Young Writers Society

17.

A/N: I will not fall behind >:C

we shed our baby skins
and in the tangle
of our newfound legs
we found age
in the way our
skin stretched and burnt
and I found wisdom
in the space between your fingers
and the space between your eyes
and mine and
how it thickens our skin.

18.

A/N: Wrote this off a prompt in English class, my English teacher is going to be surprised to see my journal entry suddenly turned into poetry-prose like hybrid.

"If you could only remember one thing,
what would it be?"

getting lost
not the lost in a dark alley type of lost
the kind where there's a street you don't know.
It's your own fault you jumped onto the wrong bus
(on purpose of course)

that tickle in your palms?
Yea, I feel it too.
I bet you're just itching to run around
and see everything
and find yourself again.
But I have a weight in my heart
one that makes blood viscous
and makes me stroll around
with sun in my head
and my head in the clouds
because they're the only thing familiar around here.

There are signs here too,
that sit against the sky
as you get lost on shorelines
and next to buildings on city streets
carved faces, like that of old men
as I walk by. Carved by the sun
I bet, both of them
and they'll get the glare out of their eyes
to watch me because I seem
out of place
or
they can hear the way my heart thuds
softly
in my ears.

I'd get lost just for the adrenalin.

19.

A/N: I'm lame but I gotta catch up. This message applies to the latter poem too and is provided by Lazy People R Us.

it could work you know
even if the staircases fell
and the elevator only goes to floor "11"


20.

i lost you in a map of Galilee
a map of etched words and scales
and numbers
and a cough of dust.
most of us
we're lost in the skies
or grounded.

things are crazy these days you know.
I'd bury myself in desert sands to
finally lay down.
Nothing gets away these days either
we sink into quicksands
and at the knees
and our words are tied to chains
and I built a fortress around my lungs
just the other day.
I'm never sure why
or how -
mostly why though.

21.

I had my third chat with death last night
and cigarette smoke curled against my skin -
and eyes.

Chicago is the best place to do this,
the sky always looks the same.
and he'd point out under which part of the sky
he'd pierced hearts and torn holes
and pried his fingers
to reveal the curves of Polaris

and for one moment
I could only see the bottom of my glass
and the way fumes lingered on my lips.
I forget what death looks like every time,
because when I inhale the stars
everything tastes like something
I lost in those Chicago bars,
smoking drinking messes
before I could even think about finding it.

22.

A/N: I love writing crap at 4 - 4:06 am.

it's been raining all night
you hear?
and they stick and roll
like fingerprints to glass.
and I get tired of the
drumming
against my skull
bone on bone on rain
dropped and echoed
in my temples.
And everything's eroded
over the past couple days
everything got smooth
polished my head bones.
and I can't hear how water hooks anymore
I'm drunk on how it slides
between my eyes -
off my cheekbones.
bones and brains and rain
it's a terrible combination.

23.

"it was like so, but wasn't."

what am i supposed to do
when i watch a chestnut tree grow
and i can't tell
if it's living or dying.

i don't remember the equation
to figure out when to start skinning -
bark away.

when do fingered branches curl away
and when do they click against my windows
but it wasn't clicking, more like
stroking or clawing,
no, tapping.
maybe it wasn't even the tree.

24.

A/N: Again, lame but I refuse to fail NaPo >:c

Can you taste the days Icarus fell
in your photo albums? Wax
tastes warm, gold flaxen sun pieces
you pulled out of the air as you took it down with you.
Why are the corner's black you used to ask.
Well, one day I pierce the atmosphere
I felt what stars were in my hands
and winged galaxies against my spine.
And then you'd ask how I'd gotten back.
gravity started working again -
ground hurts from up there.

25.

They cut people like me open
and sort me in with the jars of marmalade
and my eyes have glazed over
labels a1 and 2.
and polish it all to put on a plate.
Those taps on my forehead?
worn in finger prints
you can see them - like spiralled coronas
that plucked the petals from my heads
and crawled in my ears
because the bread has been out for far too many years,
the butter's gone bad:
creamed in.
They called me
twenty ninety
f - oh one.
before they ate me for breakfast on Sunday morning.

Why are you so consistently lovely.

I love your imagery so much, just one note. In one of the earlier poems you said "should of." That should be "should have." That is all.

Argh.

Can you taste the days Icarus fell
in your photo albums? Wax
tastes warm, gold flaxen sun pieces
you pulled out of the air as you took it down with you.
Why are the corner's black, you used to ask.
Well, one day I pierce the atmosphere
I felt what stars were in my hands
and winged galaxies against my spine.
And then you'd ask how I'd gotten back.
gravity started working again -
ground hurts from up there.

You're beautiful. This is beautiful. And I wanted to like it. But.

*Why are the corners black, you used to ask.

No apostrophe. I promise. Now.
*like*

26.

A/N: low poetry gauge, try again later.

You should take a listen
I know a thing or two about death.

It sits on the sidewalk like bleached fruit
and simmers, browned.
Summer heat is awful I think,
all we can do is split like peach skins,
fleshed and soft these days
and death pulls on those little
hairs and ran it's fingers over your bruises.

It's like silverware in fruit
that's what it is
it breaks you apart
on some June day
folded in our hands.
and crease marks down the middle.
and that's all they'll remember.

27.

I don't quite remember
what I hid
in these walls.
It was something smooth,
rolled.
when I think about it
I can feel my throat close.

28.

And we shop for little pieces
of some past that isn't ours.
It smells new and musky
with wildflower fields
and the back of a broken down
pick up truck. It's probably red,
or maybe blue with a box of
old memories, dusted in the back.

29.

Everything breaks sometime beforehand
and splits like eggs and eyes
on my head. Everything turns and
grinds gears, and we puff steam
from our mouths,
carefully carved in that lovely "oh".

We've forgotten, you know.
Completely blown from our minds
the construction of these things
that make us tick.

The way
a heart isn't just a pulsing red-thing,
but webbed, something soft and shattered
and with the crunch of ice, capillaries snap.

The way
lungs aren't just sponges
for hard words. But puffed like balloons,
and burnt with sparks.
Bronchi are actually flexible
and twist like fingers in your chest.

and it flutters,
in our bones too like clockwork.

30.

It's nice to have things end
plush and maybe not quite
finite, but almost.
I find the end in
the grace of petal curves
and hooked curls of hair.

---


Final Author's Note:

So I'm being lame in my desperate attempt to finish. But woot! I'm done.
This was a wonderful experience, thanks to everyone who even just took a chance to peek at these.

NaPo Playlist (for those who would like it):