

Of our silly Outgrown

Warm winter coats

Sophie sat by the window, the soft hum of the rain filling the room. She ran her fingers over an old quilt draped across her lap, its many patches a blend of colors and patterns. Each piece told a story, a memory stitched into its fabric.

Her grandmother had given it to her when she was a child, each patch sewn with love and care. "This quilt is like your heart," her grandmother once said. "It's made from pieces of everyone you've ever loved."

Sophie smiled at the memory, her heart warming as she traced the faded fabric. There was a patch of blue checkered cloth from her grandfather's old shirt, the one he wore on long walks by the river. She could almost feel the warmth of his hand holding hers as they skipped stones across the water.

Next to it was a bright yellow square from her childhood best friend’s dress, the one they had worn to climb trees and chase butterflies in the summer. They’d laugh so hard that their sides ached, and they promised to never grow apart, even though life had taken them down different paths.

A floral patch, delicate and pink, came from the scarf her mother always wore, a symbol of comfort during her hardest days. Her mother's gentle words echoed in her mind: "You are stronger than you think, Sophie."

With each patch, a new face, a new moment came to life. The quilt, much like Sophie herself, was a patchwork of love—of the people who had shaped her, loved her, and left their mark on her heart.

As the rain drizzled on, Sophie wrapped the quilt around her shoulders, realizing that she, too, was a patchwork of everyone she had ever loved. And even though some of those people were no longer with her, their love continued to surround her, keeping her warm.

In the end, she thought, we carry pieces of everyone we’ve ever loved, stitched into the fabric of who we are.

Art is a life held in the hands, voices, bodies, and minds of many. Inspiration at the mind's peak, looking, seeing, hearing, and feeling art come through and flow into your soul. For one to be able to bend and shape worlds of our own where kings and queens are just teenagers, worlds where dogs can fly, worlds with any and every possibility, where every dream you have ever dreamt comes to life. Worlds of every emotion whether it be fear, rage, exhilaration, sorrow, or even love. No matter what shape it may take, All art has something in common, Whether it be paintings, stories, poems, music, or dance, They all have Soul they all have heart. They are Art. -C.W.B

Once I gazed among the stars, I felt a certain peace in my mind.

A certain relaxation within nirvana,

always a mystery to me,

until I saw those stars.

The sweet scent of the pine remains eternally in my nostrils,

the warmth of the crackling fire upon my cheek,

the warmth of my sweet coffee streaming down my throat.

All these comforts gave me the peace from the stars.

For when I gazed upon them,

I felt eternal.