Young Writers Society

These were just some ideas that I want to unleash: things buzzing around in my head. It's not my best work, far from it, but I enjoyed writing it. ---------------------- ...

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There are no limitations, To my celebrations of the coast. The water is smooth, And to prove it I can feel The soft as silk waves, I see a boy ...

The blissfulness Of listlessness Lying in a sweet summer blanket Wrapped in heat and swarms Of honeyed sunbeams Requisites of helium Exploding infinitely Consuming endlessly Yearning slightly for Less

It is perhaps an inexplicable passion for self-improvement... that we possess. So give me your revolutionary writers with their lives cut too short Who serve to excite the immovable And ...

I don't do poetry - I've tried in the past, and failed. I just seem to have lots of trouble doing it (and have lots of respect for those who ...

The world must be different, for those who can do the splits. Spread their legs around the world. In Tokyo, I see a foot. In Canada, I see an eye. ...

Is It Real? Tied: To be bound. I can't escape emotions. They haunt me. They stalk me. They watch me. But it isn't as if they're living in my dreams. ...

The House that Jack Kerouac Built [Second Verse] I have found the weeds which Ophelia wound around wrists and ankles; and Chatterton measured the moon. Flirtaceous perrenials blooms of boyhood ...

chapter fifteen descent. she's dry against the mead-colored sunset, bleeding browns and whites. whatever happened to her neverland? whatever happened to riverdance? on waiting list for stronger squall

Pork Roast, I wish you were here. Pork Roast, your smell is near. The thought of you makes my mouth water. But I know this is all a deram. Even ...

Springtime's breeze sets grasses dancing, Waving, bending, twirling round. Springtime's sun works warm entrancing, Coaxing flowers from the ground. Birds with trilling, warbling song, Brook with curre

The House that Jack Kerouac Built full of anecdotes and real world mythologies tampered by the patois of the north, and poetry pages so far from filial, bloated with cognac, ...

*Necessary disclaimer: Yes, the first line isn't mine. I just borrowed it to play for a little while. If all the world’s a stage to me Then all that I ...

Rural landscape steams by; smoke sticks to the glass, Too quiet here for noise or fuss. Or shallow thought. Lawn laid out like a thousand picnic spreads, 'Cept now your ...