I'm just going to start typing. That's how this works, right? Back in high school, all I could imagine myself being at the age of 25 was being this super cool journalist that wrote amazing stories about delicious food and daring adventures in the southern region of France tasting delicious Bordeaux (that region is in the south of France, right?) I wanted to combine my love for cooking and the cool leather-bag donning aesthetic of being a writer. Oh I how I never imagined that wouldn't happen. I thought the creative writing college class I took my senior year of high school convinced me that writing for a job or a task that I was forced to do would be so daunting that I'd never meet deadlines and that my twelfth grade English teacher would always be disappointed in me. It's ironic how crippling anxiety can be. Eight years later and with a mountain of crippling student debt, here I am realizing that writing may actually be my salvation. You see, I've been experien

  I hadn’t realized the conflicts within and how much life would be a strain, holding onto the grudges that weighed me down, and my feelings of inner pain. Flashes of memories of yesteryear, and the struggles that put me to the test. I never fully healed from the traumas and open wounds that have hindered me from being my best. The letdowns, heartaches, and disappointments; so much misery like never before. The bullies, the molesters, deadbeat fathers, those ancestors who have defiled you, and much more. We’ve blamed, we cried, we’ve pointed fingers, trying to avoid the events of a marred past. We’ve cursed their names and wished for their demise, their punishment set to last. We wish they knew the error of their ways and fessed up to their offenses and crimes. No matter how hard we wish for absolution, our healing had needed more time.   There’s a task we must perform as survivors. An assignment we’ve been called upon to do. To forgive and forget without their apology. It’s time t

 

 

 

I remember the smell of your soul upon me. When dreams always lasted longer than reality. I recall the touch of your stare through mine, it drifted ever so gently. The pain of your heart turning, it dispatches me. I remember the taste of your honeysuckle hair and your challenging heart. I still see you standing there in all your despair. It crushes me to hear your songs of flying free. You are still my whisper dove that dives into moonless nights.

The tags on the building Graffiti and filth Done in darkness under hoodies Are social commentary When created In different skin The urban fashions Eclectic and bold Colorful designs and shapes Are runway darlings When stitched By different skin The heavy beats Rhythms and rhymes Syncopated and staccato Are pointed poetry When spoken From different skin The party scene Opulent and illegal Stoned, high, and wasted Are A-List affairs When thrown By different skin The odd behaviors Dramas and scandals Collections bizarre and random Are eccentricities When affected With different skin The horrible crimes Murders and thefts Trafficking rings and drug smugglers Are reasonably doubted When perpetrated By different skin The judgments of ethics Struggles and worth Behind walls and on social media Are privileged Entitlements Of different skin

 

 

 

  Our ghosts are watching The Past lingers in conversation  The cemetery is cold  Our graves have no blankets  But it's our yearly date  Which warms us You ask, "How's your coffee?" I say, "Cold," of course. On Halloween We walk hand in hand  From grave to grave  Making up stories of their dead lives  Taking our minds off our dead lives  "It's a shame I only see you yearly," I shrug at the moon Look at you and move in for a kiss You move away, "What year is it?" I say, "I'm not sure."  We see our named tombstones "We've been dead many years," you pause I move in for another kiss  This time you let me "If only I could have kissed you alive," I feel my death at these words. We kiss throughout the moonlight Wishing we had lived for our love  When morning came  You went in your grave  I went in mine  Waiting for another year to pass  Haunted by each other 

  T onight, I wanted to write about a little girl. Not necessarily a little girl in particular, but about the very soul of one. Do you remember the days growing up where the things you focused on in the world were so incredibly simple? The vulnerability just jumped from your skin.You could take something so small like a little lizard running up the side of your childhood home and create a story for that tiny, precious life. You'd be able to create an entire back story. The lizard wanted to be an explorer. Climbing up limestone on a daring adventure to find sunlight or maybe it's lost brother. Something just so very pure was something you couldn't look past. Now imagine a small girl, looking at life and finding the untouched beauty in her perspective on such a fast-paced, moving world. Oh the things we could learn from someone so innocent. You want to do everything you can to protect her from what is out there for her to learn. You would do anything to maintain her simplicit

 

 

  It's that time to celebrate the year's best writers with Louisiana Words: Allstars 2022, a virtual show! It is also our 10th year anniversary! For Allstars 2022, we will re-introduce our legacy writers who have been participating in Louisiana Words since 2013. Then, we will combine theme with a new cast of upcoming allstars for 2022. Five legacy writers and five allstar writers will come together for an epic event! The cast reveal is December 4th and the show will be released on Christmas Day 2022. Stay tuned!

 

       The day before, Anna dyed my hair.      Her fingers were stained with the red box dye she violently combed through my hair. She complained about how quickly my long hair tangled and worried about having enough time to ready her Halloween costume. The entire time she was quietly humming and dancing to the pop songs coming from my phone.      Some of the crimson dye dripped from her hand down onto the dorm rug, leaving a stain. We tried to hide it with a chair.            When you dye your hair, you have to wash the excess dye out. When you dye your hair      red, you shower in a crime scene. The shower walls are splattered with red and pink, and      blood colored water drips down your body to the drain. When you dye your hair red, you      wash your hands over and over, like a cosmetic Lady Macbeth. The red keeps coming out      with multiple washes, for the next two weeks you feel like a horror movie.           At 4:40 a.m. the next morning, Anna came into my room, pale, and cl

  Crab traps for sale, prepare to meet thy god.   Strange how the signs yell at you when you have the shit luck of driving down Shattuck road. I called the number, there was a moment of silence before the answering machine message played, his voice dripping with sweat. The air gets sticky but I’m languidly unmoving to turn the air back on. My mind wanders to the golfers of Green Hill Acres who never took shelter while our swim practices were on hold from the storms. The audacitimendacity of carrying a portable lightning pole. Do they think they are as immune from nature as from taxes?   Staring out the window as it gathers droplets of condensation out of my breath, I see a deer carcass melting in the ditch, skin dripping over bones reminds me of old candles with a thick layer of dust clinging to the wax. Up ahead there is a sunbleached teal fiberglass pool lining propped up as a billboard advertising in blood red letters: pleasurepoolsinc.com 1-800-660-000. I remember Pricy Wombl