Young Writers Society

Thirteen

they tell me to go where the wind goes
and i tried (oh how i tried) to relax;
knees bent, head back, arms out--
waiting to fly.

and fly i did
and exhilarating it was (oh so exhilarating!)
but the wind is unrelenting; ruthless.
and i was stretched this way and that
until the stitches that ran down my spine split
and out i fell while the wind carried away my skin.

i grew a new skin, a shiny coat to mask my shame
and i never did fly again

Fourteen

sticks and stones break bones;
words cut the soul.

she took their comments from the air;
clenched them in her fist and squeezed,
and lacerated her skin they did
(but honestly) maimed skin meant nothing
if it meant avoiding a broken heart

she took those words and burned them
not in a fire but on the backs of her thighs
and when summer rolls by and the sweat trickles down,
pooling between her toes and irritating her skin,
she remembers what's written and why it's there
and why it will never go away

late nights in the shower have her on the ground,
tracing the scars with a ragged fingernail,
familiarizing herself with words
that hurt more than she shows

Fifteen

i loved her from the moment my eyes fell upon her;
a vision, a sight to see
with chocolate swirls and the midnight sky reflected
in her bright, shiny eyes

i bought her flowers,
chocolates, pearls, bells,
books, drinks, clothes;
i dressed her in gold
and placed her among the stars

nothing matter;
she was dissatisfied
i was desperate
and so i begged to know the way
into her heart

she told me to write a poem,
to study her,
to trace the freckles on her body like constellations --
or are they marks on a roadmap? destinations to explore from [here]
to [here];
she told me to paint her,
to take her heart and spread it across her skin
and show the world the intimate side of her

she told me to write a poem,
to study her until i knew
just how to put her into words,
to know her better than anyone else could;
i did just that

but now i know more than i intended to know

Very choppy because I am the sleepy x_x oh well

Sixteen

i awoke one morning and decided that i was done
and so i packed my bags and left
leaving behind a note, inscribed to you and you alone
with three words written in cursive;
the ink was smeared but the message was clear
and put me into words better than any poem could:
it was time.

Seventeen

the ghosts come at night
(twelve o'five to be exact)
and god knows she's huddled beneath the covers
her body curling into itself
as if she'll disappear
and god knows she wants too

memories surface
breaking through the haze of sleep
reopening scars and lacerating wounds
into the depths of her heart

there's nothing she can do;
she's weak; the ghosts know her better
than she knows herself
and they've learned her darkest secrets
and god knows they use them against her

drugs, books, music, television,
even the presence of another,
nothing stops them from coming
and they find her at night
(twelve o'five to be exact)
huddled beneath the covers
her hands over her ears,
and god knows she's praying for sunrise

they call it insomnia;
she's got another word for it

Eighteen

she stands at the base of a red oak tree,
hands pressed against the bark
and the texture is rough and calluses form
merging with the lines of her palms;
they sting but she doesn't pull away

around the width she walks,
her fingernails chipping;
they sting but she doesn't pull away
because that tree is tall and strong and proud
and everything she's ever wanted to be

back to where she started
she lets her head fall back,
eyes raised towards the heavens
brows furrowed in thought;
she is a statue, made of stone
(if only for a moment)
before she moves

hands outstretched,
head held high,
eyes forward and steady

minutes pass and she is stiff,
tiny quivers rack her body;
it hurts but she stays there anyways
because that tree is solid and steady and constant
and everything she ever wanted to be

Nineteen

i lost myself somewhere along the way
between the cracks in my childhood,
my innocence shredded
by clucking tongues and wagging fingers,
by dotted lines that demanded to be signed
and phone calls that would trill and shrill

no more did i stop to smell the roses
or bask in the sun's radiance;
every small thing in life
(raindrops on roses)
and every thing that made me feel good
(whiskers on kittens)
didn't matter anymore

and now i understood why
eight year old me never received a reply
to the message in a bottle i rolled out into the sea;
imagination is lost when you become an adult
and things like messages in a bottle brought in by the tide
just don't happen


Credit to the song "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music.

Twenty

take my hand
run your finger along the lines
imprinted in my palm and trace
the pathway of veins and arteries
that show beneath taut skin

i want you to follow them,
trail behind as they spread out
to explore my body;
a intricate railroad
that spans across my being
and flutters my heartbeat
(like hummingbirds)
against the surface

take off my clothes if you must
(i don't mind)
and touch every piece of skin,
every limb and every hair;
go inside if you must
(i don't mind)
provoke me into saying things
i wouldn't normally say
and crying out thing that we both know
but love to hear spoken aloud

i just want you to study me and count the ways you believe i belong to you



Not really word for word, but nonetheless thank you Blue October -- Amazing.

Twenty-one

On summer days I
find her, lying in a bed
of tall wildflowers.

Twenty-two

my mother always told me that i was beautiful

she brushed my blonde hair into high ponytails
that pulled at my scalp and tore them from their roots
she painted my face with reds and blues,
the pallet becoming a palette,
coating my lips and dusting my eyelids
with makeup that would smear minutes after she set me free

she bought me white dresses and lacy underthings,
rich eggplant purses and bejewled pumps
she lived for special occassions
where she would slip me between the walls of itchy fabric
and shove my feet into black Louboutins
that made me teether and stumble with every step

finally, i had enough
i told her that i didn't feel beautiful;
she told me i didn't understand beauty
and i told her she didn't understand the meaning of beauty

Twenty-three

every day i find her in the choir room
she spends every free moment in there,
her fingers dancing across the piano keys
or her feet carrying her across the stands,
her melodic voice filling the room

the doors are often wide open
and people tend to stop and stare;
they snicker and point but dismay she doesn't,
merely turns her back and carries on

i find myself coming by more often,
enthralled by the way she closes her eyes
and drifts away, losing herself in the music
and one day i come inside and beg for her to teach me,
because she has the ability to pluck notes out of thin air
when music isn't playing, and she continues the song
and i want to be able to do that too

Loving the choir room one because I know someone just like that. I am curious as to what all these titles might be...

Twenty-four

you drank potions and chanted spells,
dipping your hands into smoke
and lacing them with magic
that curled around your fingers
and burned your skin

you were envious
of the power within me
and so you challenged me to a fight
on the darkest hill at the darkest hour

i met you there beneath the willow tree
your shoulders shrouded by a cloak
and hands glowing red

we cast spells that bounced uselessly
off of each other's shields
and so eventually you grew frustrated
and got close enough to drive your hand
into my chest

you clawed your way in
desperate seeking a heart to crush
but unfortunately for you,
i don't have one.

Twenty-five

i once had a group of friends
that i met in my youth

over the years
we formed a bond that
couldn't be broken,
not by force nor words
or so we thought

one day,
when we were out of our teen years,
i had a son, and then another
and my world went from
revolving around my friends
to rotating around my children

and soon,
my friends got new friends
that came in the form of spouses
and nights out went to nights in
staying at home with our families
and while we were happy,
some days, our lovers would find us
sitting by the window and staring at the stars
wondering where the time went

Twenty-six

i once had a garden full
of lilies, roses, violets, and carnations
of all sizes, shapes, and colors

but they thrived off of happy thoughts
and when my mood wilted, so did they
one day, i hit a low point and gave up
and swallowed pills of all sizes, shapes, and colors

the doctor said my heart stopped
and when it died, so did they
and when i came back home
i found a garden full of weeds
that thrived off of dark thoughts

every day, i close my eyes
and imagine how my garden used to look
and every day, i thank god for something
i repeat this method over and over,
every time i wake up,
and one day i looked out my window
and saw bursts of colors
growing in patches among the weeds

i haven't let them die once.