Student Poetry Contest
25th Annual (2026) GCC Student Poetry Contest Winners
Body of Work: Anastasia Lagnese for: three poems: I’m Not a Boy Anymore, I’m Not a Girl Anymore, and Weight
Director’s Choice: Clancy Fearson for the poem: Black Remembrance Band
First Prize: Joanna Watts for the poem: Growing Pains
Second Prize: Kacey Harvey for the poem: Growing Together
Third Prize: Felix Espada for the poem: All the Credit I Can Give You
Honorable Mention: Gavin Vito for the poem: Equilibrium
Special thank you to the Judging Committee: Michelle Forster, Jessica Hibbard, Nicki Lerczak, and Sarah Wessel. Winners will be honored at the college-wide Student Celebration of Excellence on Wednesday, May 6. Thank you to The Office of Student Engagement and Inclusion for generously providing prizes. Congratulations to this year’s winners!
I’m Not a Boy Anymore
By Anastasia Lagnese
Nothing left but pain out there.
I don’t want to go back
to the screams,
to the wails.
They say men go to war—
but do they look like men
when their mothers hold them
one last time?
Do they look like men
when they draw their final breath?
When they choke on blood
and hope leaves their eyes?
Out there,
where the cold seeps into your bones
where the sky rains metal
where the earth claims names
and I can’t tell friend from foe.
Do they look like men
lying in dug-outs,
lying in trenches,
covered in silt?
In no man’s land–
Where there are no men,
Only boys.
Nothing left but pain out there—
where boys whisper prayers
in storms loud enough to drown their own names.
I feel a hand on my shoulder,
gentle through the thunder.
And I know
it is God,
calling me home.
I’m not a boy anymore.
I’m Not a Girl Anymore
By Anastasia Lagnese
Do I look like a girl with blood on my palms?
They say it’s in my nature—
to soothe, to nurture.
But nature never teaches you
how to hold ribs together,
when someone’s lungs forget how to breathe.
Am I weak,
because I cannot pull a trigger?
Or am I weak,
because I remember every face that closes their eyes.
They say war belongs to men because they carry guns.
I carry morphine.
Tell me which one stops the screaming.
Do I look like a girl when I hold his hand,
when I tell his mother he was brave,
when I tell them everything will be okay?
When they whisper to God
I tell them “I’m here,”
and they believe me
as they fade.
The chains in my pocket
grow heavier—
Name after name
After name.
One day
I will have to tell their families
no.
They will not return home.
My soul—still inside me, I think—
feels misplaced,
like the bodies in the trenches,
like the boys
who were told
they were men.
So tell me—
Do I still look like a girl?
…
I’m not a girl anymore.
Weight
By Anastasia Lagnese
Look they do.
With hope— with respect—
I let it flow from my lips
polished, rehearsed,
steady in my hands,
And keep none for myself.
Because when they learn I lie—
that my spine shakes,
that I tremble beneath the weight,
that hope is something I manufacture
They will hate me.
And I will hate myself
with them.
The crown upon my head
is of iron.
Not gold.
It rusts into my skin.
I feel the fingers of the kings before me
threading into my hair
They pull— they tugg—
anchoring me to them.
Their voices are in my mind.
Stand tall.
Do not bend.
Do not confess.
Die before you kneel.
I want to bend, to kneel,
to let the iron split my skull
and let them steal my soul.
To join them in the cold ground
where no one expects anything
from bones.
Because when they learn
that time is borrowed
that hope is a fraud,
they will hate me—
and I will deserve it.
Oh mother,
your little boy
is so tired.
He is fracturing
under the weight
of dead men
who will not
let him
fall.
Anastasia Lagnese
Black Remembrance Band
By Clancy Fearson
I wear this band in silence,
a strip of black against my skin,
small enough for most not to notice,
heavy enough to break me when I do.
To them, it is only color.
To me, it is a folded flag,
a pair of empty boots,
a name I still can’t say
without my throat closing around it.
It is the sound of Taps
slipping into the evening air,
soft and final,
like the sky itself is mourning.
Each note feels like a hand
reaching into my chest
and pulling loose the pieces
I worked so hard to keep together.
It is the crack of the three-gun salute,
sharp and sudden,
echoing like the truth I never wanted—
that you are gone,
that this is real,
that no amount of strength, rank,
or training
can call you back.
We were taught how to carry weight,
how to shoulder pain,
how to move forward
when everything in us screamed to stop.
But no one teaches you
how to stand still at a funeral
for someone who once stood beside you,
laughed beside you,
bled beside you,
promised without words
that you’d both make it home.
Now home feels different.
Now I look for you
in places I know you won’t be—
in the quiet before dawn,
in the sound of boots on pavement,
in every empty chair,
in every prayer I never used to say.
This black remembrance band
does not heal.
It does not make peace.
It does not lessen the ache.
It only tells the world
what my heart already knows:
that love can survive death,
that honor can live inside heartbreak,
and that grief
is sometimes the final act of service
we give to the ones we lost.
So I wear it
for the brother,
for the sister,
for the warrior whose laughter
still lives in the spaces between memory and pain.
I wear it because forgetting
would be a second death.
I wear it because they mattered.
Because you mattered.
And when Taps begins,
and the rifles speak their sorrow to the sky,
I will bow my head,
hold the line,
and let the tears come
like a salute of their own—
for the fallen,
for the missing,
for the part of me
that was buried with you.
Growing Pains
By Joanna Watts
When a girl turns 10, she runs through the day,
With grass on her shoes and her hair in disarray.
The world feels enormous, bright skies overhead,
No one has yet whispered what she “should” be instead.
When a girl turns 13, the mirror grows loud,
High school hallways are crowded and proud.
Whispers of beauty, of fitting a mold,
She learns her own body is something to hold—
And maybe not perfectly, maybe with doubt,
Wondering what being a “good girl” is all about.
When a girl turns 16, the halls are a stage,
Every glance feels like judgment, every word a gauge.
They tell her to smile, to curve, and to care,
To blend in, stand out, but never too bare.
Her heart wants freedom, her mind feels confined,
She searches for truth she’s yet to find.
When a girl turns 18, she’s suddenly grown,
High school ends, but the pressures have flown.
Decisions feel heavy, dreams wide and vast,
While echoes of insecurity cling from the past.
When a woman turns 21, she begins to see
Her body is hers, she can finally be free.
No longer a puzzle to solve for their eyes,
She learns to embrace herself, imperfections and ties.
When a woman turns 30, she knows her own pace,
She stops chasing standards, she claims her own space.
The world’s timelines blur, expectations fall away,
She breathes a little easier each new day.
When a woman turns 45, her voice is her own,
She speaks without fear, she stands full-grown.
The years have taught her that strength is not loud,
It’s the courage to rise without seeking the crowd.
When a woman turns 60, she looks back and smiles,
At the girl running barefoot, the teen lost in trials,
The woman who found herself through the twists and the bends—
Through high school, mirrors, and years to make amends.
For growing up isn’t just hair, height, or skin,
It’s learning to love the self that lives within.
And every age, every struggle, every test she goes through,
Shapes the woman becoming entirely true.
Growing Together
By Kacey Harvey
The version of me now is not the one you knew,
You were small and I was new.
I stumbled a lot, unsure what to do.
Every first for you was the first for me too.
We learned together side by side,
Even the moments we cried and cried.
From a lot of tears and a lot of goodbyes.
We found our way through whispered whys.
You’re now older, and so am I.
I see the wonder behind those green eyes,
The boy who still loved me through all my first tries.
And one day, when you’re reading this through,
I hope you see what I’ve now known to be true.
I didn’t just raise you…….You raised me, too.
Kacey Harvey
All The Credit I Can Give You
By Felix Espada
Long walks in the park, perched high on your
frame, Teaching me life like a cherished game.
Cooking and cleaning, hand in hand,
Daddy-daughter dances, just as planned.
First dance glowing at my quinceanera,
You cheering loud like my proud era.
Front row seats, camera in hand
At every game, you’d proudly stand.
Crying to you through my first heartbreak,
You’d promise me no one could ever make
Me feel small–cause you’d be there,
A constant shield, a love so rare
Walking me down the aisle one day,
Tears of joy on display.
Holding your grandchild, eyes full of pride–
A protector always at my side.
A role model, my guiding star,
A father… but you never were that, by far.
None of it happened–just fantasy’s glow,
Because you were someone I never truly got to know.
Not in the way a child should see,
But in the way pain raised me.
Beating me. Breaking me. Twisting control,
Tearing apart my innocent soul.
My first heartbreak wore your face,
My first letdown left no trace
Of a father who should have been–
You taught me loss from deep within.
At some point I stopped looking for you.
Stopped hoping you’d care or follow through.
I learned to dance without a lead
To cook from shows, and meet my needs.
I read the room, I bit my tongue,
Learned how to survive since I was young.
But more than that, I came to see
The kind of person I won’t let near me.
I rose, again and again, through the fight,
Finding power in my own light.
No matter how much I was torn apart,
I stitched myself with a braver heart.
So here’s the credit that you’ve earned–
From all the pain, the strength I’ve learned.
You made me tougher, fierce, and wise…
Though love from you was only lies.
This much I’ll give, though never more–
I’m not the girl you broke before.
I’ve built a life, I’ve made it through…
And I did it all in spite of you.
Felix Espada