Young Writers Society

Decrescendo

I don't know. Started listening to You Found Me by the Fray and wrote this. So here is a short cliche poem.

You shifted the world,
draping it over my shoulders
you molded me into Atlas
to hold up your skies,
but I had the touch of Medusa
and the heavens are slowly turning to stone.

You realized I am no Hercules
As you lay back, face upturned
to the fading stars,
you silently admit defeat.
Urging me to lie beside you.
Arachne weaves spider web cracks
across our skies, light spilling from
the crevices of our stars.

Shrapnel from our precarious world
rains down on us.
I take my place beside you,
and the thundering decrescendo
of our heartbeats is the last music
we both hear before
Uranus and Gaia collide
to leave us shaking in the
hailstorm, two grains
swept away in the breeze.

Hey! I'm really loving this NaPo thread! You're poetry is so poetic and beautiful. There are so many wonderful metaphors here I think my favorite was the first one as I found it wasn't super long like some others in this thread. I mostly enjoy short poems but with your styles I like medium length. I feel like your short poems were lacking unlike your other poems and I felt like your longer poem dragged on a bit but that might just be me getting bored since I don't usually like longer poems, like I said. Anyway I'm totally subscribing to this thread!

Have a wonderful day,
Alice ♥

List of things to write:

fox
moss
seagulls
abandoned nest

lies
friendship
trust
honesty

hunger
anger
fear
joy

Helios drags his chariot
across the sky, the cerulean
gleams with the promise
of new horizons that expand
into infinity.

I possess Icarus's ambition
reserved only for the gods
as I try to grasp my own
expanse of eternity.

With the folly of Icarus
and the pride of Arachne,
I weave myself pair
of paper wings

But as I am borne
on the wind,
reaching towards
the slices of sunlight,
the wrath of the sun

But its treacherous touch
incinerates my wings into ashes
and I am cast from sky
as I plumment like Hephaestus

Suspended between the grains of time,
in the midst of the freefall, I
only hope by mercy of the gods,
they will string my ashes
on a thread of stardust,
molding me into a constellation ,
a permanet fixture of the sky,
so I may finally dance on
new horizons.

Totally not a filler poem. And totally not cheating by using a haiku as poem of the day:

I will hurl my voice
to the sky and the stars will
rain down like brimstone

Hurricane Riders

You are a game of chance,
and I your gamble,
you are a flight risk,
and you crafted a pair
of paper wings for me

we stood on the precipice of takeoff,
and you were a pilot,
and I was a paper airplane,
trying to ride a hurricane.

I have weathered many of your storms,
but I am in need of maintenance.
The winds have left my wings crumpled
clinging to the rusted hinges of my bones.

After six years of playing your game,
I am spiraling into a nosedive,
plummeting to the earth with
the lightning speed of a comet
as we both come to realize
hollow bones aren't designed
to weather storm after storm.

Even as the earth rushes to me,
I have moment of glory
before I am enveloped
in a shroud of fire,

I will make my peace
knowing you are a
hurricane rider,
and you were always the one
with the parachute.

Fathom Me Into Constellations

You want a constellation to adorn
your picturesque skies,
but my stars are too jumbled,
into a mosaic galaxy
with snarled strands of stardust
too tangled to fathom me
into constellations

To Play Atlas

You asked me why I try to save
the drowning ones, those who
Have abandoned ship and have
swam too far from the shore
To follow the siren’s song.

And I told you I it is my nature to play Atlas,
to hold up the skies for those who even as
The seams of the world unravel and the pages
of the book we wrote start to come unbound,
and I am the rose meant to be preserved,
pressed between the pages of a book too
heavy, leaving my petals insipid and flat.

The truth is I’ve aspire
to greatness beyond the delicacy
I was designed for,
a rose masquerading as a perennial
that blooms in a season of adversity
and is considered a miracle .

I skip stones on oceans every night
as if I can create ripples large enough
to tame the turbulence of the sea
on its stormiest days.

I imitate Icarus,
Weaving Arachne’s spider silk
Into gossamer wings I strap to my back
As I reach towards the sun,
a flower anchored to the ground,
trying in vain to be a vine
growing towards the sun to touch it.

I’m sorry if you don’t understand.
It doesn’t make sense to me, either.
The only thing I know is
it is my nature to play Atlas,
to hold up these skies for you,
even as my glass bones splinter,
and the world folds in on itself
with the ease of an origami heart,
I will always bear the weight of the world
for you, even as the avalanche swallows me.

This may be my Achilles heel,
but I am too invested in this drama,
as Atlas’s understudy.

I may watch the world crumble
In the aftermaths of the avalanche,
buckling in, but my roots run too
deep to escape my own fallacy,
and they will anchor me
to the quicksand where I will
sink without struggle.

To Swallow the Ocean

I am a vessel
Fancying myself a well
depthless as the ocean
of infinity, but lately
I’ve learned even the gods
have limits.
But I allow you
to pour all your woes
into me as if I have the capacity
to swallow the ocean,

as if it is my function to drink
the acid leftover from
emotions and call it an elixir.
I don’t mean to, but I spill over
because my heart is not elastic
enough to span the width of the
universe, or run its length from
top to bottom. It is not deep enough.

Even as I am nothing more than a goblet,
a chipped basin overflowing, I ask for
you to pour more and you do,
and each day, I swallow a piece of the ocean,
choking down its salinity.

You were an artisan
Crafting fragile gleaming
Words that are pieces of
Handblown glass that always
Left me captivated, as if
I was Cinderella with the glass slipper

I built a castle from your glass words
but now a storm looms on horizon
And you are its harbinger,
sharpening your words with the blade of honesty
and I see through their transparency.

But six years of dancing on glass shards
Has taught me to finally see that
Glass words gleam like empty promises,
Empty vases without any flowers to fill them.

I don’t live in the world of fairytales anymore,
Because your words have lost their magic,
And lately your glassblowing has only
Produced fragments of frosted glass
made lackluster by the tarnisher of Time

You trade the art of transparency for
Throwing stones at my castle
and as I become buried in
an avalanche, I can’t help but
think that pretty words are
the ones loaded with
the most ammunition,
Snow White’s stepmother
Posing as a kindly stranger,
The poison apple to become
Lodged in my throat,
The discus to fracture my
Achile’s heel.

As the words slip under my skin
With the callous ease of a surgeon’s scalpel
to unlace my veins and dam my blood,
I realize that glass words hurt the most.

It’s hard to sleep at night
When I feel my heart
Caught in between the
Shifting tectonic plates of my ribs
That grind past each other,
and no words can calm
the quivering of my heart
or ease it into a normal rhythm,
moderate enough to drown out
the howling of the wolves,
soft enough to lull me to sleep,
and loud enough to remind me
I am alive.

Everyday I cross valleys and oceans for you,
trying to please you, and I trapeze
a tightrope stretched over continents.

I cut the safety net away years ago,
and as I reach the end of this rope,
you move apart like a tectonic plate,
and we become negatively charge magnets
moving to opposite poles of the world.

I've tread this rope for years, and darling,
my legs are tired. It's time for me to build
myself a pair of wings and fly to n
to the horizons my hands have stretched
out to for years.

I may be flirting with Folly,
and the Fates may laugh at their shuttle
as I tug on the threads of my fate,
clumsily weavin them into a pair of wings
as I try to imitate Icarus.

I may crash, sink to the ocean
like a stone, but the truth is,
the only way to learn how to fly
is sky diving, and I've been
practicing for years the moment
I cut the safety net away.

I stand on the precipice of the sky,
in between the clouds that have been
my stepping stones, and I spread my
arms unafraid as I let the free fall
ground me, and as I sky dive, I
weave a pair of roots to anchor me
to the Earth.

We stand side by side
on the precipice of the universe
but it amazes me how finite your mind is,
how even when the universe washes the shore
the tides lapping at your feet, you can’t see
The stars piercing the darkness, fireflies made
fFrom the stardust of dreams, including yours,
and they ride the waves like boats, sailing closer
to us to become lighthouses for us and those
who tread the path of life for us,
and some wash up on these rocky shores,
lying all around us, as numerous as the grains of sand,
and if you would pick one up, hold it to your ear,
you would hear the heartbeat of time,
as soft and gentle as the breath of the ocean,
a constant symphony of push and pull,
the song of eternity

i am one of the last of my kind,
a poet, a marvel to scientists,
a creature prone to turbulence,
as I battle the erratic metaphors
rippling under my skin with the force
of a typhoon, that bubbles up my throat,
rising to my lips, flowing out of my mouth,
waterfall streams of poetic jargon
that the scientists can't fathom,
as they puzzle over the mirror shards
of a dying language, trying in vain
to put my figurative jibberish into words.

x