Young Writers Society

Sunflower meadows,
covered in fellows,
made of cellos,
who threw many pillows.

Just wanted to say "covered in fellows" is a great imagery

lol, thanks @DavidFoxx.

an edgy poem that's soaking in enjambment

i write random words and
contradictions and
oxymorons, in hopes that no one will notice all the conjunctions, and
comparisons that don't make sense, don't make sense for a reason but
sometimes it gives the impression that i
know what I'm doing - because
enough descriptions drown the paper in angst,
and people will think the sodden page tears on purpose.
(water imagery is a go-to, an
old friend, a familiar pond where I go swimming.)
also
while i'm doing this, why
not
add line
breaks
random
ly
?
oh dear i repeat
ed
rand
om but
i'm too lazy for this -
let's just add one more bonfire of syllables and hope no one notices the inconsistencies.

((@whatchamacallit Loving "a familiar pond where I go swimming" and "one more bonfire of syllables" <3 ))

This poem could be a bad vlog.

Ads ads . . .
ads? what makes a wo-
-man a woman? a
controversial question
I won't even attempt to answer.

I only brought it up
for clicks.

I am walking through a list of
various things I'm not happy about
and conveniently ignoring
the things that (are) going well all because
that's what I've seen other people do.
I'm not actually sad.

What frustrates you
about this poem
is that it tantalises
and ticks
you off when it doesn't deliver
and it goes on
and on
without ever
taking you anywhere
you want to go.

The cat is fat,
the bat is a hat,
the fry can fly,
and I am a sly guy.

A watch do you want to buy?

@Liminality for some reason I felt so roasted by the line "I'm not actually sad" haaaaa I think you're going for a bit of a satirical vibe, but for some reason I find that very striking / relatable. Like, yes this is a sad poem, does that mean I'm actually sad? Do I have to be in order to write good poetry? Agh! You're definitely capturing a concern I've wondered about myself.

poem 1 - very much a poem
personally i am possibly not even using this thread for "worst poems" anymore just like controversial poetry commentary in the form of poetry that would maybe feel too honest/bold if I didn't undercut it by calling it a "worst poem". ~

poem 2, autobiography of my poetry,
all poetry is a work of fiction, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental - for a chapbook of poetry author's notes

How honest can I be here?
It's hard to hit the right confessional blend
of desperate heartache and mature aloofness
that'll make the reader casually empathetic,
but avoid unecessarally worrying them,
or worse-yet appearing emotionally dramatic
for the sake of poetic-show.

So reader, please assume
I am just heart-broken enough
that the poem is worth the words and stretched-out-
jolting metaphors of stray rocks, or imagined drowning,
or nightfall, or poetic-destruction [whatever
thin inspiration we land on today, pick your poison] but
rest assured there is plenty of artistic distance here for you to believe I am doing okay, really I'm fine actually,
we're just processing all these old emotional fault-lines
and heavy baggage through failed-relationship lenses
because it is more palatable that way. Hopefully
that's not too much information, but if this is all too much
just comment on the grammar or punctuation
and move-on, there is nothing
to see here.

This is the best poem in the universe,
It gets better and better and better every verse,
because it is such a great poem,
It covers your mind in foam,
and everywhere your mind wants to roam
it takes over and this poem is all you think of,
because it is so well written and you're missing a glove.

I am stressed so I came here to ray
meaning doesn't matter and is a-okay
I stick things in my diary almost to say
I don't read all my poems out loud, okay?
I'm bad, I know, and just for show
In the distance, I see a castle down low
What castle? hmm, well I don't quite know
Lampshade-hanging so I row bow cow.

weeping weeping
all is well
someoens dynig
i can't spell

The worst poem
ever
must not
be self-aware
It will be try-hard
A genuine
attempt at poetry
gone wrong.
perhaps something
from the
works of a "poet" who
writes
like this.

every bone in your body has a name -
and it's irrelevant exactly how to spell or pronounce
vertebrosternal but trust me i'm telling
the truth, because italics can't lie -

and before we had ribs we were invertebrates
which is another way to say that poetry hasn't always existed

don't you know how many times the sun asks the moon for directions
they say the earth is flat, because once, Time was smoothed thin
and in the shavings from your finger nails, maybe you remember
before there were cells,
we were stardust -
and i've seen people whose arms could reach across to each horizon
between the new and old day -
catching the sun while the moon tries not to answer

did we name the constellations after what we saw,
or did the stars create what they knew we could be -

naming is relative afterall
no one knows who they are in the beginning,
only in hindsight does anything matter

clouded mind with options
that continue to confuse you,
Waiting for the right time
and the right moment to
come knocking at your door,
you refuse to take action
and end up becoming nothing
but a clown in the circus of life.

I don't know what to write, is that okay?
My mind is in a haze, is that okay?
I don't know what I should do.
I don't know what to say, write, or think.
I'm stopped.
Oh, shoot, is this writer's block.

Crumple the homework
Angrily kick the trash can
Slam the head on desk