Young Writers Society

14. 'brushing your hair is an achievement' or 'survival is not genetic'
strength resides
not in the foundations
(not the bones holding you up nor the heart in your chest nor the blood through your veins nor the brain in your head)
but in the care taken
to keep the structure maintained

15. Sunday Storms
there is peace in the thunder
in the bitter autumn rain
in the grey skies watching over
and the darkness that holds sway

there is peace in the lightning
how it arcs across the night
before the call of thunder
reigning light upon the sky

there is peace in the water
that rushes aimless from above
touching earth with trepid wonder
like the heavens weren't enough

there is peace in the rolling clouds
how they blanket out the stars
as if the world is all alone
and that safety isn't far

there is quiet in the darkness
that spreads far across the land
to push away the daunting day
and lead the people home to lay

in quiet dark and brewing storm
here the peace shall be
with rain to cleanse the burning soul
and mend our hearts until they're whole

16. A Long Walk For Nothing
There is a tiredness in the way we walk these hallowed streets,
like the poles and strings that hold us up are crumpling
beneath the weight of our hollow bones. It's like we're filled
to the brim with an aching kind of sadness - liquid lead in our veins
that pulls us to our knees. We are repentant men, noses to the dirt
but still, we are yet to be free.

We slave, day by day, along this one-way street. There is gravel deep
in our wounds and tarmac clinging to our feet. This path
is against us eternally and always but still we fight like drunkards
with wide swings and desperate blood-shot eyes. We blink
and we blink but we still can't fight away the sadness, the weariness
that plagues our broken selves.

And as we look to the sky like blue is the colour of forgiveness,
we wonder: if our hope is gone than why are we still fighting. We are stubborn.
Men were born to be free.

Godly Creatures In Unearthly Places
There's something mundane about the way you live here
by the highway in your urban brick house three bedrooms
two baths and a half just to be safe and sure
The problem is that you're too much like other people you
work nine to five coffee break club sandwich gym membership
indistinguishable id social security bills paid forgettable
But still you catch me in a feedback loop of thinking
about you and how can someone so insignificant
wear a halo

You're my guardian angel I swear it but
what the hell are you doing in this sad little town anyway
you know I'm nothing worth saving

So why

18. the sea
did I ever tell you how
you remind me of the sea
how you push and pull
and you're so so cold
you twist and you tumble and you
crash down upon me
until I'm suffocating
in your salty kisses
and there's grit in my eyes
burning sweetly

I still can't see how when
the summer sun comes calling
you'll find me waiting by the sea

19. So many things to say about anger.
Rage is like water:
pull the plug and it will flow.
Soon your hands will dry.

20. Untitled
We are imperfect lifetimes
of flesh, blood and bone. We cut,
we bleed, we are reborn
not even whole. We sicken
like trees wilting with gnarly limbs
and scars engrained
on peeling skin. Layer by layer
we fall apart. Until finally,
it gives -
our beating heart.

21. Severe Weather Warning I
darkness
down these city streets

like eyes blinking
shut and people

can't find their feet
so they stumble
and they fumble

can you blame them
for trying

when the lights are out
and there's dark about

and a storm rumbles by

22. Severe Weather Warning II
Rain is a fluid
until it's not. Then,
it's an endless barraging solid
of unending white and grey
and it's still not ice.
But it's falling and it's falling
and the wind is screaming like
my nightmares. The thunder
is saving me from my
nightmares. The lightning
is blinding. It's four am
and fallen trees and sullen
breeze. A cacophony.
No silence. Then,

silence. The eye
of the storm is circling
like a bird of prey.
We pray for the lost,
the missing,
the dead. Are we not
hopeful as the wind
batters and trees
shatter our infrastructure,
our lives. How will we
rebuild,
how will we go on.

Like this endless storm
washing away our lives
for days and days until
everything's a haze.
Darkness. Power
out. Until the weekend,
they say. Can we wait
that long, are we patient
like the storm. Are we
hedging our bets. Are we
waiting on a cure. Why
is there no cure
for this deadly, deadly
disease.

I'm sick of this destruction.
I want a vaccine.

Meta
Sweeping statement. Make it bold.
Descriptive language, it's never old.
Like flowery sunsets, a simile.
A metaphor for you and me:
A picture with a hundred words.
Something thoughtful or unheard.
Dance with letters, dance with rhyme,
and write these poems all the time.

Shocking statement. Patterns made.
Draw your readers through the page.
Slant rhyme near, but not for naught.
just as well you don't get caught.
Rhythm here, an iamb there.
Make your point, then break the rules
but only if you're really cool.

Change of tone, getting darker.
Make them think you're getting smarter.
Alliterate for angel's sake
and with bated breath you shall wait.
The poem builds right to the sky.
For you can tell the ending's nigh.
And break your rhyme
and break it well.
Make a point so they can tell.
Then stop.

Something grand and meaningful.
A profound conclusion, a simple tool.
To make them pause, to make them think.
Is this all a waste of ink?

24. Sydney
I think of the city
and I think of you

with your fading lights
and your lively eyes
under crystal nights
and starry skies

then I blink and you're gone
while the freeway blurs behind me

25. Water
some people will tell you there's a difference
between water and chaos as if
water follows rules
and makes patterns
and doesn't slip
between your hands
between your fingers
doesn't linger
at a whim
doesn't crash and tumble and tear apart
trees or houses or lives
has some semblance of sympathy
or empathy and won't destroy your life
because water is not chaos

but it is
and when the water flows
we should be afraid

26. limbo
there is always that idle state of limbo
where everything is empty but full, you know
that kind of feeling
where void is thick and filling
like cotton wool in the mouth
but you can't spit it out
and inside you're screaming but you're dealing

with your demons and everyone has them
but some mouths are fuller than
others who still have the chance
to breathe, you know
to speak about them and cry
about them until someone
says open wide and makes
a diagnosis, state of limbo
of decline, say
let me give you a hand
and you'll be fine

but what about those who are
choking and people make jokes
about them, say
cough it up spit it out
it's easy, you know
but it isn't when you're so weak
from asphyxiation
wrong diagnosis,
faking it
no mountains to climb no
cliffs to jump no
state of decline
just limbo

where nothing changes
and you're still a hollow box
weighed down with nothing
but the weight
of cotton wool and maybe
a black hole too

27. i am not insightful
i look to the sky and see
clouds and blue, magnificent
I think
but it's nothing new

but if i was
it would only rain on sundays
when the sky burns with twilight
and violet streams from the horizon
interchanged by white rivers
coursing and bubbling
never-ending
magnificent, i think
like the way something so
mundane can become brilliant
with a blink and a breath