Young Writers Society

Usurpant - Number Nine


A snake's venom is honey to a criminal,
ecstacy at its finest. Dripped from its fangs,
the reasons of doing so left subliminal
and yet the guilt hits them with a pang.

Ecstacy at its finest. Dripped from its fangs
into a small glass bottle, each drop savored.
And yet the guilt hits them with a pang,
for it was death that they all favored.

Into a small glass bottle, each drop savored,
forced out the mouth of a brazen serpent;
for it was death that they all favored.
For it was malice that they were usurpant.

Forced out the mouth of a brazen serpent,
the reasons of doing so left subliminal.
For it was malice that they were usurpant;
a snake's venom is honey to a criminal.

Our shadows stretched across the lawn most
at dusk, the sun retreating from the leaden sky.

yummmmm.

Thank you! <3 Glad you liked those lines.

Jaded - Number Ten

The first signs of rain appear:
upturned leaves and wet spots
manifesting on the sidewalk.

Betokening a storm is the
low and throaty rumble of
thunder, a croak from the
cumulonimbus clouds.

The first signs of April appear:
the unexplainable apathy
and blue devils that run rampant
once again, for they are in bloom.

A harbinger foreboding an event
yet to come, these signs are.
Nymphs warning of a tempest
that will bring down a volley
of brisk lightning strikes.

Mother Nature must hold anger
against the trees that tower above
me, punished for their muted whispers
to each other, the conversations
they have while thinking
that she is out of earshot.

The downpour begins to let up,
and what's left is the wreckage
for jaded souls to clean up.
Mother Nature tucks away her
vexation into her back pocket,
at least for now.

An Ashen Swan - Number Eleven


An ashen swan wades in the lake
where thick algae starts to cake.
Mosquitoes beside her, striding upon
the surface, gazing at the dappled dawn;
the sunrise, signifying all should wake.

The swan unfurls its broad pale wings
taking into its arms the notion of spring.
The embodiment of serenity sits unperturbed,
an ashen swan.

The low croak of a bullfrog causes waves
to form, sending other ripples to their graves.
Yet, when the fabled swan paddles by him,
he quiets, letting out not a single faint cry.
In her grace, she is queen of the deprave;
an ashen swan.

sapphire fireflies - Number Twelve


sapphire fireflies
animate the night,
their gentle blue glow
present underneath the
moonlight. i rest my chin
on the windowsill, desiring
to be outside. eyelids wilting,
i start to drift into slumber,
bur first, i whisper goodnight
and goodbye to the moon
and stars. i crawl into bed,
slipping under the blankets
effortlessly. i listen to the
crickets, caroling into the
starlit night.

shipwrecked - Number Thirteen



we shipwrecked, left to our devices,
our vices beginning to show on our
sleeves. you wore them, but i hid mine
away, tucking them into my back pocket
as i spread our sail like a picnic blanket

across the pale sand. this was not a
picnic, regardless of what you believed.
i pulled our ship onto the shore, wrapping
callused hands around the bowsprit, splinters

everpresent, finding passageways into rough
palms. i resign the thought that we might
be in love, set it to the side and bookmark

it for when i go to bed at night, left to
muse of what might've been. left to

maroon.

rosewood - Number Fourteen


I scrawl down a word
at midnight, confined
to a rosewood desk.

Confined to this lighthouse,
guiding ships back to shore;
I will Hansel-and-Gretel you
back home. The taste of
graphite rests on the tip
of my tongue as I scribble
words down into the
leather-bound journal.

I took the latest shift,
wanting to draw out the
deepest contemplations;
the brighter the flashlight
the darker the shadow.

Disassemble these thoughts
until they are spread across
the floor, back to their roots.

For after nightfall
is when these eyes
are the most shackled,
vermilion blood vessels
eclipsing the sclera.

I undertook the latest shift
knowing I would have to be
a shepard to the boats led
astray by the nebulosity.

Dawn arrives, after vessels
float adrift and lose their course,
this I know is definite. I close the
journal that seals these musings.

Nikayla! Look at you go! You already have 14 poems done! I'm impressed by not just the quantity, but the quality. I like a lot of them, but right now really digging 11, 12, & 13. I think the flow of the poem in 13 is so great, love the bitter sweet ending, and the elegant word choice mixed with some brisk line breaks kind of like the rock of the sea. 12 - I'm always going to love poetry that has any sort of insects in it. (Because bugs are the coolest little poetic things!) And then 11 is short but has just such strong imagery there. Especially enjoyed this line: "The swan unfurls its broad pale wings taking into its arms the notion of spring." Keep up the great work!

Thanks so much! <3 You're so kind with your words and yeah, I honestly can't believe the amount of poems I've written so far either.

Gotta give credit to @Hannah and @Autumns for a few of these lines! <3 Was a lovely jam.

East of Eden, West of Sweden - Number Fifteen

Nobody wants to be East of Eden
but still, I think I'll find a cozy cottage
someplace west of Sweden.

The moon says goodnight
while being tucked into the
horizon line, like a child being
set to sleep.

For you sailed under the moonlight
the reflection deep-rooted into the
gentle and unperturbed tides.

I've got no lullabies to sing to the night sky,
though that is when these nocturnes come to me.

Or perhaps the moon is royalty,
sitting on the Iron Throne,
the high chair that resides
at the end of the wrong river.

Wouldn't it be so nice to find
a place off the corners of the earth?

Wouldn't it be nice to settle someplace
after sailing and voyaging the seas?

I cannot deny the salt
that has always riddled
your palm lines. I am far
from a palm reader and yet
I know this much.

A melody breaks the quiet,
warm and full with color;
its name is the sun,
and it greets with a
bittersweet grimace.

Demeter - Number Sixteen

Demeter sauntered with a gentle step
upon the verdant fields. Fingertips
brushing over the crowns of the
thriving harvest. And yeah,

maybe the grass will be greener
on the other side, once Persephone
is by her mother's side again, reunited
for another six months. That is the notion
that keeps the crop from withering
underneath her callused fingers.

Persephone bared her teeth at Hades
with the pomegranate seeds tucked
in her furrowed cheeks.

[There are fables of how the sun, moon,
and earth came to be, but who ever heard an
allegory of how seasonal depression came to be?]

Demeter forages in these unfruitful seasons,
crumbling like autumn leaves and bitter like
wintertide snow. Searching for any sign
of her daughter, but finding none.

Oh Demeter, it's not like you're
running out of time, Hades discerns,
and she grits her teeth knowing that it's true.

I decided to write the epitaph of @Casanova for some odd reason. It just came out of me, and here it is!

flask/he loved/the grave - Number Seventeen


Aged and hoary, I stand beside the grave
of a former nemesis, a friend, someone who I
loathed, yet I needed to sustain myself.
Justifications of these vices made by
his actions, but I wonder the reaction
of the mulch when I pour a litre of
Mello Yello onto it. And yet, I regret
the bitter tendencies and quarrels
we once had. His death did not go
in silence, for the whole world felt it
detonate underneath their feet.
He arised, nebulous from his
earliest days, staying that way
until the end of his praise.
Now, he is south in a shallow grave
but I never meant I wanted him gone
this way. And yet, I am almost certain
his weathered tombstone is the only thing
holding his celestial body down. I take out
a small flask, and take a swig of the scotch
he always liked.

Calico - Number Eighteen



A calico resides in the shadows,
lapping up water from a puddle,
sandpaper tongue weathering away
at its matted fur. Its penumbra
menacing on the wall of a
restaurant building, sizing it up to be
more fierce than it really is.
Cars pass by and interrupt the quiet
every so often, headlights briefly flashing
over the feline that has made the alleyways
and local garbage cans a fortress, hiding away
from the scavangers that might want to
pick the meat off her delicate ribs.
The calico has no name, no home, no future
other than the one that was laid out for her
on that suburban street.
A calico dwells in that narrow alleyway
where no one is able to see the skintight fur
that stretches across her tenuous bones.

Nightingale - Number Nineteen


with your first steps
into the shallow creek
comes an exodus of fish
diverging in all directions.
you squeeze the soft sediment
with your toes in the shin-deep
water. you wade in the water,
making sedate strides further
into the brook. you cup your
hands, using them as a sift
to sort treasures from waste.
you cherish the thought that
the broken and rusted watch
you stretch across your fingers
used to be on someone's forearm.
a raspberry bush dwells on the shore
not more than ten feet away strikes
desire in your hazel eyes.
the journey there seems
as if it might be endless,
an odyssey. but, once
you get there, you think
that only minutes, seconds
passed by. the only indictation
being the primrose sun that
sits before you in the
nightingale sky where
thirst-filled birds
soar in a gale
of wind.