Young Writers Society

there is the moonlight
and there is the sunlight
and there is the morning
and there is the evening
but there is only one time
of day that i want to end up
spending with you. can you
guess it? can you imagine
what it is? do you want to
know, as honest as a child
would? is the curiosity digging
into you? are you unprepared to
find out what it is? let's just say this:
i want to spend eternity with you.

i am not sorry that there is this tick
in the backdrop of my mind, a metronome
that i might have once thought to be a heartbeat.

that statement has been proven to be false.

sometimes, i think of this cerebrum that
i have been given as a pencil of artifice.
this guile that i have been gifted--
for years that is what they have labelled it as--
a gift. something that i am to be proud of,
but you know i have a knack for being unappreciative.

hostility is in our nature. we were creatures
taught how to feel compassion and emotion--
i get it, can we move on with the lesson now?

i left you in the mindscape. a place where
memories and recollections socialize;
the sanitary walls of the doctor's office
that have become a place of gazing
for as long as i can remember.

i am not sorry that there is this chemical imbalance
that's aligned in all the perfectly imperfect places
akin to the stars at night: no, i'm not all right.

why is it that every time
i turn the corner that leads
into the hallway, i expect
a volley of bullets to
immobilize me? i wonder
if i could feel them stop
midway through my body
caught between bone and flesh.

every creak in the floorboards
is familiar, i know each and every one
like family. both have one thing in common:
i am so afraid they will stop supporting me.

i can't shake these carnage images
that keep replaying like a broken record
s-st-stuttering through my mind until finally i lift
the turntable needles; silence is my swan song.

i used to hold hands over my eyes
when the wolves came for me at night;
now i just watch them eat.

corrosion seeps through flesh
and into bone as i waste away
in this bedroom of yours.

you told me you needed to
get gas, but i don't think that's why
i've been sitting here for hours
waiting for you to come back.

impulse always ravaged your blood,
i should have known this would happen.
i have to ask the question if it was ever love
or if i was just a puppet to stick your hand into.

you told me to wait for you,
you said you'd come back--
i think you were lying.
i think i was lying on your bed
for a couple of hours.

hours spent twiddling my thumbs,
asking if you're okay and
hiding from the blistering sun;
hiding from your judgmental eyes.

someday this'll all come naturally
but for now i force this rhythm and rhyme
out of a pricked finger, not wasting a drop.
in the past i thought i could just water it down
to make it look like i bled more. in the past
i thought i could stretch that droplet over
a pint of water. i guess i've learned different
over the years that blood is blood and
nothing can change that. nothing can change
or dissect the fact that my blood is the same
as my father's. that doesn't mean i have to love
this blood. love this body. i didn't ask to be blessed
with this expanse of flesh and bone, and i will not
worship you with breakfast in bed for it either.

the curtains swallow the sunlight
shining in from the outside.
dew is still dripping back into the earth
or evaporating into the air.
the wind walks the clouds like dogs
and gravity is the leash holding them here.
i don't know if i can't explain this feeling
of embodying light and delicateness.
of embodying late morning breakfast alone
friends still in the graves of their beds,
pillows over tired heads acting as tombstones.
i am always the first to wake because
i want to watch the sunrise. i want to watch
everyone else wake up and pull the covers
off of their bodies. i want to watch the world
start all over again.

There is an amount inside me,
a pinky-full, if even that, of hope
someone else is out there
looking out for you and I.

Maybe it's the aliens or
maybe it's God or maybe
the stars burn with our hearts,
going out at the dropping of a beat.

Sometimes I am intoxicated
by the idea that there is somebody
out there sprinkling the clement stardust
across the galaxy. That there is someone
less brazen and more composed than I.

By the idea that there is a cosmonaut
carefully placing the stars for them
to be interpreted, versing bodies
animated by vigor and vitality
how to navigate the galaxy.

There are days when I want to believe more
about the Tarot card readings and Zodiac signs;
There are days I want to believe a tome of sacred text.

There are days I when I want to believe more
about the Tarot card readings and Zodiac signs.
There are days when I want to be less skeptical
of sacred texts and of religious scriptures.

There are days where I want to know what it's like
to believe wholeheartedly someone is looking after me.

I can't.

candles and torches
lighters and flashlights
were all made because
we're al afraid of the dark.

us humans are moths
attracted to the lamplight
with palms pressed against
the fluorscent bulb.

prometheus gave us fire
and we learned to misuse it.
athena gave us knowledge
to use for personal purposes.
and dionysus gave us alcohol
so we could try and forget it all.

Content warning maybe? Dunno.

I've been so jaded these days
aching muscles a dull pain
as I swing feet off of the couch
and onto the living room floor.

There are times when the world
is sitting on my shoulders
pressure pulling me down.

There are times when my body
can barely anchor to the earth;
I buried feet and calves in the sand,
a potted plant in an unideal environment.

Mostly though? I am on the constant verge
of plummeting and letting go, a balloon
dancing, no, stumbling in the wind.

The conditions keep piling onto your shoulders
the days where appointments do not mark
the calendar on the refridgerator have become
scarce as scribbles describe each dated
(I remember when your handwriting
used to be beautiful before the devil
came looking to take it away).

Now, every time the doorbell rings
I can only become paranoia that
Death is finally knocking on the door.
I ignore the signs that come in waves
by packages and by letters and by the
voice mails left by the Doctor's office
saying how you'll only get worse
(I remember when I still held the ability
to hope that you'd heal with time).

I remember when 'Get Well Soon' cards
were still laid throughout the house and when
you promised to land a job so that we
could have our own apartment
wasn't long before hope turned to ash
and your bones turned to dust;
a way to soften the blow of death
in children's books and movies
the alternative to blood is
just the same to me.

As a child I spent more evenings
in the hospital cafeteria than I
can bare to count. Cartoons played
on the television as I flipped through magazines
I didn't understand as an attempt
to pull my brain away from the clock
after awhile, I stopped wondering
how long I'd have to be there and declared
the clinic to be my home.

The real reason I put earbuds in
when you're talking about all of the doctors
you have to go to is because I can't bare
to look at someone who might be gone tomorrow
I used to press palms against my eyes
when I thought about life without you in it
but now all I can do is stare
I mused that maybe the intrusive thoughts
might go away if I squeezed my eyes tight enough;
at the time I didn't know the source came from inside me.

I remember when our future used to be beautiful
before the devil came looking to take you away.

I can feel the tired in these teeth
when I wake up in the morning
and stretch my jaw while learning
step by step how to talk again.

For hours prior I have been buried
under a mound of blankets and sheets
off in another land where my father
is a werewolf that I am afraid of and
I am more comfortable talking to
a stranger that is roaming my house.

Off in another land where my body is not.
Instead my body stays under those blankets
where I sweat through my clothes again
and wake up alone again and can't seem
to find anybody. I wonder if it's finally
the apocalypse then I realize they're out
of the house with their buddies.

I'm not afraid to go outside,
I'm just afraid of the people
that are out there as well.
Their eyes can't reach me
through the curtains of my home.

Their eyes can't reach me
and pick apart at my brain
if I'm not awake to notice.

Another night spent looking upon land
past castle walls to ensure the safety
of a land he doesn't care for.

Another night with no action
needing to be taken. His bow
hasn't left the wall in months.

Another night where his elbows rest
on the stone bricks as the city sleeps;
he can almost hear the old men snore.

Another night where he watches guards
pace back and forth from above;
from the watchtower they look like ants.

Another knight with potential wasted
under the starry night. He could've been great.
Conquered kingdoms, brought order
what he ended up doing is none of the like.

there is a joy in seeing a puppy
race across the house that brings me back
to youth before i knew what i know now.
before age was able to scar, before
i started to plummet into the end
of childhood. before i woke up with calamity
and discord running through my mind.
before i got these teeth marks on my chin
that marked my uncomfort for years until i realized
the nips that came from this new mouth
were out of love. before i wasn't able to tell
kindness from hostility. before i wasn't able to
put all of my love into this ball of fur. before
i wasn't able to watch her grow and learn and
learn to love just as i did years ago.

Around teachers her words are hushed,
kept to a minimum volume. I have seen the cliche
of the quiet, shy girl bursting into a loud voice
when she is comfortable live and breathe
right before my eyes. Alone with the people
that matter to her. Her chest, no, her heart
dials down the volume when she is in public.
I wish her well even though I may not ever be able
to break through the surface and discover or learn
what's fully underneath. even when she spoke
to my friends and I, a word or two or so,
I saw her, the real her, shine. I wish that
love finds that heart of hers and unlocks
the lock that makes a clinking noise
against her ribs every time she moves.
Three back, one forward, back to the third number.
For most, that is the basic form of the combination
to their chest but not her. Locks locked on locks
hang from a rib and all that have tried try to determine
each lock individually but I have learned the best method
is to cut the top lock with a pair of bolt cutters in both hands
and let the rest fall from there.