Young Writers Society

Me.

No one sees.

No one knows.

Me.

My secret.

My scars.

My pain.

My mind.

Me.

I look in the mirror,

I don't see myself.

I am not who I was yesterday.

Eyes more tired.

The light no longer reflects within my eyes.

The scars are healing up, but they'll always be there.

I didn't think that I'd be who I am, today, yesterday.

Me...

I am like every single human being,

Ever-changing, every single day.

Tomorrow, I will not be the same as I was, today.

Maybe I will smile more.

I might smile less.

I don't know who I am, or who I will be, but I do know who I am.

I am, Me.



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icy//begin

the cold wind drew
a slight line across
their dry face.

the figure hummed
before releasing
a breath of air.

soon the sun will
shine and heat
the weather more.

maybe then they
could start on
their walk home.

she took a moment to speak,
to let a word fall from her
chapped lips from biting them,
her teeth yellowed by her love
of tea, but no air fell, and thus
she stayed, hovering in a
lost chance at a simple
conversation again.

(((this isn't really that poem-y, but I was told to write and write I did)))

consider the table next to the trashcan;
imagine a sticky, greasy place with good food that fills but does not empty and there it is. the table no one sits at

i think that being the third friend is a lot like being that table

you're not hated,
you're just never especially wanted

so if, perchance, the table where to play a game of waterballoon toss,
or three legged race,
or go on fun dinner dates,
or trips to lakehouses,
or do projects,
or dozens and dozens of school assignments,
it would probably be by itself.

the table never chose itself, but at least the food here is cheap

should a new year bring forth
a wave of tears every day,
the time that sears in one's mind
yet they hold dear just the same,
to fight the fear that builds.

perhaps being a small
cell in a universe filled
with quadrillions would
help someone cope
with the stresses of
their modern lives.

who am i to question
the feeling i get when
expressing my joy,
just because the past
haunts me every time
i say hello and tell
some-one-good-bye.

i am holding his hand tightly
he is holding my hand back
and round my back his other hand
is pushing pushing - bruise rising