Young Writers Society

Yeah... so this'll be a thing. I may not post every poem, but stuff will appear here.

2014 Poe-Tree
2013 *gasp* Mesh Masticates Madness!
2012 Look! Mesh actually *does* write!
2011 Stardust - Bek's NaPo thread 2011
2010 ?
2009 I love like a phantom: Bek's NaPo thread 2009
2008 Bek's NaPoWriMo thread

4.1.15


v1
it swirls and dances before it chokes you down
tendrils wrapping around fingers and sticking to toes
that still bleed from last months failures
[left cracked, weeping and raw, picked clean
save the skin tabs that threaten to pull
and become their own fiery hell running in tandem]
stumbling into the growing tumbleweed that dances wind
that once was healing, tangling tendrils
until soap and razor prevails over comb and patient fingers
unknotting strands of hellfire with burnt fingers.



v2
it swirls and dances before it chokes you down
tendrils wrapping around fingers and sticking to toes
that still bleed from last months failures
[left cracked, weeping and raw, picked clean
save the skin tabs that threaten to pull
and become their own fiery hell running in tandem]
stumbling into the growing tumbleweed that dances,
wind once healing tangling tendrils
unknotting strands of hellfire with burnt fingers.



(i'll turn off my inner editor someday maybe)

This is titled HUSH YO FACE, PEZ (because, reasons. aka she's being a brat!)


sound bounces off walls and multiplies on itself
[white noise that changes by season]
between raucous yells and comforting voices
[these are the sounds you grew up with]
punctuated by the staccato cling of metal hitting metal
and the yelling of vendors barely heard
filtered through tv mics and a live crowd
five feet away and three blocks over
that still brings the smell of fresh cut grass
[the lawn mowers were out three days ago,
blistering ears and noses alike]
because open windows filter soft chords
with tires squealing two streets down that leave
blacker rings on black pavement
[the sun bakes the rubber into rock]
the sun-soaked remains waver in heat,
burnt smell never quite disintegrating into dying wind.

I don't know if this is two poems, three, or a series. I'll figure it out later. I still blame Pez. And Lauren. And everyone else.



it’s a sharp staccato that dances softly
spinning words into colors that don’t quite aline
in ¾ time to spin away on upbeats, unfinished.



brass wasn’t made for small fingers and delicate sounds
muted to a duller roar than drum beats
striking lightning


you cannot strike a major chord in dissonance.

notes dance across skin
soft pinpricks, turned white before
the blood seeps upward.

you can feel the blood
rushing downward, warmth spreading
over thighs and hands.

the tightness rests in your shoulder blades, not between
unfinished expectations and milestone markers
for a path eroded twelve years past.






you used to look at the lines on your palms
tracing maps to places and linear paths
spelled out in a life-line that had merged with heart
years before you were born.

a bit of a reworking and then some.

studies in sound

i.
it’s a sharp staccato that dances softly
spinning words into colors that don’t quite aline
in ¾ time to spin away on upbeats, unfinished.

ii.
a melodic line only hears itself

iii.
brass wasn’t made for small fingers and delicate sounds
muted to a duller roar than drum beats
striking lightning

iv.
counter melody rests in the crevices
left between baseline and mainline
dancing just off line to chase percussion
and whistling bells for second place
in a race predetermined by score.

v.
you cannot strike a
major chord in dissonance
but in assonance