Young Writers Society

I had a dog
his name was frog
I had a boy
his name was roy

i loved roy
but he loved troy
a different boy
that gave him joy

i loved frog
but he got lost in fog
a hazy smog;
so sad, i drank eggnog

i loved roy
but roy didn't love me
i loved frog
but frog got lost

get lost roy
in the fog
come back frog
we can play catch or something.

Awaken from slumber
to the sound of ringing.
Put on
a new pair of clothes;
a new pair of skin
to break into
straight from the laundry basket.
I have become too tired
to sort these clothes away,
Too tired to perform any form of catharsis
on these strained muscles.
My eyelids have become a dam
waiting to overflow.
Waiting to crumble and for
waves to crash down onto my cheeks.
Lull into a sleep
from the sound of a song.'
Pull a new pair of sheets
over your head; a new cocoon
to settle into.

Guitars and drums of math rock
fill the empty void in my ears.
I let the strange chords take possession
as energy channels through a bouncing knee.

I gaze out at the dim lights from under
the air conditioner through the
semi-circle shaped window.
I glance upon the clock that
once chimed each and every hour
but now rests at 6:50 and wonder
morning or night? At dawn or dusk
did the hands cease?

Questioning reality not because
I suspect this scene to be a dream
but because I have stayed awake
long enough for paranoia to die
in my chest until the next creeping suspicion
begins to pollute my mind.

Even though the music can fill these ears
and soothe these nerves, the music cannot
make me definite.

I only wish that being big-boned
meant a larger capacity of love
and not the source of my dysphoria.

That the burning sensation in my throat
came from passion instead of acid reflux.

Or the ache in my stomach--
I wish that were my hunger
for food and not love.

I wish upon a silver star
that crosses the sky
burning out as soon as
skid marks are left across
the atmosphere.

Burning out as soon as
the ignition of said star.

I wish upon the silver star
that came as soon as it went
for my fingernails to grow back
next spring before being mowed down
by anxiety.

This is the fourth night I've went to bed
listening to the rain patter against the ground outside
and in no night have I not found comfort.
Not in the natural sounds that on other days
I'd look up on Youtube to replicate but instead the
candied hearts sent via DMs from a girl who cares.
I'm melted by her. Aspiring tattoo artist, red belt in karate--
there's more than that. Her sense of stability and
laid-back mannerisms. Her tomboy heart
and carefree spirit. Tonight I don't care
if I'm doing anything new--that doesn't matter.
I don't care for originality because I know
no matter how many ways I invent to say these words
nothing changes my unadulterated thoughts:
she's the rain that puts me to sleep.