Young Writers Society

Why.
Why am I here?
Why am I writing this poem?
Why am I listening to Hannah?
Why do I keep going?
Why don't I just end this?
Why not?

*A poem on the spot*

Watching and waiting
and sleeping
Passing the time so that it won't take me.
From the past and the present
that I call my home
For I've seen all those living
in fear of the future.
If I waste my time then it must run out
so then I won't have one.
I'll pack up my bags
and make a home in limbo.
It is definitely better
than being captive to the future.
But little did I know
that the gilded cage of my past
did have me at last.

Heather demanded a poem from me and Jabs declaring our love for her. Instead, she gets a limerick I wrote on the fly. Jabs, you still owe her

there once was a bratty admin named heather
who told us to write a poem about how we love her
instead she gets this, a coerced piece of s***
and not any of the reasons (she thinks) we love her

The snowflakes tumble
from the sky, fallen angels
drowning in their tears.

I click on this thread,
to find myself made to write,
sticking my head out.

Peeking in this thread,
now my job shall remain done.
I may leave this page.

As things often go,
I suddenly am.

And here we are.

There's been too maney lies.

I've passed too much time,

So the question now's no longer why.

Here I am
again.
Bare toes tapping gently across wood floor,
daring themselves to move,
when the rest is so quiet,
asking where the noise went
as I shift through forum after forum,
not doing much of anythng at all.

Seldom do I wait.
Forever do I miss
and always do I dread

The shadow's flame above my head.

Look into the night
The stars are shining bright
Slowly fading in Dawn's first light.

You stood around, stoic and unmoving
As I watched the sand bleed out of the cracks
You refused to help patch up the crevices
Now, the glass is shattered and the grains are scattered
Memories forever lost to the shadows

As I walk I find
T'is so funny that it is
The simple things I miss

Fiefel is the name of my fish
in his little bowl, he swims to and fro
silly as it should be, it is my only wish
that he, to a large shark, grow

Words don't mean anything
for the ink only fades,
the led only smudges,
and words are ever the victims
of a poor memory;
Lost in the silence of thought.

The gears and chains clash in my mind,
As I think of a poem that is one of a kind,
To please the almighty Hannah, to be free,
To click back and only hoping she might see,
This small, awkward but rhyming mess,
Put together in midst a lonely game of chess.

:/ true story