Young Writers Society

there are three types of bread in the house
stored in the freezer and fridge
because here we buy in bulk
and save it for a rainy day

the first is my father's and it is what you'd call
normal, purchased in the grocery store
next to the deli, where all the other breads
are stocked for the mass population
to purchase once a week
but we buy three loaves a month
and nobody seems to care

the second is my mother's and it's what you'd call
healthy, purchased in a specialty store
which she has to go to on delivery day
because they sell out so quickly you won't get it
two days later, unless you order it special
and people look at you weird
when you say what's in it

the third is mine and it is what you'd call
difficult, ingredients over multiple sections of the store
because i don't like bought bread,
with its extra hard crust or 'bad' ingredients
that i really shouldn't eat if i know what's good for me
i take the time to make it and people praise
how much effort i put into food
when i wish i could tell them why

there are three types of people in this house

— April 10, 2014

our life is defined by second person plural
a collection of yous who make up
the edges of consciousness and
define the i, if you subscribe to the theory
that our identities are built by those around us
for they are the ones who define what words
are best assigned to our skin, bones
and mind.

danger lurks when there are yous at the edges
who are too focused on themselves
to see that they are not the source
of the reflection they are simply supposed
to be a mirror for

— April 11, 2014

I cry at the end of my best days
when I walk around downtown and enjoy
air outside my neighbourhood
visiting restaurants, bookstores and
anywhere else I want to go
because those moments I don't have cares
and I'm going out to celebrate that
because I deserve it

i cry because the whole day
all i could think about
is what i would do with You
if You were here with me

and i am alone

— April 12, 2014

you are my downfall,
the one who sends words back
into childish overreactions
built from not understanding
the world around me
because why would you say that
when you know i can't take a joke
because i never know when it is one
you hide behind the idea
that i'm just being (over) sensitive
and tell me that life is full of people
who show care through cruelty;
i need to lighten up

— April 13, 2014

some days i only know how to speak in poetry and apologies,
verses written in metaphor and dotted with "i'm sorry
and i don't know why" woven between "this is who
i am and i don't know how to change". language spread out
to allow for the smallest inkling of feeling
that maybe i can create something beautiful
to fill silence stretching between us pockmarked with
awkward laughter and passing glances
back when i didn't know the sharpness of my nails
and the softness of your skin; how easily
i left marks that became red on pink
only to become white and tough, a warning
to stay away from my hands
even after i filed my claws to nails and offered my palms first
you shy away
because i have proved dangerous
and i cannot apologize for that
because it is who i am

— April 14, 2014

I absolutely love April 14th's. It was lovely.

♥ Spark
--~--

your phone has the weather for
three cities you don't have relatives in,
and one city you do; the others are
pure curiosity for when the travel bug bites
and you want to visit across two countries
and three time zones, your search history
filled to the brim with flights leaving
now, friday, and next month when maybe
you can afford to touch the pixels transmitted
through internet cables and turn them
into spoken word poems in hotels you
looked up two days before packing your bags
and going, indulging in a twentysomething fantasy
that everyone seems to have but hardly anybody
seems to indulge in, because now is not
the right time and there's no reason
to be bitten by the travel bug
when all you want to do is leave
from pure restlessness
at being trapped in the place you live

you check the weather late at night
wondering who is the best place
to call home

— April 15, 2014

Wow that HURT Rosey. <3 I loved that last one.

i watch ice water run through my fingers
as you drink the right water that you'd been
silently asking for but nobody
would listen,
instead focused on how different
you are and how you should get used to
what you don't understand
because others do it that way
therefore it is the best
you're stupid for not doing it

but you don't know anything else
except ice cold water is the only thing
that makes you feel better in sudden heat
so i watch the ice go through my fingers
while trying to shield your ears
from the words around us
and saying with my eyes
i understand

— April 16, 2014

pain medication

my body writes me poems every night
with each crack and pop as I take off
the day's armour after the clock has struck twelve
the midnight curfew for fairy godmothers
and dreams with everything I could ever want
break under the weight of a new day
crashing down around my ears as I crawl
under too cold sheets and a duvet
meant to cocoon but instead
makes it hard to breathe

words come out in sore muscles and
clicking joints, body too old
for my mind to keep up; stress
having done the work of years
in hours, a night's rest simply
not enough to recoup from a full day

I toss and turn under blankets
waiting for the pain medicine to kick in
and quiet the poems being spoken
as my body recites my day

They say you die twice:
when your brainwaves stop
and when your name is said
the final time, signifying
the moment your memory was forgotten;
the Egyptians feared that
above all else; why their artifacts
are covered with names in
protective circles, to ensure
they were shielded from the wrath
of time itself, so their names
would never stop being said

writing is the artifact
that keeps your name in memory
as people rediscover your words
long after you have stopped
penning new ones

— April 17, 2014

raspberry bushes

my dream house wishlist includes a side yard open to the street
filled with raspberry bushes, the idea written
in the juice that stained my fingers growing up as
a whole neighbourhood of kids would run to a side yard
just like the one i want and brave the thorns
to get the very best ones right in the back,
clothes snagged and gloves forgotten
so as not to crush fruit that was too delicate
for awkward pulling and tugging;
they needed a soft touch to get the overripe ones
grown to deep red that was never blood
but instead so much brighter
and the scratches didn't sting as you ate
a good reward or braving them

i want to be the person who teaches kids
how to pick raspberries and brave the thorns
of their future friends' personalties, both
through knowing what path was best
(because there are always paths
to the back of the vines) and how
to tend scratches gotten when thorns
are simply too big to avoid, but those are the ones
which guard the most ripe fruit
you'll eat together
once you've found the way to their heart

you told me, once,
you assign every person a smell
and you'd given me mine
secretly, locked in
with another gift
based on how you saw me
and what you thought
i needed that particular moment
a playlist i listen to on
days that feel cloudy
and all I want to do is read

the title, however, is everything
that could be me without
saying it explicitly,
from the colour of my cheeks
after you make me laugh
and the time both of us
feel the calmest

i wish i could smell
the same way you do
so i could know the magic
of roses and rain

— April 18, 2014

i do not understand friendship's rules
and unspoken regulations of what's allowed
or not, relying on understanding and
forgiveness of my slips, over-enthusasm
difficult to contain in my skin

i realized recently that my voice
is almost never relaxed enough for an accent;
my speech measured and controlled
until i am comfortable enough to speak
the way my tongue wants to move
instead of how my mind wants it to act

i slowly learn friendship's rules, built
interaction by interaction as i get positive
or negative results, trying to see what
is acceptable and not, putting more energy
into forging a friendship than a three hour exam

change is the hardest part, as my patterns
no longer hold true for a given
length of time, the reactions no longer
being what i expected
after so long together
you can say it's over and
i mean what forgiveness i give
but i do not know how to start over
not after i had made new rules
to account for how you'd become

i do not understand friendship's rules
when a friend became a stranger
even for a little while

— April 19, 2014

i am scared to write many poems about you
because i have promised to not pressure
your emotions either way, and love
that cannot be returned (yet) has a tendency
to push you into the ground, and i had been
your rock through the storm, because
these emotions are mine to carry

i know you hate talk of "us" in
the most general sense, the whole idea
one must discuss a relationship
but i have always been one to plan
future moments where it is just us
and i tell you every time it can be
romantic or platonic because we always did
walk the line that can be as thin as a hair
to the point it disappears, but somehow
i'm always on one side and you are dancing
on the other, your steps light in comfort
and caring that you know exists
but you appreciate the reminder
(i think, i hope, i pray)
and your lightness lets me dance with you
the line thicker to walk so i can stay
comfortable, safe, somebody to speak
to when your heart doesn't know
where to turn next

i don't want to talk about us
but poems keep me up at night
and they drift back to you

— April 20, 2014