Young Writers Society

As I stare across the ocean, an endless bound. I ask myself a question one I have sought. A purpose to life, and a reason to death. The sun goes ...

i need some help on thinking of a better title but here is the poem -------------------------------- Here I sit ignored each day. Who am I to be seen. I wait ...

It torture me when I think of you And I feel nothing but pain and sorrow Mental pictures of you in different times stored in my mind Memories haunt me ...

What has this World Become? One of us dies Another one lies What has this world become? We commit the crime But can never do the time What has this ...

Between flickers of an unearthly dance Captivating all who stare, entranced; It wildly frays, battles and swoops, Stepping time to cryptic, crackling tatoos. Like a tiger's eye the flames sweep ...

Plea of Moments past, what weakness gives us My short tandem of reality, unmolded by words, forever swaying my trust gets portrayed as a vision by the little people, in ...

Broken Mother When I'm about to walk into a disaster, I know what's to become of it. For even the greatest amateur artists are cursed, With the gift of keeping ...

I try to make you understand My pain, the ache throbbing inside I try to say it out loud You shun me and go to sleep I scream and scream ...

Unwanted, Empty locker room - cold You can hear the crowd cheering, and you feel all alone. No one to look for you, but not that you deserve. Still wouldn't ...

I can't feel your soft touch I can't see your green eyes I can't hear your angelic voice I am dead inside I miss your hugs I miss your love ...

“Let’s try this one more time with feeling” A utopia of artists that yearn and ache, swoon and paint in scarlet hues, erratic slashes at the dripping canvas. The poet ...

once it's the new year, it's all over sitting in a crowded waffle house just off the interstate. and everyone's saying, "hey, it's been raining all year" as the drunk ...

City of Bridges She always expects surprise, even here, in the rows of corn and wheat.

Right well, I keep wanting to write a poem so, i did. I would appreciate some useful feedback on this, please if you don't like it just put 'scrap it' ...

A simpleton once tricked himself And thought that he could read. He read himself to death And 'ventually did become a seed. In that lifeless form the seed began to ...