Creative Corner

I’m in a box.

A hard, cardboard box,

The kind used for fragile items.

I can see the end of the box,

And where it began,

And everything in between.

We hide,

In the glory of our skins,

In the shame of our sins.

In the wake of our pain,

With nothing to gain,

Standing in the ever-pouring rain. 

By: Pihu J.

When can I live?

When you’re born, you’re already clothed. Clothed in the expectations of your parents, of your society, determined by your race and gender. You’ve already been set on a predestined path, one that will take nothing short of a miracle to break free from.