Young Writers Society

You shed a purple tear for me,
a few months back;
one that fell to the kitchen floor,
and left me a forever-stain.

I gazed at it this morning,
awed at how much you made me
mean to you.
I remembered how you had to leave,
"To keep you safe,"
you said; "To serve my country,
and my family."

You left again this morning,
just a kiss before you vanished.
But the first time -
it was enough.
You had left me a very special
parting gift, with all of our memories
locked away -
That precious purple tear,
my sweet Forever-Stain.

Yesterday was all circumstantial,
a fake flower in a mock-crystal vase,
flaunting reality with a confidence
better described as haughtiness.
What right does that piece of plastic have,
to tell a lilac branch to
"let loose and live a little"?

Today was all the same,
a rhinestone studded bracelet,
sitting next to a diamond that decorates
a 14 karat-gold ring.
That rhinestone suffers from an illness known
as Jealousy.
It was produced in a factory -
that diamond, at one point, was created from something
natural.

He'd take the lilacs, plain as they are,
over a painted-up piece of fluffed-up plastic.
Stop assuming He's a hypocrite.
He sees past that rhinestone's 'pity me!' act,
and loves the way the diamond shines,
just as He intended it to do.
Stop assuming He's left them all,
they deserted him long before.

They're told you that
to come with us,
you have to give up everything you are,
to make room for some
unseen manifestation.

Tell me darling,
would you trade a soggy cardboard box
for an armful of diamonds in its place?
Or would you stick up your nose,
and claim that
your empty little box is worth
more?

The way your mind works
never ceases to
hypnotize me in a form of
sick fascination -
Look at you,
Darling, you're still stumped on the answer.

It's rounding half-past four a.m.,
and here I am, leaning up against you,
so that I can write these blasted words.
Your support is more than welcome,
but my posture is no good -
thanks to you.

I'm slumping over,
only half-comfortable,
but I have not the energy to shift.
Stupid, hard and flat,
you dumb wall.
You're going to give me a crick in the neck,
before the morning's up.

Time is such a stupid thing,
a single flick
by the right fingers,
and it can be overcome.
It seems so strong at first,
like it holds so much power -
and it does;
but its ton of power
hasn't put me to sleep yet.

A few hours may seem short to some,
but to a tired teenage girl,
it's three eternities combined.

You'd think that time
would have put me back
in my place by now,
I just lived a whole five seconds
longer,
Time hasn't pushed me into sleep yet.

Stupid, wimpy time.

A quivering body behind a
potted plant -
no more than a too-large
body and imperfectly blotched-up
cheeks -
string for hair
and yellow stains over pre-discolored teeth.
Nothing spectacular,
nothing worth his time.

And still he stopped,
brown eyes peering past the leaves
concealing her "unpleasant" face,
straight to the
frightened little girl behind the green.
From his pocket
a silver bottle was pulled,
simple, scratched
and so imperfect.

He gifted it to the "ugly" girl,
that night,
and bid she use it
well.
That impish little bottle,
was more incredible than
it seemed to be.

Oh, and well she used it -
she whispered her affection into
its top,
and sealed it tightly,
to be carried with her everywhere,
and perhaps someday used.
Her feelings were now protected
by a scratched-up layer
of silver-colored
glass.

"One day," she told herself,
every single night,
"I'll find that man again,
and this bottle, I shall break,
It will be broken at his feet,
and he will know
how much he has done for me."

An unnatural curl,
my fingers now have.
Smelly blue ink has
worked its way through
the skin of my callous,
formed from holding onto
this blasted pen.

My inability to put it down
is driving me stark-raving mad,
it's bloody five a.m.!
So why am I still awake,
leaning on this cold, hard wall,
writing low-quality poetry
with you,
you blasted pen?

You stupid writing utensil,
my fingers are stuck like this -
let me drop you,
before these hand-cramps
get any worse.

Blasted pen.

My skills are growing slim,
slimmer than they were before you see,
and those bloody cliches
are starting to take their toll on me.
And oh my gosh,
this poem rhymes!
I've fallen for this trap,
seventy too many times!

My eyelids are heavy,
but I suppose nobody really cares.
I'm a prisoner to these meaningless ramblings,
and,
HEY!
What happened to my
rhyming scheme?!

I give up with you,
you multitude of poems.
I read too long before I started
writing you.
You're getting to my head,
and now I'm ranting to you,
about you.

You know what?
Good-night poems.
Go annoy somebody else,
somebody who doesn't want
to sleep tonight.

A fuzzy line of amber
has sliced the sky in half and,
the red rain that falls
are the tears that the stars cry
every day -
for what they deserted
when they left that baby girl behind.
She's staring at the sky now -
staring at those ruby droplets.
She doesn't know,
she doesn't know.

A flower blooms in the middle
of her chest,
set there by pain-
by tears that
the earth
has not yet forgotten.
And it was born of pain,
and pain it needs in order to thrive,
in a world filled with happiness.
She can't know,
she can't know.

And her written troubles,
are her father's screams,
her mother's tears
for her daughter's
agony.
"Why did the stars leave
her at her birth?"
Her daddy demands to know.
And Mama cries more,
oh she cries so much more -
she must not know,
she must not know.

But for every whisper
that those who love her scream,
another hears -
he's planted his own flower,
the loveliest of lilacs -
and it's growing.
Love planted it there,
and so it needs love
to grow.
The stars have stopped lamenting -
their girl has finally grown.
He does know,
he does know.

Simple, simple darling,
that's all that it is.
The way life drapes over us,
a comfort blanket
that keeps all of the good things in.
The way that life howls at us,
a tormentor
that keeps the paranoia in.
That's not what it is.
It's simple, simple darling.

You watched him watch the eagles
yesterday, beside the river.
You watched him call to them,
you watched them fly
away.
"Free as a bird," they say,
but a bird is not free -
it's as bound by life
as you are.
As he is.

Simple, simple darling,
it's more than that.
The way life adorns us,
a generous giver that
does so much keeps us so very alive.
The way life abhors us,
a greedy taker that
does so much to take our lives away.
It's so simple, simple darling.