Young Writers Society

1.
is it cheating if you only cheat
yourself?

(I've decided the answer is yes so I owe you a lot of fragments of poetry. Anything not in brackets is pretending to be a poem.)

2.
I asked google for a poem
and it spat back language
like an unearthed foetus
strangled by its umbilical cord.

3.
You who stood before your father's eyes
and looked at him.
The beer puddled in his smiles,
hazy like the sky at overcast O'clock.

my fingers are
frozen, and so
are my toes.

although, they have no
excuse -
they're buried beneath cotton
and shoe.

last night, while dozing,
the words, "naked and
intimate in their
solitude"
popped into my head without
permission, while i was
wiggling my toes
under the covers.

now, in the daylight,
i can make no sense
of that strange
metaphor.

The Zombies of Xavier Lane

On Xavier Lane on a day in the rain
in an upside down canoe
were people afraid of the choices they made
to see the apocalypse through.

A week had gone by since the tread of a fly
on the back of a terrier's paw

and since Rydia left to go early to bed
and regret she could write no more

My thunder pulses by my neck
and in the crook of my arm,
cool power clustering and shooting
angle pains into my organs,
they light like skies, struck
blind by the sleet and fear.
I have no words in the shower
of cold, angry beads down my spine
only the thick howl from my core,
tightly spiraling into my toes
and I am grounded.

He walked,
where they told him not to tread.
They said to him, 'Once you wander in,
you may not wander out. That place leads
to other lands.'

He walked,
where they told him not to tread.
Into other lands, with new things,
wonderful things,
terrible things,
and brave things.

And he wandered back to tell them all,
'Walk where you want to walk.
It's the only way to find where you belong.'

I'm here cause PenguinAttack tricked me. Lol<3 And this poem is called Indifference... or Perspectives? I don't know, I'm sleepy. XD

If the undertow is sweeping the city,
it's not as simple anymore.
But if the optimist doesn't want to see it,
it's okay cause his soul will carry on.

If a tsunami is massaging your feet,
it's not as tragic as you think.
But if the pessimist wants to grieve,
it's okay cause he will live.

When reality smacks your face,
it won't matter if you cry tears of happiness or rage,
for you'll still be drowning in the waves,
just like everybody else.

You can float, swim or hesitate,
but you will certainly get wet;
You will either sway or haste,
but that won't stop life anyway.

she bottles breast milk and keeps it
in the back of the freezer until it's not clear
if it's milky or cracked-through ice,
and still she will not call her mother first.

the call comes through and she would rather do anything.
she keeps looking at the other people in the room
for an excuse and a line -- she'd grab another woman's
umbilical cord if it mean she could be pulled away
from the ringing in her ears.

Grass and bark sink gently
into the mud and rise quickly
in the rapid pools by the gutter,
even these smell like summer rain,
the thin weight of scent carrying
between droplets and into our skin.
I want to stand ankle deep
and lift my face to the weeping sun,
smile and breathe that weight in,
let it sink into my belly and remember
I still grow.

Why should I be happy? when
happiness is supposedly temporary,
and nothing of me -
not thoughts, words,
actions or condition -
fade with age or time.

Standing here, I can only stare out at the darkness
which surrounds me like the sun.
Desperately, I can only stare at the distance.
I want so much to move over there, out of this darkness
that comes from too much light.

There is a wall surrounding me, it holds me tight as I touch it.
The surface is rough and painful to touch, but I want through!
I want to be over there. I can't see out of this light
into the blindness
and I know that I could be reaching into the mouth of a foreign beast
but I want to feel his teeth.
My hand sinks through the pain tingling through my arm.
I shut my eyes and fall like oxygen through water,
losing just enough to come out the other side
evaporated.

Crouching on the cold ground, I realize
that I wanted to be over here
just because it wasn't where I was.
Constantly moving, I need to leave.
There is no more blindness,
but now I cannot hear.

Where-ever I stand,
I lose a sense
and I must fight to regain it
desperately clinging to four out of five.
All we can do is four out of five, right?
Enlighten me.

Crestfallen, my feathers are weighed, keeping me grounded, free from flight.

I want to soar to the highest treetops, embrace the butterflies' dance, and set with the sun.

Anger shackles my feet, keeping me anchored.

I want to soar to the highest treetops, embrace the butterflies' dance, and set with the sun.

A inch worm crawls closer, waving it's body, greeting the fireflies.

I want to soar to the highest treetops, embrace the butterflies' dance, and set with the sun.

A spider finishes it's web, a dream-catcher of its own accord.

I want to soar to the highest treetops, embrace the butterflies' dance, and set with the sun.

Everything settles, crickets join the frogs in lullaby; they all come towards the place I long to escape.

I want to soar to the highest treetops, embrace the butterflies' dance, and set with the sun.

(Pardon my nonsense, it's late )

One

Four

Three
Two
Seven

One, four, three,
Sixteen
Twelve

Two, two, two.

The Zombies of Xavier Lane

On Xavier Lane on a day in the rain
in an upside down canoe
were people afraid of the choices they made
to see the apocalypse through.

A week had gone by since the tread of a fly
on the back of a terrier's paw
and the world was fast changed, the people deranged
until they weren't people no more.

But in the canoe, the brave trio who
had determined to rescue the land,
they talked of disease and were almost at ease,
the scientist, doctor and

"Well why are you hear? It really is queer,
what do you think you can do?"


But then, what a bore! She must to the store
said Rydia as she ran out the door.

Valentine

That great, bloody maw cracking
in two, lips split wide and aching
down to the collar bone.
Again, he cries, come at me!
And the world spins so slightly
that the axis skips
one heartbeat
two hand spans
the spattered grass settles
in sticky clumps,
burning red.

Grandma says,
there's nothing to planting
trees in the morning,
just smile, shift and grow.
And so
the soil under my nails
is dark and smells
like worms and leaves.