Young Writers Society

A single strand trails out
as a tail of darkness
trickling through the waves
of fire's light, a beacon.

How do we know a planet
orbits another star?
Can we see so far
and in the right angle
to catch its crescent crawl
around the solar stars of elsewhere?

Do we catch blips of darkness
to investigate strobes in the light
as they stars are eclipsed for moments?

How are we different from our blip
blocking out the sun?
We are all darkness
crawling around
casting the same shade of shadow
if we stand side by side.

All an unfurling design
casting out into the darkness
as someone pulls our string.

Beautiful <3

Thanks @Deanie

27-

The blank mocking sheet, recording dancers,
pirouette s upon the spotlit stage;
a leaking black in battle with cancers.

The doctor, a trail run for answers
about why records are so hard this age.
The black mocking sheet recording dancers

just ghost steps left un-seen afterwards
and lives un-touched by a reasoning sage
a leaking black in battle with cancers,

people practicing a guessing game. "Sirs
won't you come see? we caught it in a cage,
the blank mocking sheet, recording dancers

of forgotten songs. Singers and workers
trying to untie the Rhy-Me Gave Gauge."
A leaking black in battle with cancers.

Us, upon our hill, staring out- writers
recording contrasts in our own rage.
The black mocking sheet, recording dancers
a leaking black in battle with cancers.

Do you look for shadows
in the darkness
like you look to see whose worse than you?

The crawling black etching out from the moon,
telling time by trees beside a field.
It's there, you know.
Even in darkness
if you can see,
you have a shadow
as space's vast galaxies are
hidden by the background of our light.

Sometimes I play with my glow,
my hand beneath a lamp
lighting the nearby wall a tad,
or down onto my book.

I have to look close to see it,
the room has to be lit by only me
like the moon's anti-shadow
cast upon the trees.

Then there was night. My mind's delving deep
into chaos of grinding bodies and strobing lights.
Drinking plagues precision as sledge hammers
rail crumbling resistances into pulp.
People crying from pleasure, pain of shoes
crunching ankles leaving dancing alone.
Lost somewhere my vision failed
forgetting breath in body bumping
back to blackness
consciousness
blackness to back
bumping body in breath, forgetting
failed vision, my somewhere lost-
alone- dancing- leaving- ankles crunching,
shoes of pain, pleasure from crying people
pulp into resistances crumbling rail
hammers sledge as precision plagues drinking,
lights strobing, and bodies grinding of chaos into
deep delving minds. My night was there then.

If I were a little lass, I'd capture all
the drink of men and lay it on a ship wreck.
Daddy dear, now don't you hear my homeward call

my Metra D, so proud of me, Momma, Heck!
The gods can see me shine! I can nearly blind
them. Why to you can I be only a speck?

If drink of men can toss and bend then help find
my father. Nothing else will keep the belts up
like waistline garders. When all is done, I'll bind

him up and ship him out to fill Mother's cup
with plenty of lemonade and sugar cream
for all her crying days. He will be her pup.

This again will live or bend as a dream
for I don't know if I am as I do seem.

Here we are again
blank lines
fighting midnight
and a roll of you
across the blank page.

Somehow I speak more true
to you, than to other living things.
I guess it's b...use you won't
let me speak any other way.

so
here we are again
end of the line like a filled
journal or a torn page lets
make the best of it, eh?

Yeah, I'm just going to use this as a daily poetry thread. Whether I make it every day or not, I want somewhere to keep them that is easy to find.

A, for everything I ever tried
and found too easy to accept.
All the facts alighted
on my adjacent walls
and I could use abundant
absolutely
astounding,
atonement
but what would be the point
when ashen gray,
or apothecary green,
even Aspen or aged
can explain in more delicate detail?

L, for the lines I feed
lingering near liquids upon my tongue.
It's something in my linguistic lexicon
that my lucrative mind bides time
to etch out the total
before I even dream of the luxuries
I want to find.
So why is lolling heads,
gasping breaths of lethargic
limited locals the thing I think?
Why is it Lies I go to
like re-legions in the lands
licking away the liberties of thought
the last ideas draining through the grate.

Now we're 'Ligious like legislative nightmares
easy to lead with lashed chains
across our lazy necks
We loosely look upon the birds
and wonder when we can fly again.

E, for the executives
that excavate us from our homes
at eighteen we "explore" the tamed lands
and enslave ourselves to every dream
our parents never had for us:
Mortgages and monthly maintenance.
My expenses piling
like erected executioners
expecting us to exit stage left.
Left for eventually decaying
and the day we are the waist
our bodies used to excrete,
that is now our worth.
Except for the excelling minds
of this expedient time
we are worthless,
we are worth less than even a dollar.
Educate them so student loans will linger
along their aged bodies, and demand atonement.
En-debt them so the government can tool
their environments to something
of a exploited billboard
for their children's generation.
Evict them if they envision equality.

Y, for the years we never knew we had
dreaming of yesterdays
and when people knew the smell of yeast
rising in the oven to yield bread for dinner.
Daydreams of youths who where treated fairly
like miniature adults, instead of toys.
Yes, they know what you're saying
and you believe their filter is down
that it has yet to grow, and form
but that is society's warped reality
that children don't understand, and they shouldn't.
When yellow isn't the favorite color of our youth
who think that yippy dogs are gross
because they're depressed
from their filter gradually yanking them down
to our level.