Young Writers Society

Limits are the string inside the candle
We think this little wax string is all that matters
But truly they are just fuses that we allow to burn short
Limits are what we make them, our fuses are as short as our patience

Candles aren't strings but thick wax worn down by the heat from the fuse
The wax encases the wick and the heat doesn't wear it down so quickly
The wax is what matters, the wax is patience

There is a short school desk
containing all the things we have borrowed:
a broken pencil, an eraser vandalised in blue ballpoint,

a shell from the sea,
an old rental car,
a false memory,

and underneath those things,
inside the drawer,
a dusty year,
a month,
a day.

sometimes, it is not so difficult to imagine that the earth is flat,
that we're all balanced on the edge and trying not to fall,
like at the end of this all, there is nothing left -
that we have all tricked ourselves into believing light is turning,
and not disappearing when night swallows up the sun.

sometimes, it is not so difficult to imagine that when you left,
i drowned somewhere in a lake, 10,000 leagues deep,
and that you left my body there, for the fish and sea to inhabit -
that i tricked myself into believing you were an anchor,
just for you to learn to fly, further than i had imagined the sky could stretch.

sometimes, if i'm honest, i almost prefer this way of thinking,
that valleys, and skies, and earth, and grief are finite,
but there is no comfort in lying to myself - and i promised myself,
along with the sun, i will not stop here, i will not fall.

i will not bury myself, i will not drown,
i refuse to allow the fish to eat me alive -
i will not stop chasing the edge of tomorrow, until
this day too has turned, and light has come again.

Let's keep the talking at a bare minimum
I don't want you to think that I care.
Fingertips caressing hair, goosebumps galore
We weave a web of tangled affair.
You feel me all around, fair to the touch
Yet when you look I'm not really there.

This is a poem I have saved in my drafts and haven't finished

"Let us write something."
Anything? I ask.
"Not anything, young one, but something profound;
Something to stir the soul, to soothe the mind, to mend the heart;
Something to carve into stone where others may see it;
Something that curls into smoke, that others may breathe it;
Something that speaks to the lost; something that will be found."
I look up into his great brown eyes and ask,
How will we write such a thing?
"I will help you weave the words together,
But you must find the words.
I will forge your sentences,
If you first grant me supplies.
Fetch me silver and gold and iron,
Splintered wood and curling fire -
Never stolen, perhaps borrowed,
But they are always finest when they
Are from your own mines and forests -
Bring me these and allow me to work.
And together we shall write something."

Why a poem
As an offering?
Surely people want
Something else instead?
I know anyone else
Would want something else.
Except all the poets
Starving for words.

White flower-clusters
on a branch, being spattered
by morning rainfall.

I have picked up a habit of believing these messages in bottles were meant for me; these stray creases on leaves, and cracks on side-walk paths, and birds darting towards the clouds. Well, yes, you could say everything is only coincidence. But how exactly do you explain to me how yesterday a sprout was springing from my kitchen sink-drain, borne of an unsunk tomato seed, except to believe that the world seems very eager to say hello, and I will not pretend anything less.

she says she's always
wanted to fall in love with a poet.

it scares her how i always find a way
to compare love to tragedy. i think
that's how life works; you can't have
anything to yourself anymore. you can't
write without comparing everything
to something else.

everything reminds me of her
and it makes me feel like the world is ending.
i want to tell her every poem i've ever written
is about her, even the ones that existed
long before i knew what poetry was.

she says she wants me to write about her more,
that she's addicted to the feeling. for once,
my words are something more than just words.
i think the most evil thing is to be useless,
second only to being loved.

The thin bobbing branch
has five notches, its flower,
five petals - dwindling.

i am a candle
my wax is melting
my wick is burning
but this is life isnt it
melting and burning
and waiting for
something

Evening – spring garden,
the cherry blossom branch hangs
over the bushes.

For Whom the Bells Toll

do you hear them?
i can.
even though they’re eons away,
even though their sickly tune is so faint,
i can hear them.

the silver bells,
the sleigh bells,
the jingle bells,
i hear them.

i hear them;
the carol of the bells.

their sonorous melody haunts my deepest nightmares.
you can never get away from them.
never.
with every new year brings a new bout of agony,
new torment for my weary soul.

for whom?, you ask feebly, for whom do the bells toll?
i laugh, but this is no laughing matter.

“for Her,” i say, “they toll for Her”

I had forgotten what this was
And forgotten the dangers
Of clicking on what you don't know.

So I clicked.
And it was my doom.
Now I have to write a poem for you.

I had already done this,
But failed to remember
Beware the poisonous Poem Spot!

JK, I love this thread.
So clever, this idea.
Smart, to demand an offering

of poetry
before someone
is able to leave


Well here it is...
Here you go...
It sucks but
I spent all my energy
On a different poem
Earlier
On this site

i had a cinnamon snack
and was distracted by clickity
clack click clacking
now ive ran into poem demanding
i must leave something here before
returning to snacking