Young Writers Society

my life is . . .

Why do we not have a section for vignettes?

Happy Cake Day!!!!!!!

Happy birthday! I remember when we made that Collab together, fun times! Hope you're doing well!

Happy birthday!!

Happy Birthday

she dead.

Excerpt from my new story

He was always there; and never quite. Burning flowers in a fragile vase, turn to the white walls and gasp at the vacuum. The room was his soul, mirrored in each stroke of white, in each dab of cream-colored paint on dry walls. Painting his blood on his dry skin. Pale skin, blue veins firing like cylinders. He was here; yes, stuck in the moment. Waiting for time and space to collide - bring down the fragile walls he had erected over twenty years. Twenty years of sweating over stones, stumbling through the ruins of whatever he called his life. Picking the perfect stones, erecting his perfect life. . .


Waiting for the tempest.
. . .but not. Even the stones had betrayed him. He could have spent a hundred years and been no better than now.
Cream-colored walls in the vacuum. In and out of time.
He needed to open the window.
There was a body in the backyard. Fool that he was, he wanted her close; oh, so close. He wanted her close, didn’t wanna forget her. Grow flowers on the spot, smell her. Instead, the flowers burned in the vase.
She had told him she wanted to be cremated. One airless night, when the drapes lay like a shroud. She had told him; she had told him her hopes and dreams - then.
She had burnt them down. I want to be cremated.
He hadn’t done it. He couldn't do it.
So she lay, under the ground - under his ground. So she lay, buried. And all the while his soul screamed for release. Every night he opened the drapes; every night hoping for air, and instead, the air bore memories of her. Rocked them slowly to his side till he could smell them.
God! He needed to open the window.
Again; he refused to move
One spring the first flower had grown. Called it the tear plant. No water, spiteful sun, watered by his soul. Burned the flowers - cremated them. He owed her that. Smelled her memories, set her soul free. Allowed it to roam. Hers was the only free one, while his soul was in the walls.
Never quite there. Never quite felt.
Blood still on his arm.

Whispers of madness-
Life is what life is, but what does it matter. Life is death. Is death madness? Seeking the lost, lost light, but light matters not, what matters is death.
Leave me here to brood. I am; I am what you are not, but what you want to be. Leave me to complain of what I know not, but. . .
What you want. What you want is me to see what life is. And what: what is there to see.
I am losing myself. Losing myself in whirling dreams. It means nothing. Losing means nothing when there is everything to gain. I feel that life is something I’m missing, but missing seems to be gaining when there is nothing. Am I insane? Insanity is so close to gripping something. Insanity is knowing the world that lives inside cardboard boxes and freight trains. That rushes by at the speed of light and leaves you frozen, stuck to the spot, wondering.
Age old questions rot like age old things and leave you none the wiser in rotting skin. Feel that? Feel the irony caress you, entice you, lick your most secret spots of indicision with its black forked tongue. Ink bleeds deeper than blood, and like a mirror, reflects you back to a you that you don’t want to see. Philosophical musings are just a way to look at the world and feel as if you can answer questions that questions can’t. Questions breed questions, and then questions, and then nothing. Because to answer a question means to consciously realize you have one. If there is a world, where is it? If this is a dream, why am I not sleeping. I look but shifting sands follow nature, and death follows life.

Full of life
Leave the leafs that fall
to hide the ground
sweat over
seeds and trees
rotten fruit doesn't make a rotten tree
falling leaves doesn't mean your falling
too over two cliffs
a cliff is just a way to get down
rock bottom is only a place to rest
see the sea that nourishes
bones can break
but that doesn't mean they're not strong
leaves fall
but that doesn't mean the tree is dead
-poems by Beast

Somebody told me they couldn't understand my poetry today. I told them not to try to read into my poetry and fit it into a scheme. Just feel it.

If love could cure
this pain inside
And leave us staring through the window of our scars
Maybe we could see
what the smudges and cracks refused to show
in that, there is a world beyond
our scars
that's just as scarred
as us
-Poems by Beast

Are there any pads open?

Happy Cake Day!!!

Grapes on a vine.
Ripening, dropping,
Sickening, dying.
Rotting carcasses of grey mush on the ground.
Let's make wine.