Young Writers Society

30 poems in 30 days...that's my goal. I don't know how I'm going to achieve it, but it has been set! We'll see how far I get.

First poem of the month:

'How are you?'
'I'm good, how are you?'
The mask says.

Second poem of the month:

I walk to my room
And slam the door
On the world.

I sit on my bed
And wait
Color drips from my eyes
As the rest of my body
Desaturates.

Who could ever love
Such a pathetic heap
As I?

A worthless hole
Sucking in resources
And spitting nothing out
Except confusion
And discomfort.

But when I try to reach out
For help
And happiness
They tell me nothing's wrong
Unknowingly slapping away
My pleading hand
And plunging me deeper
Into black.

It's time to scream again.

Plus a third one, to make up for missing yesterday:

You ask me what's wrong, but I can't tell you
My lips are sealed with guilt
My eyes shadowed with fear.
My face a mask of jaded skin
From all the times I've been let down
Selfish of me.
But what else am I supposed to expect?
Ever since the first grade.

Everyone leaves eventually
It's only a matter of time.
And now you're slipping away, too
I don't know why.
Is it because I don't love you?
Because that's a lie
I do love you.
Do I seem too distant?
Is my version of love not good enough to make you stay?
I know I'm not very affectionate
I've never been one for hugs or kisses
Does that make my love less valuable to you?
Maybe it does.
But what else am I supposed to do?
Nobody seems to value a smile
The simple fact of someone being there
With me
Together.
The colors are fading again.

My fourth poem so far:

I stumble down the hallway, feet thumping numbly against the floorboards.
Something about those words opened a wound, an old scar that I didn't know existed
Tears are welling up in my eyes, and I still don't understand why
As my heart beats faster
And faster
And faster
Fear floods my veins as I reach the kitchen
I collapse onto the counter, fingers gripping the cold tile
Nobody's home, and I can't feel anything
My jaw unhinges of its own accord, air rushes out,

it carries a sound I've never made before

On puppet strings, I collapse in the living room
I pull my hair but no sensation comes
I can't stop screaming, nobody's home
The shadows are coming to get me.

My fifth poem because I'm inconsistent:


I open my mouth
And the words spill out
Like moths released from a jar
It's so freeing
To not need you anymore.

Poem #6:

The colors swirl inside me
Opening new eyes in my head
To relieve the pressure.

I feel like a monster.

Her feet brush lightly over the grass, her head is wreathed in clouds.
Her arms span miles as she raises them, scraping glitter from the moon
It showers her in light, catching in the rivers of her hair
Waves of night tumbling past her shoulders.
She dances slowly, softly, like the wind that winds through the pines
And whispers in my ears
Whshhh
Whshhh
The gentle breeze of spring.

And I sit
And I watch
And I think:

"Does she know how beautiful she is?"

A small hot wire
That's what you are
A tornado trapped in a jar
Covered in jeans and band T-shirts
Home-bleached hair and nose piercings
Ready to bite whoever comes close

At least, that's what you want us to believe.

But you're like a watermelon
Heavy and formidable at first, but once cracked
You bare your delicate insides
Sweet water pouring out
And pooling around your feet
Until you see your own reflection
And realize
Just how broken you really are
A hard shell
Filled with glass

But I love you either way.