Young Writers Society

Okay, I'm really (REALLY) bad at poetry, but I just thought of this in my head (changed it a bit) and put it on the computer. It is the way ...

NOTE: I'm not really good at poetry, story-writing is more of my thing...but this was just swimming around in my head the other day...and i know its not good...suggestions are ...

Sorry...taking this off...

Chapter 3 Oh, I can’t stand this any more! Thought Emily desperately, pulling her shawl around her and quickly running up the steep steps to the door. Surprisingly, it was ...

I'm not exactly sure where this should go as it seems it could fit under dramatic poetry also. And it's probably a bad poem to use for my YWS debut ...

Looking back now I can see you and me, How wild and free we were, Just thinking about how we use to runaway, Put’s me back on this high that ...

Chapter Fourteen: I was just about to blow out the candle on my nightstand when there was a knock on the door. Strange, I thought. No one ever comes to ...

(P.S. when i say "gorillas", i mean "guerillas". . . play on words ) On The River Styx It will end the way it started; a noise that no one ...

I wrote this for a writing group I'm a part of, and I like it enough that I think I'm going to keep going with it. If it doesnt fit ...

I finally finished up chapter 1 and yes I know it's short... CHAPTER ONE“Kitten,” A voice whispered in her ear like a soft breeze on a warm summer’s day.The woman ...

This is my weird poem, I posted it because I only just wrote it. I think it's ok My banana My banana is not yellow. It is grey, shrivelled and ...

pendulums of emotion swing above mahogany fireplaces with chimneys to let the steam out and firewood to keep the cauldron boiling; I've pulled out too many petals over you. drowning ...

[pre]Myro is the land of beauty, magic, peace, and a great sadness. The current year is 1374. The land has been at peace for the last 170 years. In the ...

I liked the last two stanzas. Nice poem.

Last night: a palm of crushed-up Prozac and a throat heated by tea. This afternoon: a black folder polluted with words staining stanzas. You’re the maestro, as you pluck away ...