Trust the Process-Introducing Timothy Hall


Trust The Process by Timothy Hall, Photo by Stella Panzarella 

  1. When the day looks impossible,

the couch feels comfortable, and sunrays splashing from the bay windows

look uneventful.

Trust the process.

  1. When a conversation with your partner seems daunting

and your feelings eat away at your tongues ability to produce words.

Trust the process.

  1. When depression is the dust that refuses to be swept from the floor

and all you want is freedom from having to clean up the destructive thoughts that fall.

Trust the process.

  1. When song doesn’t sound as beautiful

and melody no longer scales your arms with goose bumps.

Trust the process.

  1. When fear resembles the worn notebook in your book bag,

the rarely opened Evernote app on your phone,

or the twice folded post-it notes dusting your desk that stare, and stare, and hover, and wait, and tire, and toggle and get misplaced, and are found, and still not touched.

Trust the process.

  1. You are tired and the couch is still warm from the imprint of your back.

The outside taunts you to smile in its direction.

Close your beautiful eyes and feel the heat wash your tired away.

  1. Your feelings matter and your words hold value, use them.

It is impossible for your partner to know

the lining of your mind or heart or hurt.

  1. When the dust settles, you will still be a person. All pumping blood, moving limbs, and processing mind. Press your quaking hand against the valley of your chest,

the home where your survival lives,

the carrier of your liberation.

  1. Sound waves need not an ear to be heard, nor a piece of skin to scare.

Listen to the silence of your beautiful body

and welcome the music in your story.

  1. Trust the process of your healing.

Trust the process of your hope.

Trust the process of your deliverance.

Trust the process of your mindfulness.

Trust the process of your pen.

[ Tim Hall is an educator, artist, and entrepreneur, from Detroit, MI, now residing in Boston, MA. He began playing music at the age of 10, and found poetry in college as a way to share his thoughts on paper. Tim Hall draws inspiration from his lived experiences charting the nuances of blackness, masculinity, and the beauties of life. Some of his work can be found in his Spoken Word EP titled Colors Of My Soul, and self-published a book titled Trust The Process, both of which released in 2016. ]

Club Culture by Lois Linkens


club culture by Lois E. Linkins

the week meets its end, lectures all done. assignments complete, now time for fun! time to do shots, and dress to impress, cry over outfits, then wear even less. bop to a beat in a deafening room, silhouettes blurring in an alcoholic doom. stumbling home, with a box full of chips messy and sweaty, your high never dips. you crawl into bed, to meet dizzy dreams, memories of vodka and bright laser beams. when morning comes, the nausea sets in, in bed all day, keeping close to the bin. your flat-mate comes knocking – ‘you up for tonight?’ your headache starting searing as they switch on the light. you wipe off the makeup, and heave yourself up pour out some cheap wine in a chipped dirty cup. the cycle keeps going, for night after night – headaches, vomit, and the end’s not in sight. it’s endless excitement, going out on the town – isn’t it? you think, as you chug the drink down.

[Lois writes for Sudden Denouement and describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her work, and we ask you to take a second to look at more of her wonderful work. Loislinks]



Death Notes

A story a female burlesque performer related to me. Not an uncommon story, unfortunately.

I am a poet! I am. I am. I am a poet, I reaffirmed, ashamed.

a question for the girl
who put it all out on the table
like a feast, smiling
over her offerings,
in short,
a question for the
burlesque performer
I saw in New York
last Tuesday-

did you mean it?
can I have some?
can I come and
pick you up?

a death threat to the
burlesque performer!
a death threat to the girl
who dared to say no
or nothing at all
I will be at your next show.

a thousand calls
for the burlesque performer
for that cunt,
that bitch
a thousand facebook messages
and pictures of dicks

death notes, death notes,
all of them.
Cum is mixed with blood
in the American men
who come calling

my cum is mixed with blood
for the burlesque performer
I saw in New York
last Tuesday,
I know I could have her
she was right
within my reach

and she will…

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Maya (Respect for Maya Angelou) by Dave Somerset

Maya(Respect for Maya Angelou) by Dave Somerset

[Maya Angelou was a remarkable, accomplished Poet, performer, activist against oppression, and national and historic figure.

Maya Angelou was raped when she was seven years old
She told only her uncle about it
Two days later the man who molested her was found
He had been kicked to death

In the mind of a seven year old
Her words had caused that man’s death
So she stopped speaking, and
She did not speak for five years

During this time she began to read
She read everything
Rooms full of books
All kinds, but especially poetry

As a man, I was very moved
Thinking about, what she had faced
So young, and up against so much beyond her years
yet in her words she said: “still I rise”

I learned that 1 out 5 girls and 1 out of 20 boys
Have been sexually abused as children
That means there is a lot of hurt, out in the world
And a lot of care and sensitivity is needed

But I have not been seeing that
I have been seeing abusive language and aggressive behavior
Especially to and about women
I can’t help but be uncomfortable

How must someone with Mayas experience feel?
How must my daughter feel?
This is often brushed off by men as
Its swagger, I’m cool, its you

That is dishonest, and does not help women or any of us
Besides being a trigger to terrible memories
this must feel threatening to women.
Maya would wonder if these guys had a heart

They were brought into this world by a woman
And yet have no respect for them
Ungrateful, does not begin to describe it
And that abuse in music and art must also feel a dagger to women and girls

Besides being the father of a daughter
Whats my standing in all this?
When I am in the presence of abuse
I am myself also abused

I don’t think being a man
has much to do with being self-centered
or being a show off and insensitive to others
Nothing to do with possessions, power or control

Being a man, in my view has
A lot to do with being kind and generous
And being Supportive and thoughtful
And most of all respectful of others

[Dave Somerset is an engineer, who holds US and World patents in design and now has a small IT practice. Thought, physics, music, stories and poetry are all lenses that allow him to see meaning in the universe. Outside of technical papers, none of his work has been published, although decades ago he wrote songs and lyrics with friends. He considers himself a better listener than a writer, enjoying all kinds of writing, music and art. He enjoys reading both his own work and those that he admires, at local venues such as open mics. Some of his favorite venues are: The Walnut St Café, Merrimac Mic, The Cellar, Stone Soup, Zumis and White Rose.
He continues to grow in appreciation and understanding of a wide variety of classic and emerging styles in all arts.]

Contest Finalist 2: Splatter – Aakriti Kuntal

Mind blowing, award winning poem (from Sudden Denouement).

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective


Splatter – Aakriti Kuntal

When the ink parts

between my tresses

I unfold like a streak of leather

and disappear into the horizon

A crimson casualty

of lifeless days

In my town

the weather is a dense blue

rivulets and arches, alleyways and purple boundaries

a liquid state

of all matter

a fluidity, a lisp, a demonstration

I have been weeding out

the pellets of time

time after time

they have grown scaly fingers and clumsy feet

You ask me

Where is the ‘ache’ ?

I throb, a spinning compass



I am Orion

I am Virgo

I am Polaris and Sirius

stretching and leaping

across time and its variety

the combustible zones of space

I have a mouth of flames

an insurgency of sores, the vacancies of unanswered questions

Time after Time

I pluck my tendons

twist and crack, break and wield

throw it all away

Am I…

View original post 168 more words

Misfit by Devon Balwit


[Misfit by Devon Balwit, art by  Catrin Welz Stein]

You must be cisgender if you have to Google it, opening

yet more pages because you’re stumped by what conforming

to your birth gender means and want somebody to clarify cis

on the same side of—and now you’re truly baffled

as you’ve never conformed, walking like a pirate

in your flat-soled shoes, no makeup, always wearing

what got you laughed at, and you’ve never shared a side

with your same-gendered peers, diabolical ever-exploding

mines in the unmarked fields of every day.  Even now,

you can’t remember a single name from that time and are

gripped by PTSD panic when you enter a school building.

You are cis if you feel there is a match between your assigned

gender and your identity—A match?  You remember trying

to match, find a match, camouflage yourself, woo and be wooed

by, to feel the right thing(s) when guys (or girls) touched you,

(or when you touched yourself).  Ever-helpful, this article continues,

[The label cisgender] tells us that we all experience some kind

 of relationship between our bodies and our selves, whatever

that relationship may be—whatever—some editor slept

through that one, some kind of failure to find precision

in language, not heteronormative when there is no

norm, cisgender when there is no sameness.  Messy as it is,

there are eight billion names with eight billion stories, singular

identities in singular bodies, ever wrestling, ever at odds.

[Devon Balwit is a poet and educator from Portland, Oregon. She has a chapbook, Forms Most Marvelous, forthcoming from dancing girl press (summer 2017). Her recent poems have appeared in numerous print/on-line journals, among them: Oyez, Red Paint Hill, The Ekphrastic Review, The Basil O’Flaherty, The Literary Nest, Timberline Review, It Must Be Heartbreaking, The Journal of Applied Poetics, Serving House Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Rising Phoenix Review, Rattle, and Rat’s Ass Review.]

Free Falling Angel

Awesome work from an awesome poet

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective



Another slow silent sigh creeps across our

eyes and reminds us of the lives

we used to lead

I remember fearing the failing leaders

as we dogs nipped at their heels

hoping for little salvations

and it’s a crazy kinda hatred

that burns in my mind

the kind that makes you cry

when you pull the trigger

alas, against the ghosts of your hopes,

the shared dreams of a moonless night,

and the heartfelt meanderings on a dawnless day

We pay our prices

Our idols expect their tributes

For tribulation is what we all most desire

when our lives are on fire

So step softly in the valley

temptation is stalking you

like a doe in the wood

unseen but felt beyond

the slow blue horizon

There is no distinction between right and wrong here

it is merely the perceptions of the strong

taking hold

do not let…

View original post 66 more words