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CICADA is many things—a YA lit/comics magazine fascinated with the lyric and strange, a safe and inclusive community for creative teens, a lighthouse in the weird stormy seas of the internet.
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    CICADA can be smart, funny, weird, hopeful, dark, defiant—it’s a space where teens can see their truths explored and celebrated. We frequently publish teens’ work, as well as fiction, poetry, comics, zines, and interviews by a variety of established writers and artists. CICADA is an intersectional, LGBTQAI+ friendly publication that strives to ensure that teens see their authentic experience reflected on its pages.

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    • also im also gonna write a city poem eventually

    • ok this is amazing and i love it but also i read the last line and for some reason all i could think about was this:



      i am so sorry

    • SInce everyone's been talking about their southeast countryside homes, I thought I would write about my rust belt city that I love dearly despite its questionable value.


      we love our city

      love the 

      smell of fish and seaweed down

      by the dance clubs and the


      love the

      rusted rail

      bridges over the river

      love the

      smoggy skyline built by 

      industrial tycoons out of

      trains boats 

      steel coal


      we feel it in our souls

      feel the

      people shouting in the market

      irish polish italian

      food for sale

      feel the 

      east side 

      west side

      where's your allegiance?

      feel the


      what if i get shot?


      we own our city

      own the

      cold rain snow wind fog sleet

      never know which way the

      sky will turn

      own the

      freighters on the 

      river to the 

      lake too wide to see

      the other side of

      own the

      graffiti spray paint on

      empty buildings


      we will build it up

      build the

      marble statues out of

      the dregs of 

      the flats

      build the

      peace out of

      shots against the


      build the

      lives out of


      on the street and

      only love and



      we will sing it loud

      sing the

      beethoven in the

      art deco

      temple of music

      sing the

      rock n' roll

      in its glass

      roofed house

      sing the

      praises of the 

      lord jesus and

      yahweh and

      yes we will

      sing and shout and

      join arms all 

      together now


      we will live here

      and die here

      in our land


      • Like 1
    • I forgot that last summer I actually wrote a poem about a nightmare I had when I was younger. It's not the best, but here it is:


      You are at the pool

      with your friend and her sister.

      You splash,

      get nachos,

      listen to Call Me Maybe five times in a row.


      Your companions want to swim

      at the far end of the pool.

      You tell them 


      you can't not


      it's fine 

      they say

      no it

      isn't you

      tell them the water's



      They push you in.


      And she is there

      one of the bodies

      hanging greyscale against the green water

      upside down

      dark hair and old fashioned skirt

      billowing around her


    • Our Meadow Brook was built over an actual brook.

    • if you want context for any of these tell me

      "if eggos were real i'd eat them all the time" 

      "you can't spell hayden without aids"

      "code name beef...can you imagine just having a girl's number saved into your phone as beef?" "i know you're talking about me!"

      "is this the video where the guy makes out with a statue?"

      "NO DABBING AT THE TABLE!" everyone proceeds to dab


      "don't drink paint water, you might die" "that's kind of the point"

      "how can you not think my snape hair looks sexy"

    • I love this poem and its imagery. (Also I've lived in the southeast countryside all my life and I still feel terrified by it.)  

      • Like 1
      • i put a notice out onto thesproutclub tumblr + twitter that i wanted to write poems and letters for people, if they needed it, so i thought i'd post them here as well.
      • anon: "a poem about loving something other than... love haha. if that makes any sense. how there is so much to this world besides romance. this is for the writing/poem thing you posted"

      tonight i get out of the dark by sinking into it,
      by becoming what i drink in, rolling my neck and
      listening to the joints crack, snap,
      and i swirl this body through
      this cold air, arms wide like wings spread and
      let the music carry me home.

      we wear our jeans with the cuffs rolled up,
      and tonight i slip off my combat boots
      and hang them by their laces on the coat rack.
      i let —- write a note in sharpie to the inside of my jacket-
      the inside of the empty pocket that rests over my heart-
      so i can keep this close by. just for me. we mix warmth
      into mugs and this song
      reaches between my bones dissolved into the liquid:

      my arms, uncrossed.
      this morning i cried until i laughed so hard that i cried again.
      —- hugs me so hard that it stamps an ache into my arms, but
      i don’t care. the dog trots in from another room and slips and skips
      between our legs and we sing and forget age and breathe hard
      in and out.
      alongside each other.

      this is our golden hour.
      wrapped up in air gone black and lamp lights lit.
      the softening coming from the tone of my smile, not the setting
      of the sunken sun.
      this is my golden hour, the slant to which i like my body best:
      upright. warmth spilled from my cup onto my wrists,
      and just now, i kiss them dry.

      • Love! 1
    • holy shit queenie this is amazing and the perfect mirror to mine

    • for some a purgatory

      filled past eternity with

      infinite shades

      in the sea of greens

      that surrounds

      the thread of sun-bleached rain-washed asphalt

      that twists and swoops

      around hills speckled

      with salt-and-pepper cattle

      and yellow-gold flecks of tied-up hay

      pulled and braided like shorn hair


      and the single store

      across a red-clay-streaked street

      yellow lines so faded that we run on assumption

      the dog barks

      and chases every car

      that pulls in across from her

      once-white house

      wooden siding gray as the pavement

      where the paint has chipped and peeled

      her name is lily


      she defends the singular store

      with cigarettes behind the counter

      and pencils beside

      a child’s paradise in the form of a wall

      covered in crayola-colored candies


      the woman inside

      is older than anyone can remember

      and her hair is whiter

      than the house across the street

      her son is there too

      his name is mike

      when i was smaller

      he’d pick me up

      so i could reach the dollar ice cream

      inside the icebox

      and once he tolerated me

      when i climbed on the counter

      to braid his hair


      and two men sit in chairs by the door

      they have always been there too

      in the half-light

      through the paper-plastered front window

      and they drink coffee

      careful not to spill on camouflage jackets

      and well-worn leather boots

      red from the clay they’ve stood in

      they talk about the before

      and compare it to the now


      and they talk about

      how the now can be better

      how nice it is that their daughter

      can be in the military now

      and how the solar panels

      on their hot tin roof

      help so much

      and they talk about stamps

      and their guns in the back of their trucks

      and hunting the bear that’s been killing their

      salt-and-pepper cows


      they say that the past is nice too

      before cookie-cutter houses sprung up

      and chain restaurants forged their way in

      before a night-black road came in beside

      and the days when a president’s skin

      was not orange or black

      before when anyone could come in

      regardless of their skin

      and then we could hate them

      for whatever else they’d got

      and patriotism didn’t mean



      so we sit in the shadows

      of purple-blue mountains

      and watch

      as the wind blows through the trees

      that line the roads

      that may turn to gravel


      and we watch

      picket-fence perspective lines

      fade into the humidity

      the cardinals and sparrows fly

      and sit on the graves of

      names faded with indifference

      some kept in the best shape

      are of a different shape than the rest


      and the next church

      offers hope too,

      regardless of who you voted for

      when you last stood inside


      but eternity isn’t so bad

      and purgatory is my backyard




      Author's Note:

      okay so @thepensword directly inspired me with "American Purgatory" (go read it, it's gorgeous) to actually follow through on the effort I've been making to describe the small town in the American Southeast that I live in. I want to make clear that I am NOT mad at you/offended, Jess, I just wanted to show my corner of where she's seeing from someone who's lived here for a while. 

      Second note: the lines in this poem "some kept in the best shape/ are a different shape than the rest" refers to how the graves of confederate soldiers are a specific shape. And we've got some of those around here. Most people can recognize the shape. That said, not a single person nearby me has a confederate flag displayed at their house. 

      Edited by queenie_flower
      • Like 2
      • Love! 1