Young Writers Society

My mother I love her she is beautiful, even glowing but her soul is pleading for release her charades hurt I must understand she needs her space My mother has ...

They know not of my age nor do they care the influence of despoliation induces hatred my criminal ravishment permeates through me feelings profound shadows flaunt freedom my hysteria is ...

here I am once again, singing out of tune dancing without rythym painting without paint flying without wings kissing the non existant youth oh sweet sir may I interest you ...

Don't even bother.. Maggots fed the hollows in my heart, writhing to the strumming acoustics that resonate from your melody. Bereft of those late nights, those drunk second-rate nights, I ...

Well, the useal I guess Brad, well done descriptions etc. For some reason I didn't like the 2 line structure and the way you cut off the sentences in order ...

Drift along On the sea of life The cliche, the metaphor Thats always used Why do we make poems Why do we express Why do we write stories In beats ...

Sitting alone in my room, The telly blares and the radio goes boom, It's all getting way too much, I see the knife and make a clutch, I hold it ...

Iv deleted this text coz like bubble wrapped said...not good to post your name, and also it WAS a school assignment, my stuff isnt that good but i am only ...

who she is, I have no idea, but she brings me cigarettes and a reason to smoke. the reason, of course, is to combat the slow decay of reminiscence, so ...

hay swain two sit entwining hay, golden flax spinning into rope between their fingers, the quietus of an autumns day settling like the lord’s mantle on their shoulders. and she ...

This poem is more of a song ((for reasons that would take too long to explain)) but it can be a poem. I wasn't sure where to put it, because ...

This poem has been knocking around in my head for a while, but I am having trouble on several accounts: 1. I need to work in the main context of ...

The title is taken from the song, Maria, from Paint Your Wagon. The poem itself is a bit tweaky and here and there but I've been crying... give me another ...

I speak of shadows Filter the night The long distance stars Shine on me so bright I watch the future Fade in your hand There still is so much That ...

Tiny white knuckles, gentle baby's knees. The way that changing a foul diaper never offends. True baby's breath. Not as flowery as a bouquet, but just as sweet, and twice ...