Young Writers Society

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Poem 14 | Day Fourteen

invisible

sometimes i want to be invisible
what does that mean about me?
does it mean i don’t want to be seen
and i want to slink into a dark corner of the room
and not be looked upon by prying eyes
and no one would worry about if i’m okay
or does it mean i want to listen to people
listen to what they say when they can’t see me
listen to the unfiltered words they say
when they don’t have to change it just because i’m there
listen to their real voice
because when you're invisible
you can do anything
you can be anything
you can say anything
and no one will care or ask
but if you're invisible
no one will pick you up when you fall
no one will pat the crimson scrapes on your knees
no one will wipe away your salty, river of tears
maybe i'd rather fly

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Poem 15 | Day Fifteen

the question

How are you?
such a simple question
the simple three words
that humanity is programmed to say
every time they make contact with another human being
Good,
i say
although the real answer is
that i am not doing well
and that i am terrified of the dark bags under my eyes
and every whisper makes me tense up in my head
and i am feeling the weight of every single thing i have to do
but i don't say that
because no one wants someone who ruins the mood
everyone is expecting the same answer
and anything different makes people question
i'm bringing down peoples' emotions
so now the conversation is not a friendly greeting
but instead an explanation of my melancholia
and a drop-in therapy session
an android repair shop
So of course!
I am doing well.

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Poem 16 | Day Sixteen

Life is a table*

Life is like a table,
expected to hold the weight of many objects
without breaking or faltering.
And these objects are all different
some are heavy, like a stack of encyclopedia books
some are small, like a butterfly pin.
There are many kinds of tables,
such as fragile, clear glass,
or strong and firm oak,
or beautiful marble, which everyone loves to look at.
And some tables cover themselves with tablecloths
trying to make themselves prettier
or make them fit in with the style of the rest of the house.
And some tables break,
shattering into pieces,
snapping at the legs,
rendering it into a useless pile
of splinters and parts.
But tables can be fixed
screws drilling parts together
superglue mending the wounds.
And of course
no table can do without a chair or two,
who sits by the table
always

*Alternate title that is both morbid and funny: Oh no! Our life! It’s broken!

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Poem 17 | Day Seventeen

unhearing of the mayhem

crushed paper balls soar
absurd shouts bounce across walls
but she sits; ponders

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Poem 18 | Day Eighteen

oceanic paradise

welcome to our underwater cove
join us in our aquatic bliss
free from the thrashing thunderclouds
away from scorching sun rays
concealed from all the brutality above
all we have here are tiny bubbles of joy
and the tickling, gentle coral
immerse yourself in sublime euphoria
submerge yourself in tender peace
feel the soft wave graze your skin
and the tranquil silence
just make sure
you'll be able to breathe
as the current can slice into your breath
and sweep it away like a handful of dust
the bubbles of your breath dissolving into the water
and it will rush away from you
never to return

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Poem 19 | Day Twenty-One - Makeup for 19

love is not caring

love is not caring
not exhibiting want, but
it's returning love

Poem 20 | Day Twenty-One - Makeup for 20

is this just fantasy?

raining in sweet thoughts
drowning in delightful praise
who knows if it's real?

Poem 21 | Day Twenty-One

exchanging gazes

sometimes we watch others
examine their every move
where they pause in speech
the tone they carry in their voice
with or without reason
but perhaps
there are others who watch us
inspect how we use our hands
or whether we stroll or saunter
how we bend and twist our brows
to express why we want
but we never see them
because just like us
they try to hide it
even though they are looking at us
with or without reason
we always wonder
what is there to look at?

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Poem 22 | Day Twenty-Two

On the road again

TW: Death
It is commonly told
that life is like a road,
there are hills you must climb,
each step has to promise you'll take the next,
and slopes you must run down,
but don't run too fast or you'll trip.
The scenery is ever-changing,
from fields of wheat leaning from the billowing wind,
or filthy sidewalks and shiny buildings,
or a thicket of trees with seldom light seeming through the leaves.
There are all kinds of weather that might befall you on a road,
such as freezing attacks of blizzards,
or a particularly flaming sun baking the glass,
or a hard rain whose droplets mask everything in sight.
And there is always a start,
which have seen,
and a destination,
but we might not know what it is.
So of course life is a road in that way.
But sometimes animals cross roads,
a whole family
or just one.
they, too, have a destination
but they do not see the cars
rushing in like water after a dam is removed,
and we can choose to simply keep going
and crashing into them like block towers
leaving them behind us,
wondering whether they where knocked over
or smushed into the asphalt, becoming part of it,
forever imprisoned like a drawing with permanent marker,
a symbol of the fact that nobody cared
nobody cared enough to take a few seconds of their time
for this animal.
Or we can halt everything
and just wait.
Wait until they are away from the path ahead,
wait until they are not in the line of danger.
And everyone just goes along,
with their normal roads,
waiting for what is ahead.

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Poem 23 | Day Twenty-Three

the ground is always trodden

the creak of the metal limbs
oil-filled joints laboring
the loud thumps of iron boots
hitting the trodden ground
their metal grills of mouths
spitting out orders
they line in perfect arrays
even rows, even columns,
marching one after another,
toward their predetermined fate.
Do they stare at each other,
wondering why they are walking
different from the rest?
Do they emit tiny giggles
that one's voice sounds funny?
Do they point out their wrongdoings
as if it will kill someone to make a mistake?
Never.
Never a shout, never a question.
Never do they falter or sway.
They are all uniform, they are all the same,
their parts bend the same way,
their voices speak the same sound
their tasks are always completed the same way
under the burning sun
or the gentle silver moon
the machines do not change
their story hands clank with iron tools
and iron shoes
and iron souls
until the sun shines no more
and the rain pours no more

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Poem 24 | Day Twenty-Four

Not everybody wanted an apple a day

People love to imagine life like a tree
branches outstretched, leaves blowing free.
One that starts as a tiny baby seed
and grows tall and towering above plants and weeds.
It befriends all the creatures that sit upon its bark,
shading them from the sun with a peaceful dark.
Stretching its crooked branches high,
knowing it can never truly touch the sky.
Its roots dug deep into the Earth,
it will never move, never stir.
But eventually, it will.
After many years, and the tree has had many rings,
gone through many winters and past many springs,
its wood eroding and crumbling down,
all that is left is debris of chestnut brown.
But sometimes trees are cut with a razor-edged saw,
papery dust filling the grass, fresh and raw.
The tree has now become a simple stump,
the branches are hoisted to be sent somewhere for them to be dumped.
All the leaves, and shapes that made it who it was,
were whisked away from it just because,
because the humans had already chosen its fate,
humans who thought trees were an unnecessary weight.

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Poem 25 | Day Twenty-Five

pages

Everybody knows that life is like a story.
All stories have a beginning, just like our lives.
we born as an infant and grow up as a child
we spent our childhood mainly learning
all the basic things we need to know
and it is a period of time where
we are given all the introductions
all the blocks so we can build later on
all the pens so we can write after
When we are beginning our teen years
We are incited to start thinking for ourselves
Make our own decisions
Choose our own personality
And slowly the amount of challenges rise
And they become harder and harder
Until that point in your life,
where are all of your hands are full,
every part of your brain is working around the clock,
and it feels like everything is raining on our at one time.
Sometimes this peak in the mountain occurs earlier,
or later,
but there is always that climax,
where you take all the help you can get,
from you mentors and helpers,
from everything you learned climbing up the mountain.
After the climax is over
You can come down the mountain
Falling fast but freely
until you reach the firm ground
where your limbs are feeble from the climb
and your bones are more frail than before
but this is where it is resolved
this is the long-awaited denouement
and all stories come to a close
all mountain trails have an end
all books close

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Poem 26 | Day Twenty-Six

voices are meant to be used

tired of hiding
sick of hushing at your laughs
words meant to be heard