Young Writers Society

i tend to assume that dreams were
only made for those who refused to
see the truth,

but now i see that dreams were
made for those who chose to see
their truth,

and i regret sitting up looking at
my ceiling refusing to dream, and
imagine my own ending,

because life doesn't dream for you.

I don't know. I fell down the stairs.


My dear

I wonder if the stairs have souls. Collecting the imprint of your footsteps,
to save them for later and replay when
the rays of the moon falls upon their cherrywood skin.

And soft sighs will rise from their hackled spines;
forming into a myriad of dust particles
swirling in the iridescent moonlight, lamenting their master
gone up in
smoke

every twilight is a monarchy, this I have grown
to understand; the night is not an assassin,
and the heather lapping your feet
is not a ghost. I am sure
there will be music once the traffic ceases,
of crickets and forgotten footballs
on the porch playing croquet.
(long live the queen.)

it is autumn
let us play queen
tragedies do not wait for occurrence but we
shall shingle their path
we shall wait
because patience is a tree glowing
orange in the limelight in the darkness in the dusk

(patience is vitreous)

i stumble back in here
my feet weary and beaten
my shoes ripped at the seems
laces gone

perhaps i should leave
says the nagging voice in my skull
but i know
with a smile on my face
that i will return someday soon

Sweet, sweet love

When I wake in the morning, with winter dusting my skin in perfect round drops.
They tell me, you're gone. Like snow swallowed up in rays, and the
aftermath lingers and condenses
like the sharp intake of breath on a merciless wintry
morning

*

The most peaceful thing I've watched
was the death of Budd Dwyer.
Sometimes the most shocking things
are the most peaceful.

I dreamt of kicking seawater.
The sunset was a greenscreen
and I was alone by choice.
The water burnt orange
and then carmine
until it consumed me.
In the beach house my family watched
and waved and drank margaritas
with umbrellas so small they were
forgettable.

summer monsoon tells me
he is the man kissing gravel tongues, the man
being raped by the city's dull counsel--
wearing the shalwar kameez with far too many patches
to be called second-hand. I see him
there, still--when the rain plonks off
the roofs and collects in his empty tin.
(despite contrary belief, the rain
is not music. the rain
is like dust-coated lemons
slipping down throats and spines.)

with 21 balloons today, 21
balloons tomorrow
and no sight to speak of--
perhaps he is wishing his balloons
could learn to fly. or maybe he wishes
he had a plate of pakoras
to keep him company;
summer monsoon tells me.

i fell into this passageway
through the fairy burrows;
my footsteps fell through darkened nights
pacing (back and forth) a storm under itching skin
and the lactic acid builds up in the strings of my muscles
but i fell into this passageway
and i feel i must find my way out.

I hate to see the moon
walk backwards into the toptrees...
I hated to see your smile
bend downwards into the vacancy...

It’s so funny how people shove you to your knees
And when you’re prostrate, they manage to push you down to all fours
Until you’re less than a rabid dog
And the animal part of you wants to bark
But you can’t
Because they've muzzled your dignity with shame.

A poem you need
To pass indeed
I pay the toll
To the rhyme troll
So now that I've paid, Im able to leave
Good thing I always have a spare rhyme up my sleeve.

i'm sick of yellow walls.
they remind me of jaundice,
of dried bones,
of bile—
of the time after death when nothing is certain
except that you're dead
and you'll be disposed of
shortly,
once they get around to it.
____all my mother sees are marigolds
____and narcissus bowing his head
____to meet his fate underwater
____[oh, please let the daffodils drown]
and i wish she would know that
it's sickening
to see only death,
repeated.

i have learned i am the kind that is meant to have hands that tremble
no matter how much i want hands that heal
if i could have the hands that heal, then i would reach into the empty auditorium of my chest
and extract a faltering heart with the callous precision of a surgeon
and offer it on a silver platter like the head of John the Baptist
i would make my heart a sacrifice
for others to crucify or snap as cleanly in half as a wishbone