Young Writers Society

but how 'bout them pl0t tw!sts?

In a foreign country, you were the first one I met who spoke my language.

home is where the haunt is

It's as if I am Atlas.

Sometimes tears are only tears. Sunsets are only sunsets. And my freckles are not a map of constellations that will help me find you again.

all I did was apologize for getting blood on her carpet.

poems

just me wanting to vent

I hate winter. I hate cold mornings. I hate cold waffles. (a poem)

A poem collection straight out my nightmares

I was inspired to write this when I was looking out my window, watching everyone pass by on the street below.

i see nothing

​When I remember that you would still love me tomorrow, even if I wasn't here, it makes me wait.

The difference between you and a poem is that poetry breaks me in ways I need to be broken. You broke me.

Language Art’s assignment I’d love some feedback on!