z

Young Writers Society


Powerful Pen; Immortal Ink [NaPoWriMo 2016]



User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Mon Mar 28, 2016 7:14 pm
View Likes
Lightsong says...



I make this topic because I want to join NaPoWriMo. I want to join it because of two reasons. 1) It keeps me writing and 2) it seems easier than NaNoWriMo. In any case, hopefully I'll complete the challenge! :D

#1 serving the monster
#2 beginning of our—
#3 a case made to you
#4 mahsuri
#5 apple of discord
#6 From Teddy Bear to Dragon
#7 It Doesn't Matter If
#8 Why We were Grateful
#9 When I Appreciated Her
#10 You and I, Now and Before
#11 A Beast Trapped
#12 My Concept of Love
#13 Revenge
Last edited by Lightsong on Fri Apr 29, 2016 7:05 am, edited 3 times in total.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
44 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 897
Reviews: 44
Tue Mar 29, 2016 6:35 am
EmmVeePi says...



I am interested but find far less information about it than NaNoWriMo... I mean is it really a thing or just another label for a month?
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Sat Apr 02, 2016 7:07 pm
View Likes
Lightsong says...



Late to the party but the hell with it. :D

#1:

serving the monster

today, as usual, i glared
at you, like a predator
measuring his prey.

i could see the lines
of your ribs on your
bare skin. it made
me smile.

i couldn't help but
to serve the monster
in me. you didn't
understand.

your lips had to bleed--
had to swell and turn blue.
your back was a canvas
of ugly red blotches
painfully earned.
your eyes a river
with hot liquid.

you had to understand.
i did these
to stop the thought
clawing my mind, that

you are better
than i.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Mon Apr 04, 2016 6:14 pm
View Likes
Lightsong says...



#2:

beginning of our—

it started with a myriad of colours—
you and i witnessed the rainbow.
your eyes sparkled—it mesmerized you.
i stared at it, wishing to be like it—
iridescent, appreciated.

it’s beautiful, isn’t it? you asked.
i nodded absently—
at that time, my attention shifted at you—
your bare night eyes, your sun-kissed face,
and wider-than-the-sky smile.

finally, you looked at me and held out your hand—
my name’s michael, you?

i took your hand and gave it a slight shake—
my own confidence shaking inside.

my name is—
i never get to tell as someone bawled your name
and you frowned and you turned around.

you ran away from me to her,
a simpering girl who took your hand
and dragged you further and further from me.

and that was the beginning of our—
that was the beginning of nothing.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Tue Apr 05, 2016 4:56 pm
Lightsong says...



#3:

a case made to you

you said ‘something useful’ meant
to gather wealth—to live above average.
i disagreed. ‘something useful’ meant
to contribute to the world—a reminder
that it wasn’t about what the world gave to you.

you said writing wasn’t beneficial
as it didn’t produce money for you
and didn’t improve our living.
i disagreed. writing was my hobby—
i would rather have my blood boiled
with passion than to sweat for fear
thieves might steal my golden coins.

you said i couldn’t survive in the city
with a pen and a paper when the rent
was high. i agreed but if living in the city
stopped me from doing something
that brought me smile, i would rather go
somewhere less modern but allowed me
to stop being despondent at the clouds of problems
looming over the world, and encouraged me
to be jubilant over unconstricted laughters
and works driven by willingness and honesty.

i didn’t need a pen and a paper anyway.
there were pieces of technology,
one as a canvas for me to spill my blood
and breath lives to somethings fictional,
and the other, small but equal in necessity,
glad to keep safe my proses and poems
for future readings by me or perhaps,
even better, by millions of people.

i didn’t need money if it made me
a mere breathing creature. i needed to write
to be a human enjoying life as it could be
contributing my insights and perspectives to the world.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Wed Apr 06, 2016 5:15 pm
View Likes
Lightsong says...



#4:

mahsuri

she was no one but a young lone woman
arriving from phuket to langkawi in search
for a fresher air, a warmer day, and a cooler night.

everyone knew as soon as she mingled for a day or two
no other flower in the island bloomed as pretty as she—
olive painted her skin, pomegranate coloured her lips,
black pearl shaded her curly hair, wanted by the men’s touch.

alas, a relentless beetle, wan derus, won her hand.
shortly after the warrior was called to assist in war
against the siamese, leaving mahsuri on her own.

the period of their division stretched from days
to weeks to months. within it mahsuri made a friend
with a young handsome traveller named deraman.

their friendship was but a pillow shoved to wan mahura,
the chief’s wife of the island; a woman with jealousy
running deep in her like blood for mahsuri’s beauty.

wan mahura spread a slander of mahsuri’s affair with deraman
when the latter was careful treading their friendship
by only seeing each other in public, never by them two alone.

the slander prevailed like wildfire. mahsuri, erstwhile
on the villagers’ lips for her beauty, was accused for adultery
she never committed. she pleaded her innocence, tears
cascading over her cheeks like waterfalls, to no avail.

they tied her to a tree and stabbed her with every weapon used
but it was futile. knowing she couldn’t escape this fate,
she told them to kill her with her family’s keris. they did so
and white blood flowed from the wound on her chest—
birds hovered above her to cover her dying body.

with her last breath mahsuri cursed langkawi,
for bad luck would fall for seven generations as easy as rain.

soon after, the siamese took the kingdom. driven by their lust
for blood, they killed the innocents; husbands became widows,
wives became widowers, and children became orphans.

their reign lasted for seven generations with blood and tears.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Thu Apr 07, 2016 2:00 pm
Lightsong says...



#5:

apple of discord

we were in the car in silence
when you dropped a bombshell of accusation.
you said like a professor talking logic—
with voice as calm as the cool air in here.

i tried to shield the bombshell with my own logic,
uttering with a dragged voice since my eyes
were wavering. ‘maybe it isn’t mum, i don’t know.’

because you kept talking, i knew there was war
in your heart. the air became hot
and you launched more attacks at me.
‘it couldn’t be. [my bitch] has checked.
your mother was the only one at that time.’

the air became hotter. it boiled my blood.
i couldn’t play defense anymore; it was time to counter
hard. ‘mum was not alone; i did help her
handling of the shop,’ i said—with temerity.

you bereaved me of my patience when you threw
the sharp question. ‘so you did it? fifty bucks gone
because of you?’ i couldn’t dodge it, so i endured

and fought back. ‘no,’ i said. i launched a testing kick.
‘there were three who handled it—
mum, [your bitch], and me. mum couldn’t have done it—
she wasn’t new. and neither was i.’

we went out of the car, and the real war began.
‘what’re you implying here?’ you asked.
poisonous mist mixed with the air now.

‘everyone could do it—[your bitch], mum, and me.
Not necessarily mum,’ i said. ‘could’ve been [your bitch].’
there. my cannon had aggrieved you with no regret.

‘impossible!’ you bawled. ‘the report she checked
was before she handled the shop. only mum or you
were at fault here.’ your stab was severe—but it was fuel.

i leaned forward and whispered, ‘both of us knew,
[your bitch] had stolen a hundred bucks before,
when you believed she was innocent. who’s to say
she couldn’t drop another apple of discord?’
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Thu Apr 14, 2016 8:12 pm
Lightsong says...



#6:

From Teddy Bear to Dragon

The teddy bear the child hugged so tight
was the keeper of his childhood,
It contained bawls of disgust
when they knew he was a living oddity;
eyes in the dark penetrating his confidence
with judgmental gawps;
whispers carrying rumors and slanders,
like chilling breaths of his nightmares;
the lacerating gestures
with which they punished him,
aggrieving the base of his identity.

All of these hellish treatments
for something not within his control.
He had defied expectations
when he, without a clue of the damage
he would bright to himself,
kissed a guy’s cheek. And enjoyed it.

But a child was like a butterfly:
one underwent a metamorphosis.
From a laughable caterpillar, one went
into self-discovery, becoming a chrysalis,
before making an appearance with pride,
fluttering one’s colourful wings.

But that child was no butterfly.
His head bowed, but his fury was growing
for his torment should end
when it came without a drop of necessity.
No, he did not become a butterfly.

He became a dragon, the true potential
of his existence. Within him
was their screams of fear when they knew
he transcended the boundary of a man;
eyes in the dark lost their shines
when they witnessed the flame of his wrath;
whispers uttered trembled, the words
of his might prevailing like wildfire;
The lacerating gestures
with which he punished them,
Aggrieving the base of their self-righteousness.

Destruction was near
and it was not his fault.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Sat Apr 16, 2016 2:10 pm
Lightsong says...



#7:

It Doesn’t Matter If

It doesn’t matter if your skin
is the colour of milk
or of midnight, or of peach.
You were born with it
but it doesn’t define you.
You are more than the surface.
You are a pristine canvas
when you were born
but as you lived through time
colours of personality
made patterns and splashes on you.

It doesn’t matter if people
called you names—‘stupid’, ‘fat’, ‘ugly’.
That’s their view on you
but treat them like they are
the speck of dust at the corner
of your study table. You are
in control of it—let it be, get rid of it—
it’s your choice. You decide who you are,
how you act, and what you want to be.

It doesn’t matter if people
think you’re a shame to the society.
Who are they to accuse you
when you are just being you
and that means being different
from anyone else?
What is wrong being a light
standing out apart from others,
or a shadow thicker than others?

Let your conscience be the one
that guides you through your life
like your forever tour guide.
Let your thoughts and acts
define who you are,
uninfluenced by people and events
that aren’t worthy. Let them cease.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Sun Apr 17, 2016 4:28 pm
View Likes
Lightsong says...



#8:

Why We were Grateful

Here, the sun was a cruel king,
ruling the land of the East part and the West part.
If before, his wrath wasn’t so fiery,
now, because of us, his scorch made us swam in pool of sweat.

But for us, who can’t do anything about it,
having power as tiny as a grain in the dangerous world,
put on a smile, and say, ‘that’s okay’.
As long as Queen of Night comes, signifying the end
of our working hours, we come home to our loved ones
and have a nice rest.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Wed Apr 20, 2016 2:47 pm
View Likes
Lightsong says...



#9:

When I Appreciated Her

When I woke up and realized the sunlight
wasn’t as bright as it was the day before
and that it wasn’t its fault; it’s my eyes’ fault.

Bees started buzzing and the rocks started knocking
in my head. A torment that I knew would come
after staring at the laptop’s screen until past midnight.

I sat on the dull sofa, groaning, clutching my head,
unable to do anything except being there like a patient
as heat of the desert started to fill my entire existence.

I called her, ‘mom... mom... mom...’ like a traveler
summoning water after days of dryness.
Mom arrived like a breeze of heaven,
slightly soothing my inevitable prison despite her frown.

She tested my forehead with the back of her hand
and quickly got the medicines, the ones for fever
and for flu and for headache because I had them all.

I consumed them after I ate a bit of rice and fish
because she insisted. ‘Didn’t want your stomach empty.’
Then, she led me to my room when I felt the world was falling.

There, she laid me on the bed and vanished again
like the light I desperately needed. She came back
with a towel and a bowl filled with cold water.

She rinsed the towel a bit and rubbed it on my face—
on my forehead, on my eyes, on my cheek—
she didn’t miss a part, her hands didn’t stop a second.

Her hands, rough. She often at the kitchen,
cooking and cooking for us until sweat
was her second skin peeling. Her hands, pained.
She washed the plates and glasses days and nights
although the sink’s waves of water beat her,
giving lasting inner pain in her hands.

I remembered how I yelled at her and how
I disobeyed her many and many and many times.
I kept aggrieving her heart with my knives of words,
I kept lacerating her skin with my machetes of wrongdoings.

Remembering was more painful than what I had right now;
if I shed tears, my fever would get worse
so I kept them in my heart—I didn’t want her to see.
I made a promise in my heart to be a better son,
so that a wide smile would replace her worrying frown.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Tue Apr 26, 2016 2:02 pm
Lightsong says...



#10:

You and I, Now and Before

When we were young, you
didn’t call me your brother.
I didn’t call you my brother.
But we acted like it to each other.

You were a born comedian,
uttering silly jokes
like they were your second breath
and you smiled each time
I laughed at them.

We used to sing loudly
in the secondhand van
without hesitance, without shame.
Our favourite song was Balik Kampung
even if it wasn’t Happy Eid Day yet.

We used to do things together
and whenever we walked,
your hand was on my arm.
Although I told you it felt a bit heavy,
you said you couldn’t stop the habit.

But that was before.

We are teenagers now and I
am about to enter the world of adulthood
and soon you would follow.
We still don’t call each other brother
but right now the word doesn’t have meaning.

You are a smoker,
inhaling the harmful gray like
like they were your second breath
And you frown each time
I tell you to stop.

We bawl on each other,
throwing names only Hell would approve
without hesitance, without shame.
Our favourite argument is about whose responsibility
even if it’s ours.

We don’t do things together
because you have your friends for that
and whenever we walk, you tell me
to walk properly. Although I tell you
I want to come with you, you say I can’t
because I would embarrass you.

That is now. I fear for the future.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Wed Apr 27, 2016 4:11 pm
Lightsong says...



#11:

A Beast Trapped

You trapped me in this cage for eons
until you could make sure I submitted
my unwavering loyalty to you.

But you knew I wasn’t a stranger;
I was a part of you, there was a part
of you in me. This beast was us.

I had the dull gems of joyful memories
under my feet. I didn’t care anymore
because they would never be replicated.

What I cared was how you kept
throwing memory stones with sharp edges
to lacerate my hard-scaled body.

It wasn’t unpleasant to see how you
transformed from a human to a demon
All the while wearing religious clothes.

Talking about God didn’t make you pious
if your intention was to be right all the time.
You were just the same like those who gave terror.

We knew one day would come when
you would release me after futile attempts
to convert me. And then I was your nightmare

when I took away those who were once yours
but now rightfully mine to take and protect.
My torment would end, and so would theirs.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Fri Apr 29, 2016 7:04 am
View Likes
Lightsong says...



#12:

My Concept of Love

I have never felt the sensation of a star in my heart,
created by my hands and his, that steal.
Perhaps when I grow up, I'll pull out a string as a link
to someone special who I'd call as The One.

They say love is blind, it would make you unaware
of the people, of the surrounding, of anything that's happening.
If it were me, I would say this: that love
would put sparkles on all things, making them magical.

Some wonder whether love is all about lust?
The need to feel, the need to touch?
I'll say emotions shared are the cake it produces
and lust and passion are the icings on top.

Is it true a happy ending is when a couple marries?
Vows made, kiss connected, everything's official?
I'll say the path of love continues and it ends
happily when they hold hands 'till the last moment.

Apology, apology, for the thoughts I spill out.
Never been in love, am not an expert at this.
What I do know, and what I would tell is love
for all is the way to achieve the ultimate happiness.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  





User avatar
472 Reviews


Gender: Male
Points: 25
Reviews: 472
Sat Apr 30, 2016 11:58 am
Lightsong says...



#13:

Revenge

Revenge awakes when someone places a stone in front of you
the moment you make a step, and fall.
It's your energy source to rise, despite your bleeding head,
planting a desire to inflict a severe injury to the person
who have caused you a long-term torment of walking
with bites of pain, no longer steady.

Orchestrating a similar event leading to his agony is not enough,
so you sneak into his kitchen when he's out working for money.
A bottle of red toxic in your hand, and you find his kettle
from which he drinks his water daily, and pour blood revenge into it.

You wait under the wooden table until the moon takes the sun's place,
casting darkness to the surrounding, unlit by the fluorescent light.
You see him arriving from his work, sweating, his steps slow with exhaustion.
Thirsty, he pours water from the kettle to his glass without noticing
the change of colour of the transparent liquid.

He gulps it down and the effect takes place instantly
(you didn't buy expensive poison for nothing).
He clutches his stomach the way you treat your head
and collapses to the ground. Unlike you, he stays in that position.
You make your appearance, smiling in satisfaction,
making sure the result of his sin is the last thing he sees.

And just like that, when he breathes no more, you savour
the taste of rainbow, and feel like your suffer has ended, your wound healed.
"Writing, though, belongs first to the writer, and then to the reader, to the world.

The subject is a catalyst, a character, but our responsibility is, has to be, to the work."

- David L. Ulin
  








I see no reason to celebrate the random timing of natural events by eating poison and singing.
— Dilbert