Young Writers Society

unus, duo (or the poem that will make a classicists' eyes bleed)

julia aurelius mia
distia proterius elia
maria vestia,
vestia julia.

maria caesarius lea,
olivia adrianus via,
maria vestia,
vestia julia.

poetry in alternative forms 11.13.20

The distinction between poetry and prose is a fine line that’s ever-bending. What is sense? What is
nonsense? Isn’t poetry little more,
and little less
than a clue hunt?
I suppose it
depends, Where you put
your line-breaks.

four of ten

Is it poetry or is it chickens? I never really know.

Follow The Clues! #Unclassified #TurkeyTracks Four of Ten

Five of Ten

i have chicken scratch running up the walls of my soul
these too-smooth caverns must be broken with keratin feet
i have chicken scratch on the ceiling, too
chicken scratch on the tiles, the bathroom tiles,
where i can't see my reflection anymore,
this scrawl of poetry muddying the broken pictures
and the broken frame is
the label i peel from my skin, off of my skin, that is
my skin and the chicken scratch numbs the pain.

Bob's a tomato,
Larry's a cucumber,
Joe's a Cheeto,
and I like to slumber.

Juice and ooze
lies and lice
do not rhyme
in my dialect.

Meat and meet
feat and feet
do.

Dogs go doo-doo,
and cows go moo-moo.
Cats go Meow-meow,
and, when I stub my toe, I go ow-ow.

pour the water
f

a


l



l





of emotions out onto your keyboard
(you know?)
except my mind is less of a waterfall than a feeble spring so
so
so
so that plan won't work, and also -
doesn't liquid break electronics?
so that also won't work.

O
h

w

e


l



l




maybe less emotions and more formatting
(you know?)

This poem looks vaguely like a pointing finger

I'm feeling bad
but I'm not sad
the entire lexicon of the English language has not one word to describe how I
actually feel.

asdfghjkl
you know what that means but
do you know
how to say it?
qwertyuiop
Query to Yop,
are you runny yogourt
or thickened milk?

This chain is still going? WOO OKAY

A perfectly white shirt
Going to grandma's
We eat spaghetti
RIP perfectly white shirt

;-; this happened today

Wiped the dust off
From my estranged
Guitar, that has gotten
Strands of silver web,
Made with intricacy
By the spider who
Made its new home
In the hollow wood
Of my guitar, amusing
Himself with its music,
Plucking the strings
With its artistic legs
Playing the beats that
I could never learn to play.

Everyone believes people are saying things about them that they do not want to hear, as though a mirror becomes less so by depicting

shadows in the ear
of a conch shell,
growing darker

depicting the things people say that everyone cannot bear to hear, for they are like seashells eaten up by acid, unable to halt the inevitable decay of the self.

oof

It's been a long time
since I've come to rhyme

(and maybe un-wind)

and blow somebody's mind.

I'm bursting with tricks
like pick-up sticks
a game so delicate, bricks
would cry at its shticks.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH that is all.

Roses are red
I don't know how to write
I hate this poem
Fortnight