Young Writers Society

I can't say much more besides that I love your style and the imagery here and formatting, and this is just very well done and a thrill to read all of your poems! Your eighth poem has some really good figurative language and comparison to form such unique images - honey/nests/bees was a very good combo! Nicely done so far! ^^

@fraey that's such praise coming from a poet as good as you! <3 I'm glad you're enjoying my NaPo which is surprising me as much as anyone

paroxysm ix

I was happy as your satellite,
content to circle you for years,
but your gravitational pull has
lessened, somewhat,
of late.

I suppose I'm free now;
in any case, you cut me loose.
But space is dark and cold and lonely,
and passing through the side of a
supernova
can only change two of those things.

I've seen heights and depths and
every unearthly delight that
you cannot imagine;
seas of glass and waves of stardust,
mountains that shine from within and
valleys of stone that can breathe.

no one has believed because
I've not yet encountered a being
who listens quite like you do (did);
in any case, they're more believable
than the lies you told me.

What is a satellite without its center?
A piece of junk floating in space
(in the space where your heart was).

I decided to actually mess around with formatting? (Pretty low-key because I did just did it in a note app, no fancy fonts or anything, just words and lots of spaces) I guess we'll see how it goes!

paroxysm xi

through the fabric of the night,
a gleaming golden eye;
the daybreak hawk,
slicing through the sky.

scarlet tail feathers and
razor-tipped wings;
he screams the might
that daylight brings.

o majestic red tail,
great ruler of the sky:
when you fell to the earth,
I fell down to cry.

Oh the fun-formatting one turned out well! And the content works with the form.

I'm so glad you think so @alliyah! I have great respect for your chicken formatting.

paroxysm xii

life decisions flashing by
like the cars and the
people in the street;
good and bad,
young and old,
rich and poor--
all of them moving,
flowing, changing--

but I don't want to move,
I want to perpetuate.

this moment,
watching from a window;
companionship.
I wouldn't ask for
more than that.

paroxysm xiii

I lie on the floor,
hands and cheeks and
forehead
flush with the carpeting
(my tears soaking in and
staining)

At a single word,
my face flushes crimson
in anger,
in embarrassment
(in containing that which
society disdains)

Each day I procrastinate,
participating in the age-old
ritual of
flushing my future down
the drain
(it goes with water to the sea,
a place where I can never be)

paroxysm xiv

the rain falls in constellations,
but their imprints overlap
and overlap and overlap,
so I can never tell which ones.
You said such things don't matter,
but chasing impossibilities
is just one more thing that
contributes to my nostalgic
composition.

You were the rock tied round
my waist, to keep me from floating;
my head was always in the clouds,
eyes on the horizon of the future.
we agreed that one day i would
leap into the sky and drift away,
like a balloon, but when you
leaped into the ocean, your weight
dragged me with you into the
depths.

paroxysm xv


We both know why you're here.

Yes.

Would you describe to me how you feel?

It's... I can't.
(it's like an encyclopedia was just dropped on my chest and whooosh, all the air goes out of my lungs and my eyes open so wide that dust motes land in them while my heart stops beating. when it starts again, each jerky pulse pricks my nerves, and then the whispers start.)

What whispers?

Did I say that out loud?
(the whispers. the memories of everything i've ever done wrong or said incorrectly, every time i've misspent money or betrayed a trust or failed to complete a task or-- it's everything)

You’re a whisper, too.
(because i have no one left to confide in but myself. and it’s so... . . . . . . . lonely)

And you call this phenomenon “crushing guilt”?


Yes.

paroxysm xvi

"It's not my call but
I'm so done with it all"
I can feel myself stall
about to fall
out of the sky--
crash and burn.
Unless I turn,
can somehow learn,
but I only yearn to be
done.
It started out fun but now
I'm under the gun;
I don't want to run.
How easy for one
to become none?
I tear at my hair,
feeling nothing but air,
cursing life as unfair--
remembering that there
once was a child
(and that child was me)
and that child was free,
for she could not see
that it was only to a degree--
so now I decree

that I'm gone.

paroxysm xvii

I walked over a ladder and
around a crack
in the sidewalk.
I pieced together the
broken bits of my
mirror, and I pet
my white cat
on Friday the
14th.

I crossed my fingers,
looked at the clock
at 11:11 and 11 seconds;
I found a
four-leaved clover and
knocked on
wood.

All this I do
just to be lucky enough
to be stuck with you.

Wow, that was really interesting rhyming in poem 16! Overall, the way you weave through ideas and stanzas just takes my breath away! You're too good XD

paroxysm xviii

tired fingers
strum
a long forgotten chord;
they’d rather be
holding your
hand.