by Elizabeth McGinn on February 4, 2021

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by Grace O’Connor ’22

She feels stuck at the moment like glue
Unable to escape her internal misery.
Oxygen barely fills up her shallow lungs,
As her glassy eyes are begging for relief.
White dots start to blur her vision,
She tries to remember how to breathe.
Her head feels heavy like an oversized bowling ball,
Falling over from her weak grip. 

In moments like these, she craves comfort
Not feeling suffocated in open space.
She feels the most alone during these times.
Her body becomes her own worst enemy, but
The only thing keeping her alive.
As her nervous impulses floods through her body,
She starts to doubt any progress she has made. 

Trust.
She does not trust herself or the world around her.
Isn’t this where worry comes from?
She is wary of every fleeting thought,
Fighting it every step of the way.
Fighting every tiny detail.
Fighting life. 

Her brain is her rival.
Forming and reforming every rash thought,
Her brain is the gatekeeper to happiness or misery.
It is her brain’s default instinct to hold her back,
From pain, hurt, disappointment. 

 

by Elizabeth McGinn on February 4, 2021

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by Ellie Forster ’24

Lying on the pavement
My leg tickles as my sister
Traces the shape of my fidgeting,
Six-year-old self.

She connects the line to its beginning,
And its end disappears.

The chalk brushes against the side of my knee
And I giggle in discomfort
I stand, take a breath
And attack my chalk silhouette.
Clothing myself with a rainbow

Red skirt
Orange and yellow striped shirt
A green necklace with a heart charm (for flair)
Violet sneakers on my feet
Blue eyes
Pink lips
And brown hair

My back, preheated by the pavement of our driveway,
Is cooked by the sun
As I trace my sister.
The moment I finish she leaps up,
And dons a purple chalk dress and blue chalk glasses, to go
With her yellow chalk hair
While I plant a chalk flower.

Before we’re done our other sister ambushes us,
Spraying wildly with the hose
We chase after her in soaked cotton,
And as our mud- and color-covered feet
Leave the heat of the pavement,
We’re washed away.

 

by The Cowl Editor on November 12, 2020

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by Toni Rendon ’24

She’s so beautifully broken
So softly spoken
Hurt in the moment
Lost in the commotion

He’s entirely hopeless
Drowning in emotions
Needing a connection
This empty bed leaves him restless

Both clumsy and reckless
Living with a death wish
Helping pick up the pieces
Trying to make things even

They give each other meaning
Tryna make up for love’s past treason
All their hearts’ bleeding
The heartbreak seasons
And missed out dreaming

Knowing there’s a reason
For them finally meeting
They fall in love no matter how hectic
A couple of kids
Young
Dumb
And reckless

 

 

by The Cowl Editor on November 12, 2020

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by Taylor Rogers ’24

Her ocean of tears is quickly overflooded,
Anxiety, Depression, and Anger blending in with the fish.
Big blue waves crash and fall,
And as she is stranded on her tiny island, she makes one wish.

A ship pillages her terrifying ocean,
Taking anchor in the center of her heart.
A pirate steps out of the boat,
His sword safely hidden as he watches the ocean’s waves tear the girl apart.

Once he enters the heart, the pirate begins to strike,
Brandishing his sword and cutting down the stubborn seaweed.
The girl’s fears begin to wither away,
Saving the heart from the terrifying depths of the sea.

The last weed distengrates,
Allowing the pirate to return to his ship, the girl in his arms.
Slowly, the ocean of tears finally stops flooding,
And the girl wipes away the stray fish, finally safe from harm.

 

 

by The Cowl Editor on November 12, 2020

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by Ellie Forster ’24

I’m going to write something

Today.

A story, of just the right length,

With just the right balance of righteousness,

And questionable morals.

A song with the duality of a woman,

Sung to the heartbeat in her chest

A novel that eats at you like a hunger,

Stripping you bare as you stare into its mirror

An essay exposing some great truth,

Shared with a fervor

Or at the very least,

The poem of a hopeful no one

Who longs to reach people

With the words

Too stuck in her head

To escape

Today.

 

by The Cowl Editor on November 12, 2020

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by Matthew Ciesla ’24

At times, progressing as if by force,
No enjoyment found therein,
And then as if a steady course
Pushes one to further strive. 

So monotonous these tones seem,
Repeated once and then once more,
Yet those well versed continually deem
Their value beyond measure. 

O may you, repetition’s dearest friend,
Grant this undertaking some ease.
And allow that these here harmonies blend
Seamlessly as if by chance. 

To mastery lead me thus
For crowds and praise unmet, unseen
So that meeting me they see us
And envy deeply our bond.

Of such greatness one can dream,
With such persistence few can clash.
Yet with you it all may seem
Obtainable with passing time. 

But such thoughts are only thoughts,
Meaningless on my seat here.
Meaningless to these damn dots
My stare returning fiercely. 

So to reality must I return
And leave behind the grandeur thence
And with each bar so deeply yearn
For thy gifts to be bestowed.

 

by The Cowl Editor on November 12, 2020

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by Marelle Hipolito ’22

i’m no Jesus, i’m no Son of Man
i’m no Heaven, i’m no Sacrificial Lamb
i wish
i could take away all of your pains
i could wipe away all your mistakes
but no
i’m no Jesus
i can’t save your soul 

you tell me you are afraid of Hell
but your sins only hurt yourself
you tell me you wanna be good
but you don’t do what you know you should
you tell me that ‘baby, i love you’
but you hide from the Truth that
you really need Jesus
to save your soul

i know you crave purpose and you want to change
i know you are lost, please let Him give you grace
oh my love, rejoice for He is King
oh my love, please open your heart and let Him in

i’m no Jesus, i’m no Son of Man
i don’t know Heaven, i’m not the Sacrificial Lamb
and i wish i could be Anointed to be the one to save you
but i need Jesus too

 

by The Cowl Editor on November 12, 2020

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by Sarah Heavren ’21

Here’s to the team
That jokes and laughs
That will go long
For the deep pass.

Here’s to the team
Unique in type
“Fat Bottomed Girls”
And Braveheart hype.

Here’s to the team
That takes the field
Hammers only
With extra zeal.

Here’s to the team
That will not quit
No matter what
We’re ultimate.

 

 

by The Cowl Editor on October 29, 2020

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by Sam Ward ’21

What made you, killer?
Like some deranged son of Cain,
Primordial vision on predatory
Impulses pulled from your
Triune brain off kilter,
Are you reptilian or a person?

Who awoke you, monster?
Your limbic still intact
Except for the pleasure
Derived from bloodlust and
Philic for dormant urges,
That should remain latent.

Why are you, devil?
Kill the innocent but they are no
sacrificial lamb, just new followers
For your Church of Shadows,
Every body a trophy,
Everybody a victim.

What now, demon?
Made or unmade, just disappearing
Differences, scolding hot inside
The icy channels of our minds.

We all have monsters,
Under our beds and inside our hearts.
We have a lot to reckon with.
There is a killer in all of us.

 

by The Cowl Editor on October 29, 2020

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by Anna Pomeroy ’24

I feel you lurking––
Peering your head out from behind the wall.
Your glaring presence disrupts the vision from the corner of my eye.
I quickly turn my cheek, hoping to catch a glimpse––
Reassurance that maybe I am just crazy, or perhaps I am dying. 

Sweat beads begin to trace down my hairline, caressing my cheek.
Is it really today?
Am I going to die?

I mean, technically I am.
Every day, every minute, every second,
Is one closer to death.

Your existence is wanted, yet many times necessary.
And while you strip away innocent souls,
You are a bandaid to an infinitely bleeding wound. 

You stand awkwardly in the corner of the hospital room.
Like a middle school boy nervously waiting under the flashing disco light––
Not sure when to make the final move,
When to lean over the person with your wings spread and give them the kiss.
The kiss–– so gentle, yet so deceiving.
It’s as if you can see the thick fog of the soul being vacuumed up.

We are all dying, you just seem to choose when––
When to stitch up a wound that will only create an even wider one in someone else.