Young Writers Society

Removed due to publication.

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. ...

Little did she know, She had a friend in me. Little did I know, That- she could see.

I wrote this when I was still 12... So when I was 12 I believed that stanzas had to be certian amount of lines, adn this was during the time ...

None of it makes sense anymore. When cons start outweighing pros, and hope becomes a screaming infant tied to a stick and beaten repeatedly against the concrete sidewalk, and every ...

There once was a tissue named Bradley Who could only do things quite sadly. He snuffled and moaned And bickered and groaned And got thrown away quite gladly.

As beautiful as heaven, Just like a butterfly. They fly around like rain drops Filling up the bright blue sky. You draw you self away from them, Come crashing down ...

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 ...

My zombie hands clatter across the keyboard the keys rattle and quake and words appear but I can't read them. My zombie breath shoots forth as I cough hacking upon ...

OKay, due to puncuation problems, this post has been editted with the correct poem. In front of us Are piles of books That help us to learn About what has ...

Poor doggie.

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 ...