Young Writers Society

I write poems,
Inside domes,
made of foams,
while eating said foams.

I write poems in my home,
and I never let them go,
to the stars,
to the sky,
they are my home,
and I always wonder why.

The large blue speedily-running high-up adverb
was boring as an idle thin noiseless harmless-looking power line. No sign
of what the author truly mendaciously meant,
as cumbersome as figuratively wet soggy cloths for sleep-insulation.

I quickly saw it awesomely, majestically and just
was blown away, by clichés, by the rhythm surprisingly changing
and what did the author truly mendaciously mean?
It never pointedly clearly fallaciously or otherwise came to mind.

A large blue speedily-running high-up adverb:
I quickly saw it awesomely, majestically and just
forgot the pen-holding literate key-typing existing

person, there literally writing behind.

Please let this day be over, I can't take it anymore.
The long hours of work I have to pour over.
The words on the screen blur to nothing.
It's endless.
The early mornings when by brain can't function.
The times i'm too tired to open my eyes.
The days i'm too exhausted to get out of bed.
It's endless, and I can't take it anymore.
If this is school.
I want it to end.

roses are red
my name is dave
i hope this makes sense
microwave

Nothing is wrong,
But i am right.
Now you tell me,
Who is wrong or right?

Either the world,
Or it's me who is right.
Because we could never be same,
For it is what I always fight.

To make the difference.

Right or wrong.
Day or night.
Colors clash.
The sky is bright.
Hues of gold.
Reds and blues.
Truth be told.
Lies take hold.

How I love the color orange,
And the yummy taste of an orange.
Apples are fine too, though not as good, they're like, OK I guess.
And grapes, I suppose, do their best.
Bannannnannaaas are good, though no where near Oranges
Oranges are the best.

Shattered hearts full of dreams.
Shattered minds across the sky.
Soft caress lay in tatters.
Bloodshed is all that matters.
Shattered people just like me.
Strew on the ground and left unbound.

Here in a forgotten land.
Stepping blindly into the night.
Scared of everything that lies ahead.
Scared of what's going to make me dead.


These were just some poem lines I had lying around, got bored.

crash.
like symbols
of cymbals
colliding
through space.

I think the crescent is named, after the, moon, and the moon isn't named after the crescent,,
the man in the moon could tell us for certain but
he's a crescent, that's the problem
only a sliver of his mouth, and right cheek,
right eye, and
right eyebrow
are available for consulting.

Nights without rest.
Days filled with sorrow.
Waiting till tomorrow.

Day after day,
week after week,
month after month.
When will it end.

When will the night will shine,
and the darkness be banished,
Freedom at last,
will the peace last?

I love pink
I love to think
I love books
They get me hooked
I love poems
I love to sit at home
I love love
It's more than enough

(100000000000% my worst poem ever)

Don't speak, just listen.
The truth you seek,
is hidden behind doors,
Locked away,
and guarded
by things on all fours.

Don't speak, just listen.
For time is coming to an end.
The hourglass will run out,
and time will become sand.
This is the truth you seek,
so listen.

Barnacles are bad,
cats are rad,
I'm a tad mad,
and chickens love salad.

porridge brain

i know porridge brain is porridge pain
but does it work backwards? if porridge
could feel pain . . . would it have consciousness?
c o n s c i o u s n e s s ---
rice slow-cooked in a puddle by the sun
slow-cooked to irreversible softness, and congee
congeals on the roadside.

dictionary definitions have narrow lenses
narrow fences, the kind of things we call
porridge, bread, sandwich
"a rose by any other name" would still be
Shakespeare's genius, recognisable through
breaking display cases.

maybe my porridge brain isn't so porridge
after all.
(but i wouldn't know that.)