Young Writers Society

Alright, so I'll be doing that whole NaPo thing here. Yeah. I'm gonna try. I think the best I'll be able to do is haikus, no sorry, senryus. See, I don't know what I'm doing. >_> I'm sorry if my poetry makes your eyes bleed.

I poet mostly at night, so my poems may tend to ramble or have errors or not make sense because my eyes are burning right now omg please take precaution when reading as these poems make take on ratings above 12+.



30/30

Dedicated to @PenguinAttack.

One


I compared her to a day,
not that of summer but of winter.

For the mirror that hung from the barren walls of her room
was cracked; broken
And in her eyes, she saw something not worth fighting for.

As the sun rose, its rays danced
across the ice and brought light upon
the cold wasteland.

I bought her many a mirror,
but no matter how many times she looked,
the crack was still there.

I cut thorns from the reddest rose
and put it in vases to sit on her window sill,
soaking up the sun but still it withered.
I compared her to flowers, godesses,
oceans, flames, the stars and the sky-
my words filled the air but not the silence,
for she was lost,
folding into herself until she was no more,
slipping into the broken lines of the mirror.

I took her outside,
laced her hair with snow.
I showed her a lake,
the waters frozen in place,
and my foot crashed down,
attempting to bring forth a crevasse
which never came.

"You are a winter's day,"
I told her, a gloved hand brushing
the frost away so she could see
a reflection, pure and true.
"A beauty that hides,
a beauty that is hard to see,
and a beauty that is hard to understand."

Dedicated to @Blues.

Two


I ventured out into the unknown,
eyes blackened and hands outstretched--
blind; searching for something,
a drug of sorts,
endorphins or morphine;
a silver lining.

I found it hidden,
deep in England,
and I sank my ragged nails into his skin
and my body melted into his
and my name left his lips,
brought forth by a gasp,
a rush of air as my bag slammed
into his gut and down we fell.

The concrete welcomed us like an old friend
and there we stayed; flat on our backs--
laughing.
And the weight that crushed my bones
and teethered on my shoulders,
causing my spine to twist and twine,
lifted, not by that of strength
but by that of a smile,
warmer than the flames of the hearth,
brought forth by his love for me.

For my eyes had healed
and open they did;
for the happiness I'd found
came in the form of something more
than I'd expected.

Darn it Iggy, this is good stuff :O

Dedicated to my future child.

Three

I feel like I've always known you.

You were but a thought, a prayer;
a gift from God not yet delivered.
You were nonexistent, yet
I could feel you inside me --
waiting; there and yet not there.

I knew your name,
your hair and your eyes.
I saw you in my mind;
your smile was my sun,
your breath was my own,
your heart beating in rhythm to mine.

Between us is a lifeline:
stronger than iron,
thicker than blood;
that of which can never be severed,
not by words nor distance;
not even in death will we part.

I am in no rush to meet you, little one,
but when you come
(and you will come)
know this -- I await you.

Four

Every night, she screams,
legs in the air, sheets kicked aside;
puddles of sweat form beneath the dip
of her neck and drip along the twists
of her spine.

I find her huddled against the wall,
folding into herself, hands wrapped around
bent knees; gripping each other.
When asked, she merely whimpers and says
that she is afraid.

I took the books from her shelves, and
with them, I built a stairway,
straight into the heavens.
Along the stars I drifted
hands outstretched, fingers spread;
my skin blistered from the heat,
my eyes burning until I was blind,
voice hollow from holding back,
yet onward I push until I had it;
the brightest star of the brightest galaxy.

I brought it to her,
placing it on her nightstand.
"A nightlight," I explained,
stroking her hair and brushing a kiss
along her flustered cheek before pulling away
and moving to leave.

She cried out and grabbed my hand,
sending flares of pain into my soul.
My tears, they put out the star,
leaving nothing but a black shell,
a meager trophy to compensate for my angst.

She told me that it wasn't
the dark that scared her;
it was being alone.
And so she wrapped me in damp towels
and lathered me with sloppy kisses
and tucked me beneath her covers,
and asleep she was within the minute,
her body curving beside mine,
gripping my arm unconsciously --
as if I were the deciding factor between
her dreams and her nightmares.

Five

He called me his princess,
his flower, his heart and his soul.
He called me beautiful like it was my name,
and his hands, rough and calloused,
yet gentle on my delicate skin,
made me feel as if it had always been my name.

His appearance was sudden;
into my life he dropped,
falling from the sky like
(dare I say)
a shooting star.
He reached out and caught himself,
hanging from the edges of my soul,
worming his way into the shadows of my heart.

And as quickly as he came
he was gone, gone like
(dare I say)
the wind, that of which roared,
slamming against the windows,
blocking out all sounds and
echoing my screams.

The mirrors that stand tall in my house
have been shattered, cracked and broken;
covered by dirty towels and strewn clothing.
With no one around to call me beautiful
or to trace my veins with a ragged thumbnail,
or to graze my body with his large hands --
what was the point? My name
was no longer beautiful
but something else, something darker, sadder:
broken.

Six

She is poetry.
Her words are soft and
her heart holds many secrets,
those of which I long to know.

The freckles of her skin
are stars, forming into constellations;
each one has a tale to tell.
Or perhaps they are landmarks
on a body that is a roadmap,
marking destinations that will never be explored.

Her smile is my sun,
sweet as the roses in bloom,
though rare as it may be.
Shy glances and flushed cheeks,
hidden behind a curtain of curls,
hands folded across her chest--
as if she's afraid to let me in,
as if I'll tear down her walls
from the inside out.

She is a poem I long to understand.

Seven

Melodic sounds fill the air,
floating their way into my ears
and obscuring my vision with
rose-tinted glasses.

I cannot see nor feel
the very ground beneath my feet.
The air surrounding me closes in
and I'm suffocating; unable to move,
unable to breathe.

But her voice, her voice!
Her music breaks through the haze
and through the fog I can see her,
a small speck a distance away.
And I run towards her,
with no disregard for the air beneath my feet,
or the fact that I have been suspended above a chasm
and that I was never really moving.

My hands reach out,
as if she'll take it,
as if she'll save me.
But whether she will or not is uncertain
because that moment that I broke through the haze,
I dropped; the music outrivaled by the beast beneath my feet.

Dedicated to @sparktoflame.

Eight

I watch her dance
every night around six.
Always the same ballet studio,
the same worn in pink slippers,
the same black leotard that skims over
silky skin and contorting bones.

Every day I watch and everyday I wonder,
Why am I here?
It's the same pilouttes,
the same twists and turns.

But after a while I begin to notice
how her buns change spots;
how her eyes gleam after executing a perfect jete,
and how they fall when she misses a half beat.

One day I come out of the wings
and I ask her to teach me how to move like that,
because I want to learn how to lose myself
in the music too.

<3 I love you.

Nine

She is the moon, and I the sun.
Around in circles we go;
one rises while the other sleeps.

Arms outstretched, hands curling,
clawing the air in the hopes to grasp
a lock of hair, a fistful of clothing;
anything we can use to be near each other.

It is a shame how
I die every night to let her breathe,
yet the day passes and I die once more
because I love her
and to die for her is an honor in itself.

Ten

I buried myself deep within her heart
because I couldn't face reality right now
and the love and adoration she had for me
was more than I deserved,
more than I appreciated,
and more than needed right now.

Eleven

Oh what I would give
to be the drink that brushes
your chapped pink lips.

Twelve

scattered pulses flutter against my fingertips
and i weave them in-between yours,
hoping that you alone will recognize the life
that was created for you and by you;
i fear my heart will quit when you do.