Technology is Not Forever

By: Justice Marshall

Technology is not forever.
Our phones are attached to our hands,
Slaves to our computer screens,
Our hands no longer tools for work,
They are now controllers.

Technology is not forever.
Neither is your brain,
Now comparable to McDonalds’ fries
All because you had one last level

Technology is not forever,
But the warmth of touch is,
Now you grip your daughter’s hand loosely,
And wait for the brush of silence without her presence.

Technology is not forever,
It was made to improve us.
But who are you without it? 


Justice Marshall is a 16 year old currently attending Westlake High School in Atlanta, Georgia.


By: Emma Folkart

I am Black.
That’s what they call me anyway.
I prefer to call my skin more of a mocha color, but no one really cares what shade,
If I am midnight, or just the darkness after sunset.
Night is night.
Black is black.
I don’t get to choose my skin color anymore than what they call me.
I can accept that.
Others are narrow-minded.
But I know.
I am simply,

I am Overweight.
I know I am.
What can I say?
I like my cheese burgers,
And my fries,
Onion rings, crispy crunchy goodness,
Pickles, sour and dripping with juices,
And mint chocolate chip shakes…
You don’t need to point it out.
Or laugh.
Or whisper,
Behind my back.
I have come to accept it.
I am simply,

I am Poor.
Money is stretched tighter than my little sister’s stockings on a rhino.
I work,
And don’t have much time to study.
My grades are in the toilet,
Which reminds me- that’s clogged.
That’s okay though.
I am simply,

I am an Actress.
No, I have not been on Broadway,
Or ever had a solo.
And yes, I work in a barn.
I have had a gig though!
People listened to me.
I know.
Starving artist.
Living on ramen noodles,
But I just need to get out there.
I can make it.
I am an individual, and people like that.
I am simply,

I am Alone,
My friends were catty,
They all had orange striped tails.
I, a tigress,
Am too noble to be abused by mere
I prowl the savanna plains,
I am a pack of one.
I sit alone.
Eat alone.
Cry alone.
I am strong alone.
I am independent alone.
I am myself alone.
I am simply,

I am No One.
I am a chameleon.
My thoughts and feelings a mirror of those around me.
I laugh.
I scream
Because I am no one.
And so instead I have become everyone,
Mashed into a single body
About to explode.

I am,


Emma Folkart is a 17 year old junior attending Ridge High School in Basking Ridge, NJ.


By: Emma Folkart

Mrs. Etalucitra painted her nails once a week,
She set aside five minutes every Wednesday to discuss the color.
She was a football fanatic
Notorious for being a little too tough

Um so Mrs. Etalucitra would like imitate young girls for like
using constant fillers,
“Vally girls don’t get anywhere.”
She scorned:
I don’t know can you go to the bathroom?
Because beginning with because was a sin
And like,
starting with like
was like- stupid?
We all ended every sentence with a question mark
Coincidently girly high-pitched voices already had the perfect inflection for
We all filled our answers with uncertainty,
Hesitation constricting around our throats, squeezing, choking, gagging on words as
they stumbled clumsily from our tongues…
​We stuttered, sunk into our seat
We all surrendered to some sort of defeat
In middle school,

I stopped starting with um.

As a junior in high school, I take college level English
And was referred to as a valley girl
I was offended.
Did he call me a valley girl because I have curly hair?
Do I wear too much make up?
Or, because I like slipped back into uncertainty?
Um and likes scattered across my sentences like dead leaves strewn across a lawn,
A faded semblance of beauty,
Admired for being dead.
My language held those remnants of doubt like that pair of faded jeans I thought I
had grown out
Insecurity hugs my thighs, the blue from my jeans rub onto my hands…
Everything I touch is blue.
Timidity following me, a faithful companion
Was it because I surrounded myself with people I perceived my superior?
Because I never knew the answer
Constantly hiding
Constantly stalling
Uming my way into more time…
Differing any decision,
any decisive statements.

Was I upset because Mrs. Etalucitra would have ridiculed my language?
Like maybe I was upset because umm
I was unsure again?
Like maybe it like was because
Words should be certain?
The one thing when perfected, protects, protests, and produces polished possibility
Like - maybe I’m abusing words?
Careless, confused, constantly mumbling

She was a middle school English teacher
Better versed in sports than any boy I’d met
She set aside class time to discuss her nails.
Mrs. Etalucitra scared students and faculty alike.
Was it because she was known for being a little too tough…
Or because she stood for something scary?
Out of the ordinary?
Or like?
Was a woman?
Who like was articulate?
And like- tried to teach young girls


Emma Folkart is a 17 year old junior at Ridge High School in Basking Ridge, NJ.

My Funny Valentine

By: Alison Hirsch

When dreamers might imagine true love’s kiss,
They fancy stately lords upon a steed
Who’d for their maidens cross a deep abyss,
Whose tight embrace surpass the sweetest mead.

So perfect this may be for shallow dames
For whom but title, coin, and rank do care.
All bound to powder rooms and parlor games,
These ladies languish--slothful, laissez-faire.

But I look not upon such sorry swains;
My prince of mirth and wit hath whimsy true,
With spirit free, much like a lion’s mane
His ruddy face makes me rejoice anew.
  So long as laughter echoes through the halls,
  My heart he will continue to enthrall.


Alison Hirsch is a sixteen year old from New York, New York and currently attending Trinity School.

Three Poems

By: Noor Dhingra

Seawater and Salt

That instant when you’re walking on the
Sand, the sand that contains seashells and
Stones and sandcastles built by children with
Hearts and minds soaked in seawater and salt is

The same instant that you look at the horizon
In glances of fleeting amusement and worry, the
Horizon that keeps moving onward and onward into
Spirals of creation and ruthless destruction is

That instant when you feel the tide rising in the
Beats of your braggart heart, when you realize that
There are seven oceans worth of turbulence in your
Mind, and that the horizon keeps trying to
Meet you halfway, at sunset.



Her name was the only word that
Rang in your head, repeating itself until even
Eternity gave up and stopped progressing, and
Her name sounded like all the times the
Rain fell on your fingertips and drenched your
Oversized trench-coat, and it was like all the
Orchestras in the world had synchronised their
Trombones and trumpets, only to produce a few
Syllables of symphony, and it sounded like all the
Times the snow fell softly on your yard, slowly,
Until the green was covered completely in ivory.


Work in Progress

I am a work in progress
My sentences don’t form in my head, just yet.
Instead, they form in mid-air while I’m trying too
Hard to find the right words to say, while time’s
Running up and I can’t quite articulate the way life makes me feel.

I am a work in progress
I haven’t learned the art of forgetfulness, just yet.
My arms and legs are covered in letters and digits,
Full of phone-numbers and names and obscure places that
I’m dead worried that I will forget.

I am a work in progress
I am not entirely complete, just yet.
I am trying to find myself in places and people and
Song lyrics, and I am slowly beginning to realise that
Some works of art never really reach a defined end.


Noor Dhingra is 17 years old and attends Vasant Valley School in New Delhi, India. She sent these poems after finding The Telling Room online.


By: Natalie Hilden

Can’t hide
Among fake smiles, and shattered promises.
Make me an animal. Make me natural, if
Only to be told I am admirable.
Unfortunately, my hands still shake when
Fumbling to be free myself from expectations.
Let me fly
Away from the looks–
Gaze into your eyes. You say
Everything is okay tomorrow. The sun will rise anyway.

Untitled; Marry Me; An Infant's Mortality

By: Madison Demetros



There are faces in all different countries, each with their own distinct shade or tint.

We all were made to be untitled, to write our own paths and join together as a united nation.

Our faces, our skin, they're all just little pieces of us scattered across a human shape, but our skin does not define our character,

only our personality and the testings of our heart and pureness are what define us.

We all as human beings living on a strange planet are thriving and adapting to what is brought to our attention.

Our faces are like blank canvases, we all get painted different colors that mark in history who we are and who we are meant to be, but like paintings, their colors fade and wash away with every little incidental conflict, either with air or just time we all get old and gray and sooner or later we fade away into a magical untitled place.

Some call it heaven, some call it the afterlife, but we all have different names for it, different titles, and titles were and always are our enemies.

People label themselves into categories. Who's the smartest, who's the bravest? These are just titles, they're not authentic paths to who we are as humans walking on this diverse planet, inhabited by our demons, our ego, and our judgment.

Someone paints us: our eyes.  They dip their soft brush into a pallet of paint, no matter what color our skin, our hair, any part of our shell.

And after we are dried, we step back and look at ourselves and we see the jewels and treasures hidden beneath the ripples of our personally.

Our twenty different masks.




Marry me today, tomorrow, marry me any day under the sun, marry me when the earth is old and gray.

Marry me today.

Hold my hand in holy matrimony, love me until my days are old and brutal.

Watch me smile on the rising of the sun.

Marry me when the sun salutes.   

Kiss me underneath my wedding veil made of clouds,

and kiss the storm away, push it into a cage, lock my worries in your heart keep them there so they don't escape.

You accompany me in all I do which makes the evening brand new.

Bless me with a child as pure as gold.

Hold my hand as I hesitate to push.

Tell me everything is okay as I cry in pain

then tell me, tell me if our child is okay

smile in my presence as you go to work

kiss me goodbye as I constantly worry about you

hug our children and our future.

And as you begin to fade I will join you in your fading

just to ease your pain

I love you from the bottom of my heart  

and our love has just begun to start.



An infant small and frail lays peacefully in a long black cradle swaddled in warm blankets under the barrier between heaven and earth. The infant’s face stays motionless and her mother’s wet tears are still frozen on the infant’s tranquil face. No hex was cast upon the infant, but the infant only saw a sliver of daylight from the world above, then her eyes shut and the mother of this beautiful baby girl began to weep in sorrow, and the baby had departed from the sliver of light and had given up on staying and becoming a part of a family.

One last breath and the lights flickered and the soul of the infant drifted back up to heaven, where the angel formed into an angel again, but she never did leave that family. She left her mortal body but watched her family grow and disappear until they met all together in heaven and watched humanity grow.




By: Kimora Thompson


Every human has secrets and scars—battle scars that we carry around with us. They don't fade away.Those scars make us…well, us. They're a part of our stories, they're the conflicts that we got over. Our scars are the stories that people don't understand. We draw a picture with a blade and knife with our skin being the canvas. Only we understand the drawing and the mess of blood. We have to hide those pictures under sweatshirts and pants because no one will understand the scars and the feelings that come with those scars, and label us as emos, suicidal, or freaks.

Our scars are tattoos that are just better stories because they mean something. scars remind you of where you've been, they don't have to dictate where you’re going.From every wound there is a scar that tells a story. A story that says, I survived. Maybe I got these scars from being a veteran in the Iraq war, maybe I got angry or depressed and self-inflicted pain on myself, but I have the scars to show for it. A scar tells a story saying, I survived. Want to know how I got these scars? No, the question is: what scars do you have?

A Walk in Spring

By: Evelyn Fieldroy

I go walking on this day (money in my pocket),

Then around the corner I see coming…. 


Oh, goody!

I run on up and get my share,

I got cherry, soft and sweet.


Perfect for a spring time walk and…

a summer’s treat!