Young Writers Society

^ I'm glad. Thanks, Jack.

#8

tap-tap-tap comes the knocking
on my door; tap-tap-tap beats
the echoing reply, and i realise
that I knew all along, my heart
is missing, probably long gone
stolen by prickly thieves
i no longer have the means
to hate, only wonder at their handling
and the cause of these random aches

#I'mhalfasleepsotechnicallythisisn'tanentry

the splendour is all mine
of pixelated thoughts lost
this time in the roughness
of tissues, scrunched
but curiously light, for all
that it carries my shame
forgotten.

#As Above

i don't want to sleep angry
as the day I was born, waking
to a cereal of chipped teeth
and clipped words scrawled
in a discarded newspaper's yellowed
heading grimly predicting tomorrow's
demise. all i want is the blissful
oblivion of cryogenics holding
in stasis my lifelong objection
to living

tap-tap-tap comes the knocking
on my door; tap-tap-tap beats
the echoing reply, and i realise
that I knew all along, my heart
is missing, probably long gone
stolen by prickly thieves
i no longer have the means
to hate, only wonder at their handling
and the cause of these random aches

I'm liking this one. Quite a bit, actually. : )

^

#This is All wrong

these attempts at poetry
fail, couching half-remembered
revelations in imagery, clothed
in unlikely enjambment
that doesn't clarify nor astound
or obscure preposterous meanings;
it's the awkward flight of fancy
on wings still drenched with fluid
afterbirth

but I'm stalling, just to say
that none of it really matters
except to unlock the fetters
on this fat tongue and speak
freely at last, this joy
for language, written or not
in the speech of babbling brooks
crooning nonsense to jaded
stones pickled with bird shit.

That last one's really nice, Omar. Sleep less. I want more like that one.

D: but I like sleeping. Thanks though.

Having gone over these three I wrote last night, I honestly can't believe the first one hahaha.

#9

I found you in a casket
built from the ground your
grandfather tilled with hands
rough as bricks left too long
in the sun. I still regret
not nailing it shut that day
to forever preserve your expression
and let you rest in
peace.

#9.1

Grandma's fingers are rolled tight
nicotine patches; she barks imprecations
at memories that won't bide by children
too wild for domestication. the spark
of her cigarette is spoiled, hidden
in swirling smoke pierced
only by the smell of fresh cut
strawberries. I could wish our tree
wasn't filled with black tar
but I'm distracted by roots still green
and growing.

#9.2

I can't recall the particulars of our first day
at school, just the musk of chalk and dust
intertwined with shy smiles and cheap
lunches by the swing set; the words
escape me that first broached the silence
between us, but i still shiver
at the courage it took to say them
like a comedian naked before his audience
on a stage greencut and virginal.

#9.3 'The Entertainment'

Balloons fly, twisted beyond
recognition into shapes, coloured
by the laughs of kids taken high
on candied words bandied about
by a powdered clown I found
quite sour; his acerbic wit cut
to the quick and blood rose
in contention for the amusement
of boys and girls more concerned
with destruction than the feeble
ego of adults at play

#9.4

So, I saw you down the street, you know
the one riddled with pot holes like pockmarks
playing in the gutter, fingers flexing around
rusted drains and you pressed close
like you wanted to slip away into subterranean
delights. It explained why
you never looked good in direct sunlight,
perpetually ill at ease except
in shadows no one else wanted.

#10

'I don't want to die,' I said
as you swooped on a drooping flower
springing back up, petals in hand
you laugh and I bristle at vulnerability
so casually dismissed. 'You haven't lived
yet,' she says, 'so why worry about the end?'

Her skirt is empty on the floor, bereft
of secrets held in trust, and I sample
the truths held replete in her guarded
place. 'Is this what you mean?' I ask
breathless need masked by twisted sheets
and she smiles above rising valleys
but is somehow saddened as the shadow
of my doubt covers her nipples in regret

'Forget it,
please,' I utter instead of waiting
and lose myself in a flurry of movement
designed to disguise my nakedness. She
holds me afterward but the silence between
us is empty of meanings I tried too hard to catch

I can't unravel the mysteries - no matter
how hard I plunder our conversations - words
fail to capture a drooping flower
in hands moon-white, the curvature
of her smile at odds with dangling roots
uprooted.

Marked for enriched reading.

by the clink of coins born
in gutters stamped with need
and not at all concerned
with the divinity of ants

dumb question: did you mean "borne" here?

^ Nope. It's equally applicable, though.

#10.1

I sieve memories, shift and pore
with jaundiced eyes, over rocks
seeking gold; inflexible poetry,
the drainer that retains
nothing, leaves me blinded
by the glare.