Young Writers Society

my eyes have turned to stone.
the granite scrapes inside my head
turning over and over as I try to blink
but evoke whispers instead:
"what did you think? what did you think?"

There once was a thread in the forum,
that contained far too much decorum.
'twas passed through a grater
and a lymerick later
emerged far less gloomy and borin'

Summer hearts burning
under the fine blue lines
of harbour skies.
I wait I wait
I wait
for when you remember
we don't belong together.

Because Y is a crooked letter
and you cannot make it straight
explain
who we are when not yet 25
when we will grow larger
than the boots we wear
where the ends of the earth
meet
what we can call winter
in a land so sunstruck
why my mother has no name
for the bruises under her eyes.
How every question I ever asked
was answered in riddles
I am only just learning
to decipher.

rules are a stagnating line in the dirt; don't cross; don't ignore; don't
break

poetry is the art of the outlaw.

if poetry is the art
of the outlaw -

what's your excuse?

[you are the law
(in theory)
so doesn't that then become
that which you rebel against?]

What is this? Robin Hood
and his merry poets from Sherwood
forest? Unless I misunderstood,

rules are there to help us down a path
from navel-gazers to Sylvia Plath.

What? Poetry? I
like haiku so I'll post this.
These are so simple.

I count the fingers on my hands, one-by-one
and I count the hands on my fingers, one-by-one

then I count the fingers on your hands, one-by-one,
and I count the hands on your fingers, one-by-one

and then I went to this conclusion
that one-by-one, our hands are one

how about our hearts
can they be one?

I roll words by my mouth,
tongue cleaving my cheeks
to construct this - sound
we open the lips,
parse,
close again.

I am alive in this
language.

.........................................I pick, I fold, I love and tell what is told..............
...................I breathe, I see, I know what it is to be.................
....................................My patterns--picky-pack-pitter-prat--...............
............. and rhythms--fa-la-lum-da-ram--.....................................
...................struck the tones of my tell and be...................
...............folded, pressed but picked........................
............and loved for eternity..............................................................

.................... and forever shall my eyes breathe and see.................

How oppressive you've become!

My sister shoves her fingers
further up the door jamb
and unsticks the singlet from her
spine.

I've walked for so long today

When my brother opens
his mouth to the sky
and groans, for the heat
in the rain.

with the sun on my back;

Crawling one step
over another, one burnt sole
past the other,
see the mist rising
from the freckles on my shoulders.

it's just so strong.

He covers my tracks before
i have made them,
predicting where
my foot will fall

or rise.
and only rooftops
tell me where i am,
the scarecrow guides
in all things Wonderland.

Wrote this a few minutes ago... When YWS was down. xD

I've been wondering all evening
if I'm the only one...
who feels like there was a storm,
and we're camping outside.

Please, don't panic, you people!
Don't frown; avoid wrinkles.
Instead enjoy the winter,
and let's write and eat Pringles! 8D

the slope of the mountain gapes like an open boned jaw
and ever out from between the snow and the sky spill rockets
made of pressed-together flesh and plastic and
I wonder how long it will take to see --
from the bottom without the strength even to stand --
a collision or a death.

they built lights to line the sides.