Young Writers Society

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

The Wanderer had been traveling all her life, with no destination. Then came the day when everything changed.

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!