Young Writers Society

Cemetery Heart Opening the gateway to buried mortality. A landscape of serenity, freedom from agony. Our despair and misery now remain deceased, Living souls awaiting death to bring us peace. ...

The Happiest Days of my LifeFeet sticking out round every cornerShrewd comments from behind every doorName calling on the way to EnglishAs they walk behind, need I say more?These are ...

Petrified. Those lids refuse to close Perhaps, they will cease to open once more? I’m I beholding my final scenery of life? Soon to become another haunting memory floating between ...

Hehe. To me, it pretty much was just a load of pants up until the last line: 'you see, the truth is, I don't have a basement or clay jars ...

This is the end of a story I am writing. The last two lines from the two main characters Jess and Joanie and the poem. Here in Gethsemane “We okay ...

beautiful guitars and mesmeric music taught you the ninetyseventytwo style, and since you could only afford unlicensed radio time you refused to cut your hair and a lovechild was born ...

already your face has become blurred. a static image, faltering in my minds eye. even as i write this, the shape of your mouth is fading from my mind. but ...

Hullo. The Haiku is entitled "To Be Dead: Haiku." Tell me what ye think... 7-19-05 To be dragonfly; dead. To be gone; to be sky, and spirit, and s*n. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

7-19-05 I’d like to see you, sprawled out, splayed naked beneath the remorseless summer sun to feel you, breathing with pillows of bitter softness, and long-dried tears... The things that’ve ...

Hmm. Dark, but I like it. *laughs* I'm horrible at critiquing poetry. There's something about the last few lines though. I don't think it works for me. I don't know ...

Broken ideals decorate the path Error Corrected thoughts discarded Images of dirt filled imprints on the floor For the sounds of empty jugs of delivered water push into the vision ...

i would never admit to anyone but coffee stained notebooks and the anonymous white screen that i think of you. sometimes i try and hide it even from myself. if ...

The grips of the mind Tearing apart the grain Friction giving way of the scalar emotion of the sane Crouched alone, in the rain Destroyiing the sent of a love. ...

i know a girl who likes to write pretentious things like 'long live denim' on misty windows with cherry lipstick, like a horror movie with less screaming but even more ...

Night calls the living thoughts Day remembers them with fuzzy detail. Connected paths mix with within Falling situations make their place. The thought The mood The passing Become a single ...