Young Writers Society

So, once I'm back from break, I'll post stuff here. Maybe. I may only post the really atrocious stuff.

ETA: I saw a couple other people do this, but comments are totes welcome! I just don't want any reviews on these, since NaPo^^

ok, let's see how awful and rusty I really am, because these are just not good *sigh*


1
the wind wasn’t kind tonight
in afternoons turned grey
by thunder and the threat of rain
that pounded softly breaking branches
and sparing leaves
too young to know the difference

illuminating corners shadows hid
in crevices and justbehinds and unders
with eyes that watch beyond reach

(of all but the smallest of arms and eyes and immiaginations
warning children not to come so close

come closer closercloser
and prove the fairy tales true)

2
opening day

you’d forgotten the smell of dirt and grass and rain and toomuchsun for a winter that never quite ended (quit?) until summer began all at once
and the mud hardened into rock before being beaten to dust under hail storms that blew up and blew away before the thunder that followed
of an entire team running drills in-between hail the size of hardballs and a field that never quite unflooded.

3
the cold permeated walls in ways it hadn’t since December and all you wanted was heated floors and hot tea and days that were brighter than dim.

1. love the flow: thunder/threat/rain and the creepy imagery :3

2. I like the negative syntax repeated, toomuchsun, never quite ended/ never quite unflooded ~ the last one is a lil bit awkward, but I like the technique how it kind of leaves you twisting and turning throughout, s'an interesting way to raise the tension!

3. ooh. I love how those short line poems are so poignant, and your ending with dim. <3

@Audy! <3 Is this your ever so subtle way of telling me to get off my behind and start writing so I don't lose NaPo?

On that note, here, have some poem-spot poetry, since this is up (ok, so I waited until after that SHIELD episode to start). I hope you're happy. whatthisisidonteven.


4
it still feels like falling for all that my feet are firmly planted on the ground.

it rings still, hours later, words echoing soft and hard and furious racing between neurons in my mind sofasticanalmostseethem break into their component parts and bounce together folding up and settling out before hitting another wall and changing trajectories on the whims of the fates.

note >> (before hitting walls and changing fates on the whims of their trajectories?) wording is just off, and I can't find the beat to it. guh.

5
I knew you, once, before something not-you settled in your eyes.

6
you pretend the hat and trees provide relief from sun that beats into skin and crawls up sweat racing down your back and settles between you eyes drying out and sinking in pushing you forward to dust.

(onward towards dust?)

? [/s]7.
it was easier, you know, when all i could see was black and white[/s]
(this started out and then I just lost it. May try to get it back later)

and with that, I'm almost caught up. Guh.

8.
it wasn't the sight or the sound or the smell but the feel of water on air that cut through three layers of sweatshirts to pierce the skin that walls couldn't keep out and quilts sealed away too well.


So yeah, lines that aren't quite working. BUT. Oh well. I'll stop leaving comments and notes in my napo-etry, now.

9
you can still hear the coughing late at night when everyone else is sleeping

just past earshot and underneath the snores from the room next door
lies a creaking floorboard that moans just right when heavy boots step too close
to places once stained red now cover under dust and memories almost lost
kept alive by stories whispered in the dark under covers and between walls
of the lies spread to cover the sound
of the unjust rotting below.



[so apparently I wanted morbid. I don't *do* morbid]

10
cars going toofast
rock you to sleep [in white noise]

sirens wake you up.

(sirens - your alarm)

That last line is annoying me. But, look ma! A haiku! I also kept trying to make up words, like pan-white noise. Which I still like better. Any thoughts, there? the idea of cars being the equilizer, there - a constant noise. hmm

rock you to sleep, symphony
horns, sirens - awake!

guh, I kinda like the middle line better there, but the last one falls flat, I think. Anyone? Ok, no more writing when I should be sleeping (for today).

ETA:
the poem writes me.

I like (sirens - your alarm) as the final line. But I probably shouldn't say what I do and don't like so uh - someone completely neutral likes that ending best.

@Rydia the most neutral of them all

Uh. Here, have some random lines I don't know what to do with.

(we'll call it a wash, I guess? and lump these nonsense things together as 11. Whatevski)

thursdays fall somewhere between freedom and not letting go

it’s too early this year to be so cold when the sun goes down;
it’s too early for the sun to shine so muchsobrighlysostrong
it’s too early to find sunburns at noon, and sweaters by dinner.

it’s almost midnight again and the clocks refuse to go forward so all your lastnights replay (loop?) until dawn

12

i.
the clock in the hall used to strike unerringly, hour by hour by hour.

ii.
you tried to fit your baby brother inside it, once; you deny malicious intent.

iii.
you great-grandmother would forget, hour by hour, and jump each time it chimed.

iv.
you tried to stick your fingers inside, once, and tempt the pendulum as it swung.

v.
it watched as the walls were stripped bare.

13

i’d forgotten how to grasp something so tight
my knuckles turned white until all I could hold was myself

fighting the air in-between turned up
clawed hands and bloody fingernails
that grew out rather than washed clean

the blood stained behind the eyes
leaving trails of rust with every blink
that defined themselves in darkness
(of closed eyes and lights that failed to illuminate)
that matched the shadows hollowing out sockets and cheeks
to angles better seen by candlelight than anything electric.

the candle fell softly, unable to right itself
and washed the world in vibrant
cleansing heat.

14

it’s not betrayal
if you expected it. it’s
fighting for today.

15

the pages were crisp, once
pressed just so and creased into binding
meant to be broken.

the edges yellowed first
wavy with water spilled
when a bag crushed a bottle
against the side and dyed everything purple
before anyone noticed the stain spreading to the carpet.

it wouldn't lie flat, anymore
and left in windows to dry
pressed under dictionaries and yearbooks
no one missed
but the binding had started to fray.

young fingers tore out pages
looking for treasure
not knowing the promise held more allure
than empty pages than empty minds
could fathom.

the cover's streaks mellowed
after the weights were reclaimed,
leaving it left in the soul-stealing sun
that softened scars and blinded eyes.

the dust settled simply in the crevices
eating at its bones.

16

the cement was still cold on your feet despite the sun already burning your face still so many months from summer

you can sitll breathe the air, now, though the crisp-cool tingles with warmth that never dissapated from yesterday, only rose above the ground to tease and taunt and laugh until the sun pushed it down to make room for the heat that rose more quickly.

Ok, thoughts:

[like stanza one a lot! would just line break and get rid of the and]

the pages were crisp, once
pressed just so
creased into binding
meant to be broken.

[bit confused with timeline in stanza 2. Thinking something like: ]

the edges yellowed first,
became wavy when water spilled
from bagcrushed bottle
then everything was purple
before anyone noticed the stain spreading to the carpet.

[again I think the timeline...]

dried by window,
it wouldn't lie flat anymore
and pressed under dictionaries and yearbooks
unmissed
but the binding began to fray.

[don't hate me but I would nix most of this stanza. 'Cept these lines, but they might need to be moved...]

young fingers tore out pages
looking for treasure

the cover's streaks mellowed
after the weights were reclaimed,
leaving it in the soul-stealing sun
in softened scars and blinded eyes.

the dust settled simply in the crevices
eating at its bones.



[a few tweaks on this one but mostly just really like it]

the cement was cold on your feet despite the sun burning your face still so many months from summer

you breathe the air, now, though the crisp-cool tingles with warmth that was undissapated from yesterday; it only rose above the ground to taunt til the sun pushed it down to make make space for the rising heat

I demand that we do this like, once a month. Or something like that. Especially because, as usual, you see right through all my over-stated nonsense. <3

Hahaha, fo sho!

Or should i say...Po-Sho?!?

I'm torn between groaning in defeat, and being impressed there *wasn't* a reason for me to head/desk in your first post.

Also, here. Have some lines that I think are all part of the same poem in some fashion, but I haven't bothered putting them entirely together/am in pain, therefore idunwanna

17

the heat broke three days ago, but you didn't notice until you stepped out into the rain

you'd cut yourself shaving; it's scabbed over but you still can't slide a razor near the skin without staining the shower red.

the sun is softer, now, and warms your face instead of burning through to bone

the cologne used to make you sick, before it faded into dust and rusted the bottle through. It fell into the bleach stain on an old school shirt, creating swirling patterns swirls of mistrust and lies that blend to almost truths.