Young Writers Society

(First time doing this. It may actually work out because I really want to do this theme.)

working without the benefits

you asked me my heart’s desire
i decided on the truth.
music floats deep in my soul
can you help it take root?

you led me to a piano then
and said to take my time
you’d stay with me through thick and thin
help shape my notes sublime

i studied hard and learned the forms
but i was still not ready
i knew the theory, knew the notes
but my hands were still unsteady

i could not play my masterpiece,
no matter what you said,
until it was perfect on the keys
as well as in my head.

at last i knew the ins and outs
of every single key,
no longer chained by fear of error
but finally set free.

i place my fingers on the keys
to play my song at last
but you stop me with your hand on mine
saying “not so fast”

“you’ve done great work in this short time
though you must learn it all again
you can still fufill your dream
but you’ll have to use a violin.”

Cleaning for Company

I cleaned my room before the guests came,
scoured it with soap and scalding water
swept every bit of trash
into the bin
(or at least under my bed
where it couldn't embarrass me)

I shoved my secrets in the closet
and told them to stay put
(praying they would listen)
I surveyed the room,
pronounced it perfect
hating it all the while.

most of the guests arrived together
too soon, but I was ready.
(I had to be)
so I put on a hopeful smile,
and greeted them at the door
now my polished lie began.

as night dragged on, I grew more weary
found it so hard to care
(I've never passed an acting class anyway.)
so I let myself
slip up a little
figuring maybe they'd forgive me.

I waited for them to trickle away
(with the usual polite excuses)
but they stayed.
they didn't seem to care!
unfettered, I threw open
my long-locked closet door.

but then the clock struck
and killed my chance,
and the guests lined up to leave.
(I turned away as they went,
their cars flashing headlights and
goodbyes.)

I started cleaning my room again.

Musical Adrenaline

desperate fingers fly over ivory keys
playing, praying for release.
twisting through the two-tone maze, I
turn corners at high speeds and
crash
into dead ends.
but I always find a way out,
exhilarated.

Humidity

Trees droop,
heavy with their burden of leaves
trying to provide relief
to those below
but humidity slips under the branches
and suffocates us anyway.

Little sister, I love you

Little sister,
have I ever told you
what you mean to me?
I love you more than I can say.

I love your devilish little grin,
the way your eyes scrunch up,
revealing tiny, adorable teeth.
It makes my heart melt
into one of those puddles
you love to splash in,
and you know it.

I love how little things delight you
a ladybug landing on your finger,
or an afternoon of play.
I wish toys could still bring me
such joy.

I love your heartfelt kisses,
and the sticky-fingered embraces
with which you greet me
at the end of another day
full of the world telling me
I’m worthless
and wrong.

I love how there is no deceit
in those little arms that squeeze me tight.
You enthusiasm is a breath of spring air
on a muggy summer’s day
that should have been kinder.
I hold you close,
wishing I could stop time
so I can preserve your innocence.

I love how you know nothing of the world
and its way of treating umbrage and regret
as treasured possessions
never to be set down.

I love that I can make mistakes
and you’ll still love me.

Thank you, little sister, for that gift.

Life, Fear, and Roller Coasters

People say life
is a roller coaster.
It’s not.

On a roller coaster, fear
grips me at the start
with shaky hands and sweaty fingers.
I ascend the hill,
and leave it behind
at the top.
Falling is exhilarating.
End of story.

In life, fear doesn't exist
until the first drop.
Then it pounces,
sinking its claws in deep.

At first, I struggle,
try to dislodge it,
and finally succeed
as I crest the next hill
Then I plunge down again and it returns
over and over
until I let it sit next to me,
my shadow.

On a roller coaster,
I can’t stop halfway through
if I don’t like where I’m going.
The restraints are too tight
and there’s no place to stop anyway.

In life,
I am my only restraint.
What would it be like
to fall
and leave fear behind?

Comfort

we fought over my new comforter today.
it wasn’t really a fight, but i felt just the same
afterward – ashamed.
you took my old, careworn love,
and dumped it on the floor,
seeing only a battered, ugly quilt.
i found it in the hallway after school
alone and abandoned.
i know its pain,
but that’s no one’s fault
but mine.

you spread the new one out, shiny and purple and
perfect.
and when i tried it out i didn’t like the way it felt
against my skin,
too smooth and lightweight and
fake.
i told you this and it hurt
and i’m sorry it’s the truth.
i wanted to love it, but it’s too fluffy
to clutch to my chest when my heart hurts,
too light for me to pretend
there’s someone there beside me,
too slick to hold the tears
i hide from you.

it looks like it belongs in a magazine
but magazines aren’t reality
and i’m sick of playing make-believe.

Hiding in Nature

I went down to the creek today,
dangled my legs over the edge of the bridge
and watched swollen stream trickle ever downward.

The trees were just beginning to bud,
little dots of green in the tangle of brown and gray,
thanks to all the rain.
The same rain that
washed away the topsoil
and muddied the waters of the creek.

I fiddled with the rope swing,
so old moss grew in the cracks of the knots,
watched it sway, back and forth, back and forth.
I didn’t swing on it because
it looked too much like a hangman’s noose
and I couldn’t quite believe I was supposed to play on it.

Nature’s sounds were all present
trickling water, chirping birds, and creaking branches
but I heard children and lawnmowers and dogs too
I hadn’t escaped.
not really
not that it mattered.

it started raining again,
each drop leaving its mark
on the creek’s still pools.

Secret Society

Will you join my secret society?
It’s easy.
All you have to do is try.
Just say the words and you will always find a friend
somewhere,
always be part of a group
the small group who tries.

All you have to do is try,
try to be kind.
(please, just try!)
and when I say to everyone I don’t just mean
to the people you know
and like
I mean the people you’ve never seen before
but infuriate you to no end
in 140 characters.

I don’t care what you believe,
you can still be kind
to the “heretics.”

It’s so easy,
and so hard.
but you don’t have to be perfect
(that’s why we have each other)
you just have to try.

So will you join my secret society?

If you don’t, don’t worry
we’ll treat you just the same
(even though our hearts die a little every time someone refuses)
isn’t that the point?
The truth is, we always were your friends
even if you never knew it,
and had never met us before.
We always will be.

I ask again,
will you join my secret society?

please let me hurt

my teacher laughed at me one day
when i complained about the workload,
told me
to be grateful i wasn’t a starving kid in Africa.
and i sat there burning with all the things
i wanted to say to her
but was smart enough not to.
don’t you dare judge me
you have no idea what i’m going through.
and the pain and stress
stayed tangled up in my stomach,
snakes eating me from the inside out
and replacing fear of failure
with apathy.
it’s so hard to care anymore
and it scares me.

i hate the people who tell me i’m so privileged,
and that my problems don’t matter at all
compared to others,
because i have so much
and i should be grateful.
why is my pain
less important than theirs?

and i hate them because
they’re right.
it’s not fair – the eternal cry
of the spineless.
i’m weak and I know it
and i should be better but i’m not
but that’s just another failure
to add to the list
of reasons to hate myself.

i’m not strong,
and there’s nothing I can do about it.
but I hurt all over and
i’m so, so scared.
I’m begging you – anyone
please, will you forgive
my weakness
so i can forgive myself?

We’re All Just Dirty Dishes

Sometimes, life is like
dirty dishes
being hand-washed.
Each of us is scrubbed
roughly,
but the warm water feels good
and after we are gently wiped dry,
we rejoice at being clean.

But most of the time
we aren’t so lucky
and life is like being cleaned in a dishwasher,
packed tightly together
a maelstrom of soap and water
swirling around us.
The water is cold,
the soap is harsh,
and when it is over we are too traumatized
to rejoice at being clean.

I envy the lucky ones with a sticker
marked “hand-wash only.”
They will never have to taste terror.
I just hope I’m not
one of those that are supposed
to be strong enough to survive.
but break anyway.

The Great Outdoors

I lay on my backyard hammock,
and slowly rock back and forth,
pondering the meaning of life.
(and other deep questions.)

I can faintly hear
shouts and laughter
from inside,
where children rush about the house
giggling and mad with their play.
(I came outside to get away from them
for a moment.)

The outdoors soothes me,
the non-human noises assure solitude,
and the hammock rocks away the anxiety
that noise brings.
(Oh, that blessed quiet!)

But the quiet is a death
where life abounds,
but aloof and instinctive
without intellegence.
Devoid of kindness
and laughter
and love.

And I realize in these wide-open spaces
how utterly alone I am,
and I run back inside
to join the children in their games.

Change

Spring brings
variety to the land.
Blooming flowers sprinkle life
across a slowly-greening field,
I have to be careful
not to step in the mud,
but no risk, no gain,
and it’s better than trekking through
the same old snowdrifts again.

Spring brings
April showers
of homework and chores
and parties and concerts.
But I relish flitting
from task to task
like a newborn bumblebee,
instead of freezing my feet
in slow-moving ice.

Somehow, spring brings
more beautiful sunrises,
as if the sun knows I can feel its warmth
at last
and decides to put on a show
to remind me that all good things
begin in spring.

Writing Isn’t Romantic

Once I dreamed of writing a novel,
of hunching over the keyboard
past midnight
driven by demons called characters.

And when I finished I would edit
and cut it to the bone,
until each word became a deft knife,
slicing hearts and souls.
But I didn’t realize that to break hearts,
I had to harden mine.

So I moved on to short stories,
figuring it would take less self-control
to write only a few words.
But I didn’t realize how perfect they had to be
to be memorable.

Poetry had no right to be easier.
Every subject seemed a worn-out dishrag
covered in holes and mystery stains.
But I had to try anyway,

And strangely, I’ve succeeded,
written a poem every day.
I can’t vouch for their quality,
but at least they exist.
Maybe my novel will too,
sometime.

So now I’m here, writing this poem,
since that’s all I can do.
One day I’ll write a novel,
but for now you get this poem instead.
Hope you like it.