Young Writers Society

Day 18:

I keep hitting these potholes in the road
when I'm not even driving. A succession of cars
passing through my body.
All of the ones that have
driven these roads before
in the same patterns but there is no
method to my madness.
Like the snow I will fall
and like the snow I will melt
and drip
drip into the storm drain for my soul to become
one of many that has gotten lost down there.
I bet I could have a college fund
for every coin lost through those bars but the condensed walls
wouldn't be able to contain me. I am loud and I
take up too much space. I'm sorry that
I have to duck when I enter your home.

Time to do some catch-up with my thread, here it goes.

Day 19:

I will be saying, "I'm sorry"
before my fist and your face
even start to collide.

Day 20:

I wish that the puddles scattered outside
are ones of quicksand where my
feet start to sink.

Day 21:

Maybe your eyes
can see past these nights. The cold and dead mornings
won't last forever. Spring will
come again and when it does
I will welcome it in the doorway.

Day 22:

You've memorized all the chords
and tuned it appropriately,
but life is a guitar that
never sounds quite like you
imagined.

Day 23:

The amount of coffee you drink and the
number of boys that you kiss
is starting to stain your teeth.

The last two days of this challenge, here we go. I made these ones longer or at least tried to make up for the lack of it in the last couple.

Day 24:

The ice that is between us
is starting to thin. Puddles form on the ground and
soak your sneakers--you always used to wear sneakers
in the deepest of snow, letting the snow get uncomfortably close
in your socks. Or how when you made snow angels
when it was Autumn, the leaves finding their way
into your hoodie, but you
let them be. And in the spring,
I would stray you away from all the poisonous flowers,
the ones that didn't seem to bother you.
Last winter, you drove for the first time and I wish
that your birthday wasn't when the roads are so slick.

Day 25:

Frostbite is starting to crawl
up your fingertips, a glove that tints your skin
a gentle pink but I've felt like my fingers were going to fall off
for awhile now. The cold is starting to grow
on your lips and the more that the months pass
your name starts to fade from mine
(you are just a memory now).
You are just a memory. Something that is gathering dust in the
back of my mind, too far back in the clutter
to touch. I compare wrinkles in your skin like
battle scars for lasting this long. Because you
are a Christmas ornament that is hanging from a string
that is thinning.

Ending note:

I feel kind of sad to be leaving this thread because it's given me an objective and something to do for the past 25 days. It wasn't too big or too small, but I'm happy that it didn't go on forever because I would have run out of ideas and everything of that sort. It gave me a place to write poetry scribbles and I'm grateful for it. I guess it's time to move on from it! c: