Young Writers Society

they press down on your knuckles and your veins pop.
your veins pop. and they say
we see you are frightened, we see
you are afraid,
but you gurgle through their conceit:

'these are not veins; they are dragons
under my skin.'

i twisted you through my fingers
and you glimmered green and gold and blue
like a braided strand of seawater brushing
against the shining coast;
you glistened with the sun
and drew me pathways with the moon

parts of you dangle before me,
teasing, tantalizing me to
want to reach out and
throw myself over the ledge
just for a taste, a touch

i can’t stop my fingers from
stretching out, helpless to
your magic and the exchange
of sensations extended
from across the room to me.

i am waiting in the cattails
with catfish whiskers doddling in the current
for the day we talk about our breakups
and how we fit with one another only because
we had chosen to uproot
and left such big holes behind
under the lip of the riverbank.

I think poetry comes in waves
like the heavy air I hold in my chest
I sometimes forget you can't just hold your breath
but you inhale, exhale, live, and write, and breathe -
and sometimes only in gasps,
and sometimes you just run and forget,
but it's always there -
somewhere in the intimate workings of our minds
we know instinctively what it is for hearts to pump blood
and to feel and cry and to scream
and we know that lungs need to breathe
and sometimes as much as I need air, I need poetry.

keep breathing, i tell myself,
as i walk by, a storm brewing
from within, threatening release,
wetness leaking out to meet
the sidewalk below.

i hate cliches, yet here you are,
glimpse of a grin and a grimace,
catching my quick jerk as i
try to dodge your gaze.

our eyes meet in a flash,
me blinking back tears in the
frontal view of the sunlight
beaming down on your face.

i can't imagine what you see,
peering into stirred sea,
once calm ripples spinning
tidal waves in the distance.

i hear a snippet of words
meeting the horizon laid
out between two entities,
but i turn away, letting
the sun rise once again.

What meager things can be offered when
Only the whisper of affection awaits the end of the day?
The portrait of a midsummer night’s daydream leaves
No room to forgive the
Sickening effulgence of the laughing sheep,
Encouraging a pursuit of long-desired suicide with
Sidelong glances,
Taunting you with their long-desired vitality,
But they know nothing of your
Starscape,
The sanctuary you find in a sea
Of stars and planets.

They're fickle;
Adopting a facade of pure innocence,
Even when they hold a universe of
Bad intentions,
Even when they're an inferno of
Rage, deceit, and misery.
The comfort they offer is but a ruse,
Cruel hands slaughtering rabbits,
Relishing in the agonizing cries of pain.

The sadness of this reality echoes forever,
Haunting,
Like the whistle of the last train to freedom.
The afterimage of love still exists, of course,
It's not so foreign.
It will follow you to the end,
Even if the winters are harsh,
The days are short,
and the sunlight cannot find you.

Even unrequited,
Love lives
Unrivaled.

each verse that is shouted through the loudspeakers, can echo first through the oaken halls and then ringing through the village, disturbing every peace.

there is no rest for the faithful nor for the wicked, as none can be truly holy, as long as this new message exists in this time and in this place.

he may weep but his disciple just...
laugh

secrets stashed in photographs
god, your memory is awful
you finish your cigarette and stub it out on her face
but god, you can never forget it

In rooms, we all sit
at opposite ends of the world
Entranced, each watching
the earthquake that rends us unfurl
(the needles unused and rusting red)
Betrayed, lost and unmanned,
the dream pretends that it is dead.

knocks on the door come; one, two, three--
(is that the angels, here for me?)
"nay," a voice says, guttural and deep,
(then please go. i'm not ready to sleep.)
but they scrape and pound, and the door falls clear,
and life thereafter is atrophy
and fear.

a cat may be called many things across many lives,
but even you and i as humans, will never have just one,
name.

If there is such a sound as quiet
I have not heard it yet
for even in the moments between
breathing and heart-beats
the world continues its song.

the last time i heard the sound,
once upon a time called 'quiet
by those who knew no better,
i was completely alone from the
world, wishing i could get back to
it, rather than stumbling through
the darkness by myself.

there is no quiet, only absolute still
broken by the crunch of leaf
and chirp of cricket
floating on a
current