The girls were asked to write a short story by one of our songwriter coaches . . .
Daddy’s Little Girl
She hung from the balcony with her arms hanging over head. Her pretty Prada heels hanging by her pedicured toes. Her hazel eyes flickered from above her to the fast pace moving street of New York below her. Her lotioned fingers were slowly slipping from the frozen metal railed balcony, bringing her inches closer to a fall. She closed her eyes beginning to put her pride aside. Being daddy’s little girl wouldn’t help her from the threat of ending her ‘perfect’ little world.
“Help! Please,” She screamed, her words echoing over the balcony. “Help!” She screamed. Her cries growing louder as she dreamed. Dreamed of a savior. One that suited her flavor. A man – no a boy with blond hair. Who’ll smile and bare his biceps as he tells her “I’m going to help you fight this.” Maybe he’ll have pale eyes, that she’ll fall in love with. Tell her no lies. Maybe he’ll have a smile so sincere, mother Teresa probably wouldn’t come near. So she screamed “help!” again, waiting for her “Savior” to attend. Attend to her cries and needs. Give her everything, to make appease.
But her savior wasn’t in her description. Wasn’t a piece of some Romcom fiction. He was a boy with his hair gelled back. Hidden under a Red Sox baseball cap. His pants secured to his waist, his shirt starched held in place.
Now you see, she’d fallen so in love with her own graphic depictions, that she’d forgotten her life isn’t from fiction. That she wasn’t just daddies little girl. Indulging in her own ‘perfect little world’. She was daddies little toy. Something for play. Give him what he wanted and he’d give her what she wanted the next day. The ‘day after’ pill never had a broken seal. Leaving her expecting and alone. Alone with what she’d have to provide for in a time of nine months. So she let out a sob, let herself fall.
And as she fell she realized what life was slipping from her – her life of living hell.
By: Shayla Bush
You will never be special to them.
Not unless you have the assets that he ultimately requires.
They want you to be “bad”
Bad as in you smoke marijuana, get drunk, and party all night.
They expect you to be beautiful in the face, thick in the waist
And a ten in the behind.
They observe your teeth, and your style of dress.
Judging you by every step.
Your face has to be acne free.
Completely washed away from natural given beauty.
Your face simply caked up to the maximum
It’s the only thing attracting them.
They want your shoe game “on point”
When you’re over to their house instead of ”hello beautiful” its “ayo baddie pass me that joint”.
What is the TRUE definition of special?
You hardly know it at all.
But again what does “bad” mean?
I found out in the urban dictionary it means “really cute, hot, very fine or good looking”
Superficial definitions, for superficial words.
He will never think your special
By: Dasia Jackson
The broken girl
The worlds will never know about it.
The cries I cry go unheard no doubt about it.
The feeling is normal for me now.
The sting of the razor sharp edge piercing my skin.
I’ve become aware of my surroundings.
The dark room swallows me whole.
I stare into the nothingness of the wall.
This feeling is foreign to me.
Wanting to not exist, to be gone.
The thing that keeps me alive feels warm as it cascades down my forearm slowly as
water would in a tranquil stream.
Undoubtedly my wrist goes numb.
I feel nothing.
I am nothing.
I slowly fade away into the darkness becoming another case filed into this unjust world.
By: Dasia Jackson
Thirteen teens act the same and talk the same
One teen has trust issues, another is abused
The teens that are thirteen hide behind their swag
And are afraid to admit they are human
Humans aren’t perfect
In these thirteen teens eyes they seem to be beyond it
With their make-up, new clothes, and new shoes
The time limit to show their true selves is past due
They muster fake smiles and sarcastic laughs to cover their true pain.
To those thirteen teens it’s all a game.
Their hearts are set on the materialistic things in life.
Since they conjure up fake personas they live a true horror story and everyday they pay the price.
By: Dasia Jackson
What I Hate Most
A lot of people have things they don’t like. And you know what I hate the most is being called a bitch and nigger.
First, do I have a tail? Four legs with paws and do I have fur all over my body?
Also, do I have my tongue sticking out of my mouth? Do I bark to communicate?
When I was born could my mother fit me in the palms of her hand?
Let me think; ah no!
As I recall, I stand on my two legs, I have hands and I use words to express myself.
I don’t recall being born with a tail.
And then people try getting away with saying bitch by making some type of complement.
By saying dogs bark, and bark is on a tree, and a tree is nature and nature is beautiful.When people call me a bitch I want to peg a dictionary at their face and beat them with it and have them look up the word and see that being called a bitch is a sign of disrespect. I am not an animal, I am a human being. I will not tolerate being called anything else but my actual name that is on my birth certificate.
For the cherry on top then people call me a nigger.
I have an education, I dress properly. I have brown color pigment in my skin and they call me a nigger. I don’t go around calling people a cracker so don’t call me what I am not. If you want to talk to me like that, you don’t have an education then clearly you should go talk to someone who cares because I clearly don’t give two flying f—- what you have to say to me.
By: Arielena Aquino
Shoes! They come in different colors, textures, patterns, sizes, prices, and brands. The joy that I get when opening or trying on a new pair is just unexplainable. The fresh smell, the never been worn aspect and bright colors, untouched by nature, is just so enamoring. It’s like being knighted from the queen of being told you’ve inherited fortunes from a relative you never knew you had. It’s like winning 20 Grammy’s in one night, showing Adele that she isn’t the only one killin’ em, ooh. Shoes bring joy and something to talk about with a complete stranger. A culture movement or cultural clash that you can argue about. A forever changing and unstoppable evolution.
Shoes are my crypoytonite!
By: Yasi Carter