Young Writers Society

NaPo forum for 2015
Warning: language warning ahead. Can't make promises that this will not contain any rude or obscene words, so tread lightly if that's not your cup of tea.

1
You keep stardust in your fingers
And moon dust in your hair with
The constellation of Orion your lair.
The milky way soars above you,
A stream of galaxies sing you lullabies.
You are the child of the night
The unadulterated meteorite.

You fill baskets up with sun light
And keep rockets in your room,
You shine with a thousand star beams,
Pouring them out into the air.
A thousand planets dance in your dreams
Whispering to you a million histories.

You're the earths and the stars,
The moons and the suns.
You're outer space.

2
a parchment of bumblebees float through your dreams
whispering to you rude obscenities.
a dialogue of hummingbirds peck at your fingers
typing love notes to stillborn ghosts.
a cup filled with dandelions dry up in your mouth
living a bitter taste of fist fights and starry skies.
words overflow from ponds of rotting water and
no amount of towels can soak them all up.

you hang out your own believes, wringing them dry one last time,
never stopping to feed the spirits that straddle your humped back.
as you struggle to collect the shattered remains of paper plates
you leave the back door open just in case it rains.
your knees are bruised from praying to an unidentifiable god
leaving nothing but scars and a parchment of empty words.

3
The glass in your shoes rattles as you walk over fields of unappreciated compliments.
You never manage to shake the glass all out, it leaves a stain of red on the soles of your sandals.
And your smile bleeds dry like an old wound reopened, no amount of bandages can mask the foul smell.
You never ask the question of a thousand dying flowers, wilting and drooping your life never could withstand the shattered vase.
Walking a mile in someone else's shoes seems like a heartache as you plant the weeds in the soles of the world.
But not once do you struggle to pull on your boots and dance with the wildflowers in a garden of thorns.

4
You keep ashes in your pocket
And cigarettes in urns.
You're plastering the walls
with dead flower stems.

2:59 am seems like a distant dream
But you're fucking with the neighbour
Who killed the cat last winter.
Waking up in autumn has never seemed so bitter.

You wash your hands in grime
And bathe in a stream of lies
To clean off the protruding honesty
That's seeping through your skin.

The plaster is falling into a cacophony
Of lost relics and broken menageries.
You wake up to empty sheets, dried blood
Scattered up the walls and out the bedroom door.

The ashes stain your pants with black
Yet it's better than planting seeds in a cold bed
Because the neighbour is leaking poison
From their eyes of emerald green.

I aplogise in advance, it's only no. 5 and I'm already out of ideas. So sorry.

5
Tumbling down a wishing well, a spiteful spell, an angry girl.
Falling through a wooden door, an old law, and a lost faun.
Waking up in a dark forest, mythical lores, and dark curses.

Never as they seem to be, fairytales haunt your dreams,
Seeping into nighttime wonderings.
Twisted princes, dying witches, cackling, crying and weeping.
Infesting your mind and mutating your imagination
Nothing is ever as it seems.

6
The sweeping wind has never felt so clear
Rattling the chains of tightly bound cages.
Omnipresent gods smother the laughter
Of angelic children from down below.

7
Clear the dens
Dust out the coffins
Open the hatches and
Release the hounds

8
Bounding the pages of overused tropes feels like a destruction of creativity.
You stitch them all up one at a time, handing them to me like a declaration.
Moulding and sculpting a clay doll is harder than you thought,
Drowning in mud and losing your way has never seemed so easy.

You can't build a girl that suits your world
You can't make up a love that's easy to hold,
You can't sculpt a person just for you.

So don't fill me up with tropes
Cause I'm not a cliché
And don't mould me
Cause I'm not made of clay.

9

Delicate wings
Danced in the haze.
Empty wings struck me
Weeping; never come
Back home.

.

10
Wailing and whispering you
Softly tread where she
Sleeps in sorrow and pain.

11
Poison ivy filters through the
Roof growing sunlight.

Yeah, I know, I'm really behind.

12
We're the band of running children
Galloping across the sands,
Drawing houses of gold and streets of sunlight.

Terracotta churches get overrun by fairgrounds
Of turquoise laughter and purple smiles,
Encircled by children with feet of gold.

Across the far horizon and miles of soft sand
Nobody notices the band of running children left alone
In houses, streets and on the hearth of gold.

This were all written over the past few days but I can't be bothered putting them into separate posts.

13
You can count the number of scars on my body, and they aren't crevices in the earth,
but they are still powerful to me.
My stretch marks poke out of my shorts, they aren't ripples across the ocean,
but they are still beautiful to me.
My eyes are broken and brown, and they don't hold the galaxy in them,
but they are still my oval gems.
You can circle the bruises all over my knees, they aren't ink splatted on paper,
but they hold meaning to me.
My body may not be hanging in a frame for the world to see, but it's still a work of art to me.

14
You can build a house meant for two
with a chimney, stairs and rooms
But you will cut down that house as readily as I will you.

15
You walk on cracks like they contain the secret to the world
whispering words of hopefulness as you outline the scars on your hipbone.
Subtlety has never been your forte but you twist words into poison, fighting the world one letter as a time.
You can list all the stars in the galaxy, breathing them in as you do, seeping into your lungs and implanting constellations in your blood.
You whittle away the hours of the night intoxicated on moon beams and dried up flower stems,
Finding secrets to the universe in dried up ink and poems lost to summer days.

16
Love is a puzzle that has been dissected numerous times,
From songs, to novels, to paintings and rhymes.
Love is a mystery that has been uncovered too many times,
I don't have enough fingers and toes to count them all.
The metaphors and symbols of galaxies and flowers never seem to grow old,
But I've ran out of ways to compare you to a summers day.
"Thou art this" and "my love that", washed up poets can't weave words into
Declarations of love and proclamations of eternal beauty.

All I can give you are late nights in bed whispering jokes in your ear,
Early morning breakfasts and afternoons in the sun.
I only have fragmented letters written on scrap paper,
Tickets stub from movies and piling dirty dishes.
I'm no poet, and you're no star to my moon,
But I don't need convoluted rhymes to know I love you.

17
The spoken word is a language all of it's own,
twisting words of wires to trip over is my speciality.
Grasping at similes and sentence structure from empty spaces
Unable to string together sentences of hope and humanity.
I can write words from nothingness, and poems of joy,
But I can speak aloud my love for you.

18
Summer:
Melting ice and cracked lips.
Hot bitumen and reddening feet.
Cold showers to rid the sweet from brows.
Long days that sweep into long, starry nights.
Open roads that twist into highways,
Ready for hopeless dreamers to travel down.
Months of boredom and adventure held together by longing.
Lazy days, scorching days, summer days.

Autumn:
Falling leaves and cooling nights.
Golden sunsets sprinkled with orange.
School days and chocolate eggs,
Forgotten hopes, dying dreams,
Crisp mornings overtake fantasy.
Days that seem to last a decade,
Filled with sun and rain.

Winter:
Cold nights and rainy mornings
Shivering toes, warm showers.
Dark days of clouded obscurity
Highlight feelings of misery.
Empty tea cups and piles of books,
Muddy puddles collecting children's laughter.
Chilly days that can't wash pain away.

Spring:
Blooming flowers and buzzing bees.
Grassy hills and sunny afternoons.
Warming nights and Sunday picnics,
Open windows at night letting in the star light.
Chirping birds a wake up call to days of
Endless hoping and reawakening.

19
You're rain down the pipes and snow in the gutters,
Tangled wires and lost sticky tape.
You're the 'ums' and the 'likes' in well crafted sentences.
Forgotten pieces of jewellery and the last slice of bread.