This poem was originally rooted in the pandemic and quarantine, but evolved into a piece on introspection, rumination, and growth.
Poetry is not confined to books. It does not strictly belong to a seventeenth-century British poet and his endless sonnets. Poetry is the ache of a single mother’s back, the slight brush of your crush’s hand against yours, the tears in your eyes when you kiss your old life goodbye and embrace your new one. Poetry is people and more importantly, poetry is you.
—Mentee Kilhah St. Fort
Featured Poetry Work
Thanksgiving at my aunt’s house in Greenpoint is an entirely memorable experience due to the eccentric details filling every room for an environment reflecting my aunt’s comforts and conflicts.
Greenpoint is a magical place, tucked away at the very Northern tip of Brooklyn, where it borders Queens and the East River. The transport isn’t always favorable, but Greenpoint’s beauty is apparent as stunning views...
I first started out with just a rush of memories of the garden, then I organized those memories into seasons and turned five pages from my collage journal into representations of those seasons and memories.
I put together this collection of photos as a tribute to the places that are part of my life and feel like home. For me, home is both places and emotions. That is why I...
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When I was born, I didn’t have hands…
This poem explores the mystery of lost words and where one must go to find them.
There are many stigmas surrounding body image and beauty standards to the point where it has become underestimated. This poem is written through the lens of a girl who experiences it but finds strength to overcome it.
“Stages of Reflection” reveals the ongoing journey of self-love in three basic stages.
an ode to winter, but not exactly a commentary on the coldest season.
Highlighting the beauty of my two colorful homes.
I’ve got a lot of opinions, and I want to speak out. Still, I struggle to deal with doubts, to find the right words, to steel myself for the comments from those who disagree.
Why do I write? / Why do I do this to myself? How do I stop? / How can I stop?
A poetic piece revolving around the misconstrued perceptions of what it truly means to be an African American living in modern day society.
This is a poem about where I’m from as a 16-year-old, born and raised in Queens, New York in a small family of four.
Acceptance comes after the storm. It poured and poured.
Your dreams are more than a sailboat, journeying to your pier and then on to the next.
Because dying is loud. And living is too.
Why does the world have to be round?