Young Writers Society

I make a mantra and silently
think in circles:

he is not him,
him is not he.
Dreams are not real
and they never will be.

(in the middle of the night
i am building worlds
where he loves me)

(I def. needed to see this thread today. <33333)

part of my soul went missing
somewhere between
needs and must -

i tried finding it, again,
smelling books and words
pent up on shelves

but the words swam away
from clutching fingers
holding too tight

to see.

dialogue bingo

B I N G O
do you enjoy steak?
do you enjoy pasta?
do you enjoy being humiliated
in front of your new boss
because the work you're paid for
is numbing your mind
to the point of stupidity.
do you enjoy tv dinners
in front of a broken screen
at home when you're let go?
do you enjoy grapes?
do you enjoy picking crumbs
off the carpet as an all day activity?

do
you
inside the bedroom
there are pictures of your mother
in dusty frames that smell like homes for old people
and soup you never made quite like
your grandmother.

you are setting them all on their faces
so you can close the curtains
and rot in peace.

My delicate Angry Birds hat.
It may make me look silly.
But it can express the emotion I dare not show.

Anger.

Don't know why I am doing this.

I charged with my sword
at the evil lord.
He laughed and said:
"I am already dead.
so why do try to slay me now?"
And I replied, "Because you are a cow!"
Now that didn't sit to well with the lord,
but he reacted calmly, he said he was a Nord.
The he drew his word and he swung at me,
but I ducked and swung, chopping at his knee.
And blood gushed out as he toppled down.
On his face he had a furious frown.
And without a second thought I plunged,
and he though wounded, responded with a lunge.
Our blades clashed with loud crash!
And then again as he tried to lash
out out my exposed torso.
but I stabbed first and, Oh!
The blade sunk deep into his chest.
And he realized at last who was best
at the art of fighting with the sword,
and that I was the true Nord.

Based off of Skyrim in case you couldn't tell. Actually I am pretty proud of myself for coming up with this on the spot.

i may never sleep
like dragons in the lone dusk;
until then, hold me.

Inhale the
Nitrogenous air;
Take in the
Atmosphere.
Keep it there for a while.
Exhale.

especially when
i am twixed and twain and mixed
and i am falling off the bed
especially then
forgive me.

i got a new notebook the other day
that itches to be filled
with the color and smell of fall -

but that's telling, you know
and stop before pen hits page.

Yeah, def. bumping this. Because midnight poetry is good for the soul. Or something.

11/24/13 12:13 AM

the smell hits you first
and the thought that all these places
for all their dressings
smell the same

of lost hope and courage
dunked in disinfectant and baby wipes,
sleep tinged by the smell of pennies in fingers
that smear red -
pushing facts and options
until they settle somewhere overhead
and dance in the neon lights
the blackout curtains couldn't quite contain.

home smells of wet cat
and distance.

your heart thuds in the silence.

Through bloody hollows
Through broken screens,
Ever does the nat doth glean

It's greedy eyes are shriveled husk
It's mind a faint departed box
But ever does the nat draw anger
To annoy and buzz those much greater

20 second time limit.

it's a series of nothings
wrapped in frenetic energy
that leaves you too breathless for words -

you've forgotten how to talk
without pen in hand
and notes to guide you
beyond the jokes between family
long forgotten, only reminisced.

despair has nothing on false hope
and lies spread to garner fear
to threaten and control
that which threatens to reappear.



[i am not sure if this is fragments or a poem. oh well]

A quick reflection? No,
it almost seemed as if I were
constrained, rushed, chased
by the demand of this post.

We have all the time, here
we have time like always, which
we squander, perhaps waste, and
we sit in the silence in this thought.

The silence that comes
once the poem is done
once it has left your embrace
once it is there for the world to see,
and does not your heart flutter?

As if a your beloved was sent off
to fend for itself, ahh and what do you wish of it?
Your thoughts, your words devised?
What are your wishes for your poem
released? Praise? Recognition? What is it?

Do you wish it to be utterly destroyed,
condemned and battered to stupidity?
Will it be uplifted by the thoughtless masses
who speak of its inspiration
of its beauty and worth?
Do their words add one tittle
to the worth of your poem?

Call back your beloved child,
and revel in narcissism, in the
calm muteness of your inaction,
and do not want any more
than the purity of your silence.

I can feel the world falling, but it's not falling for me,
I can hear the clouds rattle,their jarring symphony.
These emerald eyelids just flutter and quake,
and my heart jeers at me like I'm the mistake.
But pull through me, world. Just watch me dive -
these moonlit shadows coax me out alive.
But ah, life, stranded on a deserted island shore,
and I yell, then I scream but I'm not so sure anymore.
Leave me, out here in the maroon music,
and listen to the wind blow through my heart.
And hear the world freeze, an act come to an end,
so the world drowns my sound, the notes all depart,
and I'm left standing in a moor on my own.

This might not make sense because I randomly typed it.

[I find it really interesting where people seem to snag their inspiration from in moments of panic.]

White-washed walls
glimmer
like snow sheened mountains

wastelands in
the blinking caverns
of some old mans mind

and what of him?
with crooked bones
and an aging conscience

wood will rot
and worms will feed
but medals etched

with the one name he can't forget
remind him of secrets
the trumpets never told

only blacken
under a matches wrath
leaving crop circles in the gold