Young Writers Society

We sit along blackened brick walls, playing old records while broken guitar strings— [play melancholy] husky voices singing into whisky bottles. As we sit speaking only in parables, tracing our ...

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

Something died in there. Hiding under floor planks and making love among wood lice, we were more than willing to grapple for the immediate dissatisfaction, to touch just to tear ...

Here I lay, looking upwards, What a glorious sight to behold. The eternal beauty of the Vast heavens, looking down on me. This forgotten beauty will always be with me. ...

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 ...

All the worlds touch Softly in the paper-smelling silence Of sleeping ink. All the worlds breathe And whisper words of wandering Among the wonders. All the worlds sing And dance ...

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

O frothing ocean waves that mold the lands You churn and toss your head in proud acclaim, Your playthings are the works of human hands. Chameleon skin, your ever-changing mood ...

There are so many different ways that I could be like a thousand mirrors, fragments of faces laugh as I smile. Did I learn my life from you? I have ...

I’m sick and tired of all the lies. Of all the games you play I’m sick of all the heart breaks So get out of my way. I told you ...

Brick path warm beneath my feet, Calling me to lands unknown. Follow the road laid out before me To places, thoughts, and minds that Show me What I have so ...

I haven't posted anything for a while, so I thought I'd chuck these two untitled pieces on here and see what you throw back One Like the smoke curling round ...

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 ...

Why am I still caught up in those times? Why is your picture still reflecting in my eyes? Why can’t I be happy? Why do I have to live in ...