By Jimena Martinez, 12th grade:

The eyes? How wrong! ‘Tis hands that reveal soul.
They speak of love, of hate, of undefined
emotion laced in every pore like scroll.
Unravel skin and nails or else be blind.
Anxiety goes crack and pop within
the joints of soapy fingers bitten clean,
but bliss is glue entrapped on palms akin
to inky pinkies, artistry pristine.
Replaced is skin for leather knuckles, thick
with mad brutality and salty ache
Or dipped in orchids soft enough to lick
for elegance is silk and gloss and fake.
Oh, fate! The lines on palms can be your will
but hands are power, vehement, your ill.

By Mia Zavala, 12th grade:

The crown that weighs her down with elegance
Is liquified to golden rings of bliss.
She gave away divine inheritance,
A bleak exchange to give her love a kiss,
But like a wolf that hides among the sheep,
The lover neatly masks a grim intent.
Her heart and soul become a prize to reap;
She hides her tears to keep her heart content.
Devotion keeps the serpent wanting more.
With fire that lights her incandescent eyes,
Her pure intentions forced her to explore,
Her hands move close to lull away the guise.
How fast the venom strikes beneath her skin— 
The Beast commits an act of deadly sin.