Young Writers Society

Fumbling hands holding

black and blue pens forging 

emotions onto bleached paper.



We are the kids who sit in our rooms,

and look to paper for guidance and

support from the weak peers of pencils and paperclips

that we have constructed around our personal fortress

of metaphors and forgotten existences.



We are the kids who are unexpressing ourselves

in shades of melodrama, we are the kids who want to be undefined,

we want to be everything when we are nothing at all

except for depressed teenagers playing with words

inside on Friday afternoons when we should have been outside

learning how to live.



We are the boys and girls at the end of the road,

kicking cans and holding hands,

we are the kids who are empty,

Who never had it at all.