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Alive Arts Vanier Alumni 


They warned us We listened They told us to run or die We were frightened   They gave us just a few hours to rescue our lives So we had no time to pack We left the album that was full of our childhood memories We left the house not knowing if we will ever come back   It was that night that I knew what death was I saw it in our eyes In the eyes of those who lost their mother, their father, their child I saw it…

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A Fiery Feud Arts 

A Fiery Feud

There once was a young flame; fickle and new, And with every wish, it heated and grew, Nearly melting all the wax through and through. “Hey, slow down, you!” Warned the paraffin shrew. Ignored, the wax thought “If only it knew”. Yet with rage, the hot flame yearned to pursue, Its wild orange dream of burning for two. And so the fervent flame would not subdue, Yet, indeed, the young fire did misconstrue, And sadly, drowned in a warm waxy stew. “Why do I bother trying to dissuade you!? What…

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Beautiful Futility Arts 

Beautiful Futility

He toyed with the lace, That hung from the curtains. In them he hid from monsters, Wrapping his boyish virtue in their silky embrace. His mind portrayed him, As a master of disguise. Safe behind his fabric walls, He laughed in the face of danger. That was, Until, The game of hide and seek came to an end. For his ankles were showing, Through the crystal clear lace. Poem by: Valentina Tsilimidos

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Three Sizes Too Small Arts 

Three Sizes Too Small

I don’t have much too give you Certainly not love Maybe companionship at best Love died with the last guy Rest in peace Should I be angry about this? I’m not Things were different Life was different Eventful and full of colour He could make me smile as soon as my tears dried up It doesn’t matter what I had been crying up He could inject passion in one lonely moment Strong enough to be felt Sweet enough to savor I would worry about him more then I worried about…

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Sick Arts 


We were born to watch Her burn In the hands of selfish Men Without faith, hearts or concern, For the life around them Since money doesn’t grow on trees, What exactly is their use? Not one of them cares, nor sees That our purpose is not Abuse How our messed up weather, Foreshadowed by the first crown and throne, By those who think they can control Her, Yet are weaker than a lifeless stone   The Earth will go on. With us or without Weather the birds still sing their…

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Untitled Poems Arts 

Untitled Poems

Poem 1   Whenever someone turns The lights on Why Why do I constantly seek These dark shallow surroundings I want to see Feel the things light Does not permit Not void Not emptiness But the serenity That these ominous beings give me I do not feel pain Around them Or fear Not even as they creep Closer And closer And closer Come to me In trance They put me there And dance To that sweet melody The one that plays In the background As you eat me As you…

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The complexity of war Arts 

The complexity of war

The Canadian Soldier: Hero or murderer? Honourable or corrupt? Patriot or traitor?   Their missions in the Middle East: Home to invaluable oil supplies… Do soldiers really aim to protect civilians? Or rather, do they exploit their oil supplies, Protecting the resources instead?   Is their presence a catalyst for ongoing wars, Or a resolver of conflict? Does it promote peace, Or encourage combat?   There is propaganda going both ways, But the truth is far more complex. War is a disease that spreads quicker than the flu in a…

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Fireside Memories Arts 

Fireside Memories

There was a time When the photographs decorated the mantel, For visitors to study fondly, As they remembered the elated smiles And glistening lips, coated with liquor, That sipped from crystal wine glasses.   There was a time Before the images aged, Along with the surrounding furniture, Collecting dust, Fraying at the edges, And fading…   Just like the memories We stowed away in the attic, Entered scarcely on drunken nights, Where we dusted off the photo albums, And toasted, “To the good old days!”   Poem by: Fin

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Moths Arts 


As the sun, Travels to foreign land, Ours is struck by blackness. But no. Our skies are lit with the fluorescence of our own doing. Our creations scrape the stars, Stealing their shimmer, To use as a spotlight, That lights our nightly escapades. For after all, We have become moths; Craving the warmth of the flame, And afraid of the dark.   Poem by: Valentina Tsilimidos

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