Young Writers Society

The Orchard

Spare the rod; spoil the child.
And the worst thing in the world
is a spoiled child.
You scrap off my skin,
calling it mold.
Put me in the medical waste bin.
Hand me the rod,
let it burn the cuts on my hands.
You have not beaten me in all the right places.
I am still mildrew and yellow pus.
The scalpel doesn't rid my tumors.
The shots don't cure my rabies.
I have made a mockery of your rod,
so I carve a new one from my spine.
One bad apple spoils the bunch.
When the fruit rots,
does it call itself a sinner?

Neon Letters of the Sea

Green isn't my color.
Paint me shades of yellow.
I've always gravitated to neons.
But when I'm displaced,
a neon sign washed out to sea,
electrical wiring sparking,
I see the world.
And neon's a noble gas,
but I've no loyalty to yellow,
and I long to catch the world in a net.
Looking through the wrong end of the binoculars,
I see the world in monochrome,
put turn off my fuses,
and suddenly,
the color wheel does cartwheels,
and I turn sage.
The ocean might break me,
but it shows me a place beyond the doorstep.
Neon curls into iron-wrought letters;
poses like a model encased in stone.
But maybe once my wires rust,
I can smooth out like pastels,
like water smoothing out sand,
and I'll hold the world in my hands.
I'll flicker green,
and someone will wipe my color away.

soulless gods and soulful people

carve in counterclockwise
strokes down the middle of the
cancerous growths along my
soul made of bone and spit and war

war is the shadow of terrified
people who only know to
follow instructions from higher beings that
fear all the things they can't control like
broken children and
the gun shells in their feral souls

souls were not made for
target practice and
mockery from the gods that
promised to protect us from
all the dangers they created themselves

my soul is begging for
relief that can only come from
angry gods embracing
benevolence, forgiveness, or extinction

miracles only happen in small doses to
people who live their lives on
a waiting list for
some sort of impossible change to
the systems that keep us broken

my broken soul is tired of
blood sacrifices to
indifferent sunsets and underpaid stars.

Infinity, Pi, Water

Count to infinity;
tell me the last digit of pi;
cup a tablespoon of water in your hands.
Humans are defined by our limitations.
To be flawed is to be human,
to correct, to touch the divine.
How many feet am I away from perfection?
One? Two? A million?
Does it matter if I'll never take them?
If I am chained to the floor,
losing count after a trillion,
stalling after nine,
letting the water fall.
Humanity is woven into my skin
like a family crest banner.
To stay in place is human,
to reach and reach is to amuse the divine.

Ohhh "infinity" strikes me as a very clever poem! I also loved the list poem above "inventory" and the final two lines </3

You've done a terrific terrific job outputting so many wonderful poems this month Wist! Nearing the finish line here soon! Well done!

Chrysalis

Look me in the eyes.
Tell me you wanted me to change.
You have called me your butterfly,
but you have never let me chrysalize.

Keep a caterpillar in a box,
and it will think flying is a myth.
But I crawled out of your box.
I spat in your eyes,
wrapped myself in the future.

You screamed outside of my cocoon,
trying to sice away the edges.
But I would die if I let you in,
if I stopped for a moment to consider your side.

You were the warbler,
I was the prey you were feeding.
You kept me in a loop of despair,
promising me that there was no other life than this.
But now I'm too bitter for your taste.
I taste of toxins and all your realized fears.

Look me in the eyes,
and tell me you're proud I'm strong.
You can't.
All you see is all of your work dying,
and I'm finally getting my chance to live.

Falling

Balance a knife on its tip.
How long until it falls over?
How were we meant to last
when you always tilted me on the edge?
You called it dance,
a back and forth,
but I called it what it was.
You liked throwing me off balance.
A bicycle falls when it stops moving,
but you just wobbled me between falls.
My paint's all scratched,
my knees are scuffed.
I'm done falling for you.
At what point do I hit the ground?
At what point do I refuse to come back up?
At what point do I search for something steady?
Father, you always called yourself a magician,
fighting against gravity,
holding the impossible,
but I called you what you were.
You were delaying the inevitable.
Eventually, the bicycle falls,
and the knife tips over.
We were fighting against gravity, father,
we were always doomed to lose.

Rabid Dog

Bite the hand that beats me,
snarl at the smell of my blood on your fingers.
Self-defensive is second nature,
but your hand ruffles my fur,
and my throat stops.
My teeth cower behind my lips,
or maybe you put them to sleep.
You know where my weak spots are,
but you know all the places to love.
I want to give you rabies,
watch you foam at the mouth,
and run far from this place.
But I miss the hand that stroked my hair,
whispering that I was okay.
But that voice was a mask,
hiding the fireworks and thunderstorms.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you
unless it's for the price of your soul.
I want to love you,
to lower my defenses until I'm gentle.
But the you I want isn't real,
and you'll only ever be the hand on my neck.
And if I don't thrash, I'll never survive.