There is a silence that does not live in quiet— but in the spaces between words we almost said. It lingers in the throat, like a confession that grew roots instead of wings. We are archives of almosts— almost love, almost truth, almost becoming something unrecognizable to our past selves. And isn’t it strange— how memory edits itself like a careful liar? It smooths the sharp edges, dims the unbearable light, turns earthquakes into whispers we call “lessons.” But beneath it— o

Women: The kitchen is their home And their homes are their stretch Women: Their families are their lives Their furniture is their friend. Women: Dough is their glove, Their children are their purpose. But wait — Hold your breath for a minute and tie your tongue to your teeth And think. Just think. Open your eyes, broaden your mind and see; How it's Cleopatra who taught us how to lead, And how it's Zenobia who taught us how to save, How it's Kosem who showed us how she mothere

Before the first word there was a silence so complete it remembered everything. Not the silence of empty rooms, but the silence inside a seed waiting beneath winter soil, holding forests no one has seen yet. We are born from that silence. We arrive crying— not because the world is cruel, but because the soul has suddenly become too large for the small body of a moment. And so we spend our lives trying to remember. We build cities of language, towers of certainty, maps of tomo

Carpe diem, Seize the day, Before your time has passed Carpe diem, Life is short, Come, no more living lark, Raise your flag and raise it high Before it is your time to die. Carpe diem, Time long past, Memories are lost for last, Stop this hurt, End it now, Come, don't go break that vow, Carpe diem, Time is short. Written by Angela Rooney, an 8th grader interested in poetry, reading, and writing.