Young Writers Society

an attempt to start, over milky foam, because i would rather write a poem
than admit where i'm from and lie about feeling numb.

|0.1|

in times of tightly drawn faces,
some
flicker in and out of existence
yet
mine remains because it stands
out
that i can't leave myself in the
moment
mostly because i can't give up
control
over my body, over my life, over
everything
but i try every morning, to start
anew

|0.2|

will this be a trial for how
long we can survive with only
each other, or a trial for how
long i can hide my emotions

and write them into poems
that increase with intensity
until i'm hiding in my room
and the bathroom and the

nights seem to drag on and
on while the days crawl by.

|0.3|

sometimes i wish i could be
shapeless like the ocean,
like the water streams,
or like the air we breathe,
(for at least i wouldn't have
to be stuck here, and i
could fly away.)

|0.4|

this state of isolation is only
temporary, i won’t always be
panicked, curled in a chair

i repeat this in my head as
my parents freak out over
the latest news conference

but then they want me to be
outside of my room, and my
mouth can’t communicate

how every step in every other
place inside this pretty-like
a-coffin-final resting place,

that doesn’t give me fresh
air or give me a moment to
breath when all i can think

about is how i’d much
rather be anywhere else,
temporarily at peace.

april 01

|1.0|

not in control

i’ve got
a
pulsing heartbeat
and
my veins are ready
to
vibrate from
my skin
but all i can see are
hazy blips floating
where
my vision has
gone
cross-eyed
and i’m shaking
even when i think
i’m
still
but
maybe that’s the
pressure talking
that’s
building
inside my head
and i’m
left
spinning.

April 01

|2.0|

That Pink Prayer Quilt

I used to whisper prayers at night,
tying endless knots on the strings
of my pink quilt, usually about
my father, always about a family
member, and always with doubt.

I never read the Bible, only a
kids/friendly version and an old
collection of short religious stories
but I felt like I understood it.

I don’t think I do now anymore,
but leave it to an adolescent in
deciding just how much they know.

Now I’m entertained by jokes about
God or Christ or even references to
Christian morals because I did read
some part of some stories some time.

I think I prayed as a child because
that was what we would do at church
and what I say on the television and
sometimes good things would happen.

But religion has been ruined so many
times for me over the years that I
admire people who are religious because
they feel that connection but still
respect the human population.

I wish sometimes that I could back to
the easier days, the simpler days
that only a childhood can have,
how with every scream and curse
I hid my feelings away, but I lost that
luxury and desperately want it back.

april 02

|3.0|

proper behavior

when i was little, bald,
(teetering on small legs)
i learned the steps
of being a good child.
if i listened and spoke
in the proper way or
nodded or acknowledged
that of course they were
correct and i should have
known better and should
have realized their actions,
the fair consequences,
(the yells and curses and
pointed fingers and dark
gazes) before i laughed.

and so i learned to tie my
thoughts, big or small,
(but mostly big once my
body hit the age of my brain,
of my head, of my words)
to balloons with frayed
strings and let them float
up away from my mouth and let
the urges to defend myself,
to speak, disappear like
the way my innocent want
for my parents has dissipated,
and my mother would give me
small smiles and sad looks
(and explain that she
tried to hide this side of
him when i was small,
but i still remember),
and i must admit i do
want to leave this place.

April 03

|4.0|

Burning

My face is burning from my acne
cream and I think I've lost hours
of sleep trying to will my chin and
my forehead and the skin under my
eyes to stop feeling like I was pressing
an iron further, deeper, into my skin.

A book about vampires and nonsense
described someone's acne in the dark
as moles that made him handsome,
even though the next day he looked
hideous and the girl seemed disgusted.

So, for the past few years, I have tried
to imagine my whiteheads as simple
dots and my blackheads as the start
of freckles, and forget that I felt like
I was a walking figuration of a before
picture during a medication ad.

I've finally gotten treatment, of course
right before the literal quarantine,
and my face is now closer to snow
falling onto a cracked and pale road
rather than looking blissfully acne-free.

And my parents talk about how they
should have gotten me help sooner,
but my brother's acne was worse and
they simply handed down his over-the-
counter cream to me to use for a while.

Apparently, getting a less blemished
face is too much to ask for, since I
also have gotten braces and speech
therapy and glasses and spasms that
feel like growing pain but I'm not
growing anymore, and I'm tired.

april 04

|5.0|

wordy about few words

is it my fault that my thoughts
swirl the more i think and my
vocabulary likes to limit itself
to a half 'a dozen words that
are repeating on a playlist
i did not choose its contents.

but i can at least decide
the eventual resting place
or learning place, i suppose,
and maybe there i can pick
out new sounds and letters
i can loop or string together

and i can enunciate properly
without everyone shaking
their heads and asking what
word i meant to say, but that
is still a while and for now i
must deal with being here.

April 05

|6.0|

To Choose

I don't want to think of this
life as being one of fate.
No one should be forced
to adhere to some standard
passed down from an
unnamed, faceless entity.
Rather, I would rather be
stuck on the sidelines of
others' lives if that is the
way I can decide to choose.

And to choose, I hope for
as much as possible, of
choosing the shoes I want,
or wearing the same pair
for a month, or picking,
perhaps, where I want to
lay my head, on thorned
roses or soft lily pads.

The idea of an identity
comes in many forms,
one being of course what
your parents call you.
The art of identity, of names,
of whether a chosen one can
mean more than another,
or if they weigh the same.

But I hope they are equal
on the scale of personal
choosing, of determining
who I am, because where
would I be without change,
without the chance to
alter my standing in life,
without letting me free.

april 06

|7.0|

intake of air

time to take a breath,
time to breathe,
yet not too loud
that your pounding
ears can still hear.

and when you speak,
if your voice rises,
then beware the
answer that will
echo in your head.

but they declare,
it's all for you,
and you think if
it's all for you,
but it's unwanted.

for then they listen,
you want to say,
i'm sorry but this
time you hold your
breath and wait.

April 07

|8.0|

Bitter Rhymes

Repeating words, repeating phrases
often lead to places my mind traces
back to some memory in the past
but my control over this won't last

and so I'm sent back, head and toes,
sifting through gray piles of woes
trying to find something to send
to my future, for me to later mend

yet I'm fearful, I'm lost, I've shed
too many tears and laid in this bed
for what better place to waste time
than where my alarm will still chime

and for this I must quit my endeavor
for change, as I never was that clever.

april 08

|9.0|

forms of cold

when i go on walks,
somedays my hair is
still wet and dampens
the orange-red, beanie
on my head and i bet
that if i waited long
enough i could make
my own kind of icicles.

and my nails will turn
blue-purple-lilac,
like my own kind of
color-changing polish
that doesn't leave for
hours somedays and
it leaves chills through
my hands and my toes.

but maybe i'm the
worst at judging how
warm i can get or how
cold i can get, and i'm
still a little dumb and
thinks i can wear gloves
and be fine on a day
that is far too stormy.

April 09

|10.0|

A Little Lost

Maybe I’m wasting my time
watching animated shows
and crying over characters,
but this is the time I’ve
carved out to let my brain
focus on something else

besides school and classes
and work and studying
and my face hurts and
I’m feeling tired and I
probably should go sleep.

april 10

|11.0|

rainy, bloody day

my socked toes tap on a fogged
windowsill, the rain thunders,
wanting to imprint pictures
on the wet concrete so the
bright-colored kids can stick
their shoes in deep cracks
and skin their knees and palms.

the pitter-patter of a bleeding
heart echoes with every intake
of air, every gaze down into
the muddied hall where smudged
red petals laid on pale kitchen
tiles in a melted array, visible
only to faded irises that see
past the copper stains and soak
in the near aroma.

April 11

|12.0|

Murmurs Over Food

Somedays, I sit through
a quiet meal, not from
us not having anything,
rather the silence was due
to the other individuals
threatening to set off the
fire alarm from their fumes
and steam, or switching
a flip that sends blue faces
and sullen looks that could
drown our small dining room
with tears at the backs of
everyone's eyes that won't
look at anything mobile.

And my thoughts tumble
over on another, trying not
to focus on my own possible
anger or sadness shot at
one of my parents, but I
will stare at my plate, hoping
against the pessimistic
sliver inside my chest that
I would not be looked at
and made to speak when I
had nothing to say and
almost shook in my chair
and trying not to choke with
every bite and swallow
down all of my words.

april 12

|13.0|

a momentary play-pretend

i think there's
something in the waters,
under the ripples
my toes make
as they tap along
the colorless surface

but my brain isn't
meant to think
about the bigger picture
outside made-up worlds
i might be able to
peek at through
a clouded window.