Young Writers Society

If only I could draw,
then I would make my depression come alive.
Through vivid images and beautiful scenes
they would tell the stories that my words just can't.
But I am trapped.

If only I could sing,
then I would belt out the pain and the sorrows.
All throughout the nights of endless tears
such freedom I would find in those songs.
But I am trapped.

If only I could run,
then I would flee from this world and hide
in the caves of my loneliness I would rest and never go back.
Peace would finally be mine.
But I am trapped.

If only I could
Then I would.
But I am trapped by myself,
And there is no running from yourself.

The Differences Between the Seasons

Fall into love as you
fall into winter; a chill
indifference, uncertain
mercury stares, shifting
collisions of vision
we hold hands now because
the cold air keeps secrets
of frequent limits exceeded.
-
It is my folly as
the fault lines shift and
the fault lies with me
it's getting warmer,
sucking truth like marrow
from our bones.
-
Tell-all summer, spilled secrets,
burn marks from the pain
thin skin, see through in
the white light
I paint the covers over us,
some disclosure for
the open daylight
-
the summer is noise
neverending, promising
nothing, but
you keep holding my hand

that moment when your heart is swelling
and you can feel every emotion
vibrating on your skin
there are no words

its like seeing the sun shine
while you stand in the rain
living in an indescribable battle
or peace
being so sure about something
thats not there
you feel the brush of individual fingers

the poetry bumps within your veins
begging to be free
in that moment punctuation
are bars
and time
is a curse

the poetry loses its glow
after the first stanza

it is dark after the third

the fourth is never finished

but within you
you hide the poetry of a moment
too beautiful for words

beauty is in the eyes of the beholder,
i get it, we get it--the world gets it.
you can repeat this idiom
whenever someone says
if only my nose were
if only my legs weren't
i really don't like my
and you'll succeed in shutting them up;
it's a rule.
but there's such a central flaw with the argument
because a beholder will say you are beautiful
let me kiss your eyelids and in the morning
say i have a girl to honor, i can't do this again
and the beholder will leave because that's
the nature of people. it's really not his fault
because the beholder will always feel noble.
i made him realize
how beautiful he is
and he'll think this when he holds her hips,
when he's leaving marks on her neck
because toothplay is just his thing.
beauty is in the eye of the beholder
because the beholder is avaricious,
because nobility is a means to an end.
i'll wake up in the morning and feel the cold he left;
i'll find a mirror and see the hair that shades my chin
and i'll say to myself that beauty left in the night,
beauty always leaves in the night.