Young Writers Society

two hands i hold; His and his
like the stories of old
i trade nothing for this

one like the shade of bluebells
jingling in the rain
honey eyes shimmering
with a joy i can’t explain

shall i fall under your enchantment?
like some magical fairies brew?
to be a love like bluebells
basking their pleasant hue

sprouting through the woodlands
nestled among the trees
is that my lovely bluebell
waving in the breeze?

oh my charming bluebell
once searching in despair
yet to your beauty nothing
no, nothing can compare

so let us cross horizons
growing where we stand
blossoming like bluebells
strolling hand in hand

i wish you could hear my voice, even as i cry at my desktop,
no, i’m not asking to hear yours, although i’d love to.
i just want you to hear me utter,
one sentence, one word, one syllable,
or maybe i’ll just be talking to the empty summer breeze,
like before.

i wish you could feel my hands, even as i bury my face in them,
no, i’m not asking to feel yours, although i'd love to,
i just selfishly want you to feel my warmth–
whatever's left of me, and realize,
that maybe, there's something valuable in the remnants of what
you left.

i wish you could see my eyes, even as i drown in my self-pity,
no, i'm not asking to see yours, although i'd love to,
i just want you to see this pain that you've given me i've given myself,
and then you'll comfort me, and all will be forgiven,
perhaps i still hope to cling to you, to forcefully take the joy that you've
given to another.

i wish you could give me what you took back, though i know it will only burden you,
after all, what is love but self-indulgence?
maybe beneath this myriad of tears that i've shed is only a greedy pig,
maybe humans should never feel warmth, lest we burn ourselves to ashes,
but i still would like you to see my smile
once more

i wish i could stand before you, perhaps then, we’ll see eye to eye,
and i might find closure, and we may part ways
but is it too much to hope for something real?
we can take off our masks and see the ugliness inside
and finally, perhaps i’ll stop shedding my tears at my desktop
“no.”

i wish you could taste my pain, perhaps then i'll feel like i've gotten my revenge
i thought this was love? why are you now my enemy?
but then as i see you cry i begin to cry to myself
i thought this was love? why are we both in such pain?
but perhaps these tears are just fake, and i'm just crying
just so that you can see.

i wish
i could hear
your voice

just one last time,
even as i cry at my desktop,
burying my face in my hands,
drowning in my self-pity,
hiding behind this clever mask that i wear,

(perhaps then i'll remember what it was like?)
(to feel the empty summer breeze)
(and wish that time would stop)
(and nothing would change)
(and nothing mattered)
(it was just us)
(or just me)
(at least)

(but we both know there was nothing there at all)

what color are your tears?
do you ever see them running down your face,
and you grab them, thinking ‘now everything makes sense,’
‘now i can prove that i’m sad’
or maybe that’s just me

some people’s tears are deep blue
they cry because they’re sad, and they’re sad because they cry
they’re honest with themselves,
isn’t that so wonderful?
but really, that’s just them

some people’s tears are fiery red
after a surge of emotion, the tears follow up in a storm
they cry when they’re angry, they cry when they’re sad
they cry because they hate the world
isn’t that so wonderful?
of course, that’s just them

some tears can be bright yellow
people cry when they’re happy, when they feel joy
maybe after a particularly emotional book
or an amazing accomplishment
isn’t that so wonderful?
shut up, that’s just them

some people’s tears are pitch black
they’re just like me, they lie to themselves
and try to make sense of their emotions with something concrete
and grab their tears to observe
and examine them just to prove that it’s real
that they’re actually sad
that i’m actually sad
am i actually sad?
don’t listen, it’s just me

what color are your tears?
do you ever look in the mirror while you cry
and observe them as they run down your face?
perhaps your tears are transparent
you don’t even know what color your tears are
so you read poems about their color
and stare apathetically at the ramblings of a liar
go away, it’s only you

t/w death

i was cleaning my room today,
isn’t that so great?
you used to always bug me about that,
but now i do it every day

i found an old pair of mittens,
perhaps purchased many winters ago
i’m sure you bought it for me
it didn’t matter at the time

the mittens are so small
meant for a me of many years before
i never really needed it
the house was always so warm

it was placed in an old cookie box,
you always talked about reusing those
instead of wasting money
i make lots of money now

i got mad at you that day
“Why can’t you get me a normal present?”
“Why can’t you be a normal mom?”
but you still kept those mittens

i never meant to say that, to hurt you
i wish i could see you, to talk to you
and show you my hands
wrapped in these wonderful mittens

i tried those mittens on today
they’re not my size anymore
i wish you were here to buy another pair for me
after all, it’s a little chilly at your graveside

Dreams are a gateway to our past,
portal to worlds beyond human grasp.
In slumber's embrace, we journey afar
to realms where spirits and memories are.

The departed ones, they return to us again
conjured by our mind, a fleeting space within.
Their presence is felt and their voices heard,
though in reality, their faces have blurred.

Cravings and longing from daily lives
are keys to portals when night arrives.
Time bends and twists, memories entwined,
as our minds create a world undefined.

In dreams, we find a moment's Solace,
as we embrace their heavenly presence.
Conversations are held and hearts renewed,
In dreams, the veil of death is subdued.

Feeling their vulnerable heartbeat again
we're reminded of our mistakes and the pain.
But the dawn breaks and dreams fade away,
leaving us again with a bittersweet dismay.

But it's not the last time we'll meet, we know,
a new portal opens, as whispers of night grow.
Dawn will come again to make the spirit go away
we hold on to hope, for another rendezvous someday.

Their essence lingers, though dreams may wane,
in our hearts, their love will forever remain.

Mom loved “Can I talk to you for a sec”



Mom loved “And there was a duck there”



Mom questioned “And thought”



Mom loved “But she just watched me”


Mom laughed at “I bet she was happy to see the rain”


Mom disliked “She was alone”



Mom questioned “But then!”



Mom laughed at “Super eager”



Mom questioned “I’m kind of worried though”



Mom disliked “I never saw her come up”


Mom liked “9:00?”



Mom loved “Maybe we can go to the dock”


Mom loved “Looking forward to seeing you soon :)”



Mom loved “I love yo”
Mom loved “*you”

fall is coming. i see her
in the red, orange, and yellow that is slowly
overtaking the leaves,

hear her song through the wind, in the silent footsteps
behind me on the sidewalk as i pause to notice a fallen leaf.

fall is everywhere, so fast, but not soon enough. and i see
that summer is protesting in all of the wilting flowers, and hear

her crying when the last petals fall to the ground, in a way
that makes me wonder what she wants us to know. every time

i recognize her voice, it's already too late.

but fall is gently nudging me, telling me to forget-we learned enough
from the sun, and now it is time to know the rain.

what, if anything, is essential to being human? [a definition]

when i was a child, i dreamed of catching a cloud in a jar.
i wanted to jump out of a plane into the cumulus,
and scoop off a piece for myself.
i wanted to keep it on my shelf, and look at it swirl.
but now i know that it's just mist,
tiny crystals of ice floating in the sky.
i could never keep it in a jar,
and my dreams are unreachable.

the sky still mists as i step outside, dampening my clothing.
it's dark and calm, and it feels like a dream
or a memory long-forgotten.
it's like time stopped,
and the world is taking a breath
before continuing its journey.
the tree leaves drip onto my head
as i veer to avoid a puddle,
and the streetlamps look like little clouds,
highlighting every minuscule droplet surrounding them.
this time is simple, with nothing complex
to try to understand.
so i walk, breathe,
and enjoy this little bit of life.

sometimes i swear you still see me
in the sand you sink into
at the beach, your sunburned skin
remembering spain,
remembering the rain
not falling mainly on the plain
but on slippery hill streets
just steps from the sea.
does the salt taste like me?

am i stubborn as a stain
of rioja wine you scrubbed and scrubbed
off your pamplona-white shirt but it stays
no matter what you say, you can't scare
me away and now you're afraid
you're going insane the way i did that spring
i was sick but i thought myself a sage?

do i stray into your bored seconds
the way you settle into mine, the nonsensical
speculation sprouting in your mind:
what if i had loved her
the way she claimed to love me?

it's strange to speak of it, but it doesn't have
to make sense to stick to you
and refuse to slip away.

what is the mean
of life at 32? statistics say
i should be married now, have a kid or 2.5,
be several sizes smaller, have kissed more
people, have wasted less years in school
for a dream that never made sense for me.

some deviations are standard, acceptable.
my IQ was several deviations above the mean
expected for an eight year old, and that meant
I would always be the good kind of outlier.

but mine are far from standard. the secret
twelve-year fight with a disorder that makes
men tremble at the mere name, bipolar.
the constant balancing acts of medications and sleep
and trying not to fall apart over perfectly average
work weeks at my blessedly average job.

if i am below the bell curve, it is not
for lack of trying. though i can't imagine
a mean life is a nice one. is crawling up the bell
curve to reside with the masses the most
i can hope for?

this is not a poet’s depression.
there is no melodramatic lament
for a love lost (though I am purposefully avoiding the cave of wonder-
ing if i can even love at all).
there is no flowering nostalgia
for some long-gone halcyon days
(even the sweetest ambrosia memories have bitter aftertastes).
there is just a too-large body
trapped between two monitors
and a phone all day
and then too exhausted
(though i have no right to be, with no kids or husband to mind)
to bother with living when I’m free (on nights and weekends
like an old cellphone plan).

I wait and wait under a pile of shoes
for someone who might notice
me.
Maybe a moment, just a glance
before they walk away.

I swear it's not
me.
But maybe it is. Did I ever say something wrong?
It's hard to tell from under here, when they never bring
me
out to play.

Maybe my colors are faded
from being in the sun so long.
Maybe I'm dull and gray.
I guess that's why I'm all alone
each and every day.

They took
me
out once or twice. That's all they ever did.
And they never talked. Not to
me.
Even when I had something to say.

Outside, it snows, but never rains.
I watch the bleak cold from inside
where it is warm.
I miss the colors of the flowers
and wish it was May.

A week later they pick
me
up.
Finally! After so long.
They rush
me
outside and I see
the sky!
So... dark?
I must have forgotten since
I could not see from where I used to lay.

It's drizzling, but I don't care.
I'm held above the crowd.
I feel as light as a bird
and before I know it
I'm drifting higher
into the clouds
as I fly away.

The wind caught my outstretched tips
and decided to take
me
far.
I cannot see where I was before
and I know
I'll never find my way.

Maybe it doesn't matter.
They never seemed to care.
They only ever held
me
high above their heads.
Warm and dry while I got
soaking wet.
And I get the feeling
they never wanted
me
to stay.

there is a strange limbo in the time before a goodbye.
the anticipation of something i know cannot be warded off
builds up in the heavy floor of my belly.
if friendship is a fabric, i haven't decided how to take care of it just yet --
should i pull at the fraying edges so that it's gone
before the goodbye has a chance to take it from me
or should i absorb every detail until my eyes my ears my nose my mouth are full:
the threading, the discolouration, the smell, the parallel feeling
against my finger pads. the overstimulation of all these senses will make the goodbye
so much louder, so much more breaking when it comes crashing down,
i know. but it feels faithless
to let this slip away into a jumble of yarn and knots.
years later i might fancy myself an anthropologist of sorts
and claim i have reconstructed our history -- but really i will have woven in the accumulation
of years of misremembering. will our fate be any different if i desperately try
to preserve us in the last moment before we leave? we will always unweave eventually.
there are buttons in my belly and i feel sick.