RED LIGHTS

Who Will Save You at the End of the Day?

In the distance there are three eyes

Blinking red, yellow, and green suspended overhead

Up close, it is mounted on a vertical pole

Scratches marrs it’s black faded body like old scars

Day after day, curses are all it hears

Obnoxious honks, screeching tires, and angry voices

Born out of smooth textured glass with a prismatic pattern

Years of accumulated dust tries to hide your beauty

No one bothers to clean you unless your eyes are out of sight

There’s a corner that they haven’t noticed, a bird feces waiting to be cleaned

Wheels screech to a stop when your eyes turn a shade of scarlet

Insults are thrown at your way, unknowing drivers screaming at their heart’s content

Pedestrians with eyes glued to their devices

They don’t bother to look at a young girl left behind

Within seconds your eyes turn green

But she has stopped in her tracks, busy tying her shoelace

The busy cars zoom past within moments

All that’s left of her is the same shade of red as your eyes

Suspended overhead for maximum visibility

Your eyes were what they saw, while her eyes is what haunts you most

Despite having the whole world to see

The only scene you witness are the ugly truths

You tried to call for help, shined your red light

All they did was stop and stare through your soul

The pedestrians and the drivers may depend on you for safety

But who will save you at the end of the day?

Red Lights

We sing, my brothers and I

We sing for the future

We sing for our pride

Our battered old souls

Compressed into nothingness

Night is the only comfort we take

The wailing sirens chase the idea of justice

But is justice truly all about violence, the beatings, the captivity?

Is it truly the definition it claims to be?

“The world is your stage,” Ma used to say

Used to, for now, she lies battered and bruised

Red lights are the only stars she ever saw before closing her eyes

The Last Resort

Hidden between stacks of books

Smaller in size, larger in importance

You hide me like an old scar

On dreary days when your thoughts become unbearable

You flip through a blank page and paint me with your thoughts

I’ll always be your last resort

But I’m used to your neglect

Sometimes I collect dust

The proof is in the yellowed pages and dried out ink

It’s easier to collect dust when you so easily blend with darkness

But you’ll always come back

Maybe you’ll flaunt the new shoes you bought, or the good score you got on a test

Mostly it’s unspoken thoughts you’ll never really speak aloud

I’m always a reminder of better days

No One Wants To Be Called Trash

Standing in your corner labeled as trash

Waiting for your skin to shed again

I know your pain like a friend

There is nothing worse than feeling unwanted

Day after day you are filled with

Litter that accumulate into a nasty pile

Some days I forego cleansing my mind

Anxiety has a way of seeping in

Just a normal looking gray rectangular container

It stays there, keeping the room clean

Maybe I’m not much different from you

I prefer to stay quiet in the dark

Made of plastic, solid yet not invincible

Labeled as a trash bin without your consent

No one wants to be called trash

Not even an emotionless object like you

Every week you wait to be clean

To get rid of the unwanted litter

Trying to stay positive in a world of

Sorrow is a different kind of courage

Siha Park is a high school student who writes poetry rooted in observation and memory. Her work often revisits ordinary moments and examines how attention shapes experience. She is currently developing her voice through independent writing and workshop-based study.