Hopeful Hearts

If you are looking for happiness,

See it through the lens of peace and kindness.

If you are looking for happiness,

See it through the glass of hope and brightness.

There is hope in every sunrise,

A new beginning in every sunset.

A bit of agony in the quiet night,

Then we are back on our journey again.

There’s a lot to come in your path,

You’ll face the pain of feeling torn apart,

Breaking your own heart,

Waiting for the brightest part.

Don’t worry too much about what others say;

I need you to know that clouds aren’t always gray.

Silver linings often hide in plain sight,

Turning dark days into light.

We can’t be buried in the grave of grief,

And I know everyone can’t be a Phoenix.

But we can try to be a spider,

Taking a step forward after every failure.

After the web is torn,

We rebuild again, though we may be worn.

Like the spider, we rebuild our grace,

Stepping forward after every misstep.

If you are looking for happiness,

See it through the lens of peace and kindness.

If you are looking for happiness,

See it through the glass of hope and brightness.

Thoughtful Artist is a 15-year-old poet from India, who has been pouring her heart into writing since the age of 11. Her poetry feels like a quiet conversation with the soul, capturing love, dreams, and the bittersweet moments that shape us. With an honesty that's both tender and powerful, her words seem like secrets only the universe knows. Along with writing, she has a deep love for music and psychology, influences that often weave their way into her work. Whether exploring the pull of nature or the beauty of self-discovery, her poems paint vivid, emotional pictures. Her words offer a soft embrace, reminding readers that even in life’s messiest moments, there’s always something beautiful waiting to be written.

Perfect Imperfections

You are as perfect as the cracks in walls.

You are as perfect as the faded pale dolls.

You are as perfect as the pictures covered in dust.

You are as perfect as the moon with its scars.

You are as perfect as the night without stars.

You are as perfect as the sunrise behind the clouds.

You are as perfect as the broken bones.

You are as perfect as the anxiety that can never be shown.

You are as perfect as the bitter miracle melon.

You are as perfect as the dark Aconitum.

You are as perfect as the flaws that define your radiant soul.

Thoughtful Artist is a 15-year-old poet from India, who has been pouring her heart into writing since the age of 11. Her poetry feels like a quiet conversation with the soul, capturing love, dreams, and the bittersweet moments that shape us. With an honesty that's both tender and powerful, her words seem like secrets only the universe knows. Along with writing, she has a deep love for music and psychology, influences that often weave their way into her work. Whether exploring the pull of nature or the beauty of self-discovery, her poems paint vivid, emotional pictures. Her words offer a soft embrace, reminding readers that even in life’s messiest moments, there’s always something beautiful waiting to be written.

Long Distance By Matthew Spence

In spite of the heat, Dale ran. He was in close quarters with the other runners at first, but then broke away from them in the next turn. Sensing freedom, he galloped towards the finish line, hearing cheers as he broke through the tape. He was swarmed with congratulations, a wreath, and a trophy, but all he could think of was running again, running free…

Dale blinked as the visor was removed. He was slightly unsteady as they helped him to his feet, where he felt cold tile instead of dirt or grass, gasping for breath as he began to relax.

“How was it?’ his trainer asked.

Dale looked at her. “Like actually being there. Man, I felt powerful, running on all fours. Like I was the leader of the pack.”

She laughed. “You probably were. You were the alpha male of the herd. So, what do you think?”

“I can see how this could help other runners, even other athletes. Running backs, for example. But I’m a runner, not a football player. I wouldn’t survive out on the field-only on the track. That’s where I belong.”

“Um, yes.” His trainer looked at a copy of her results. “Well, it certainly helped your metabolism and muscle tone. But virtual running still can’t replace the real thing.”

Dale nodded. “I know.” But he couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d felt, running in the simulation. It might not have been real, but the feeling of freedom was. That was why he ran, not just for the prizes, but for that feeling of freedom…

Dale was out at the race track. The owner had allowed him to use it when the horses weren’t in training, and he used it to run. He wasn’t as fast as a horse, but imagined that he was, running on all fours with hooves instead of feet, and a mane down his neck that flew in the wind. 

When he was done, Dale met his trainer after he’d changed in the locker room.

“You saw a horse when you ran, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Dale admitted. “They’re faster than we are, stronger in some ways. Sometimes I think that if I just imagine hard enough…”

“You might become a horse yourself?” The trainer looked at him with some concern. “It’s a nice fantasy, but you know it can’t happen, right?”

Dale chuckled. “I’m not nuts. I know I’m just as human as you are. It’s just that there are times…” his voice trailed off as Dale got a wistful look in his eyes.

“It sounds like a form of escapism. Harmless enough, I guess. And, it could help you with your running.”

Dale nodded, but later, in his condo, he dreamed of horses as he slept. Horses running free…

The next morning Dale’s trainer came looking for him. Not finding him at his home, she went out to the track. 

“Have you seen Dale, the runner?” she asked the manager.

The older man shook his head. “Nah. But we got a new mare in the stables. Never seen it before, but it’s in good form. You ought to be able to see it out on the track soon.”

The trainer nodded. She went out, watched the track-and saw the new horse. He was running up and down the length of the track. He seemed happy, free. Looking at the mare, the trainer thought she saw something familiar in its eyes as it ran past, glancing at her as if it knew here. She chalked it up to her imagination and went back to the training center to resume her search for Dale.

After all, she had her own runner to find.

Matthew Spence was born in Cleveland, Ohio. His work has most recently appeared in Bakunawa Press.