This is the section to showcase all your poetry, stories, essays, or any other form of writing!
All submissions are from Nicholas County High School (WV) students and staff members; newest submissions will be at the top.
Go to the contact page to send us something or email us at: firstname.lastname@example.org
Capture the Memories
One day, it will all be over.
You will have walked these halls one last time.
You will have walked off the court or field one last time.
You will have spent your last basketball game
in the student section, cheering your heart out.
Right now, while we’re still here, enjoy it.
Make memories you will never forget because
one day, memories will be all that’s left.
Capture the memories, day by day,
morning by morning, game by game,
because one day, it will all be just a memory.
A Book of Life
Time goes by in a blink of an eye.
In that time, you write a book.
The story it tells is amazing.
It’s filled with adventure, love, unhappiness.
High School Experience
Years from now, you will look back on this.
Your greatest years of high school you will miss.
You will look back and see how different you are now.
Where has the time gone? You will ask how.
Her Love is screaming color in a world of muted gray.
The rain falling reminds her of him; it is falling hard, and she is, too
His voice is soothing music that makes her want to sway.
He is the yellow she adores; she will never feel blue.
She looks at him like crimson fireworks and feels her heart quake.
This heart is best described
a bird in a glass bottle.
Fleeting wings beat –
unsteadily, uneasily –
against paper lungs.
… A senior …
(Sunday evening: 11:30 as the “Wonderful” thought of Monday morning slips into mind.)
I’m really not looking forward to tomorrow…
Honestly, I’m not looking forward to this week…
(Realizing graduation is eight weeks away. ‘Only filled out one scholarship’)
Who am I kidding… I’m not looking forward to the next ten years.
Hours of night,
not meant for dreaming,
to keep you awake –
a paradigm for
The Titanic After (The death of a coward)
Those eyes. Color of the oak tree in my front yard. Hazel; caramel; don’t they coordinate? I’ve written millions of poems in the sand below the ship. I wake up again to find a new poem written by the currents. I draw flowers; frosted roses. I miss my color. How does a dead man find reason to live? I keep getting stuck on that question, and I don’t know why I’ve been stuck. The question means more than the answer. My situation means more than the explanation.