Young Writers Society

Doing it, don't delet this.

Psssht, unlike our conversation last night, I can delete this. Guess who has all the power now?

first poem

your parents don't love you;

you spend your weekends in your room
depressed about how you can't go out
Saturday night.

your parents don't love you;

i'm sorry they caught you smoking
at your friends house, maybe
you shouldn't be a "free" teen?

your parents don't love you;

you do well in school, but also in
detesting those who pay for all the crap
you want and all the crap you want to do.

your parents love me;

good kid, anti-drugs,
doesn't need to substance
to disappoint his parents.

your parents love me;

i spend all day slaving away
on art punk and spoken word
to fill an empty hole in my heart.

your parents love me;

they love me because i'm something
you aren't; i know what i'm capable of doing,
i know how to do it,

yet i don't take risks for that to happen.

2

Life isn't so ironic.

Spending the majority of the time
at the Distracted Drivers lesson
texting and talking because, secretly,
we don't care if a pole is the last thing
we're gonna see in life.

It's a Friday in April and the juxtaposition
throughout the crowd is overwhelming.
Half of them will be participating
in underage drinking, a quarter will be
going to the movies, and the rest
are no-names in the category 'Miscellaneous'.

The speaker gives a constant reminder
on how we can all die if we don't treat
"our bodies correctly". Everybody falls silent.

Not because of the reality alert,
but the U.S. has just bombed a third world
country. We all got text messages about it.

I stare at the mouth of the speaker,
the tongue hiding in the back of his throat
emphasizing how shocking it was
that we're all distracted.

I pay attention to how his face wrinkles
when says Ridiculous!.
After a minute of yelling, I pick up my book
and leave the library.

"When you drink and drive tonight
and you hit that car, your life will flash
in front of your eyes and you'll be reminded
that I was right all along!"


Life isn't going to flash in front of my eyes,
instead it'll be an epilepsy warning written in strobe lights
letting me know that what isn't meant to kill you
will end up disappointing you in the end.

3

In my dream, I get five kisses
on my neck. It brings back nostalgia
from the day I first started
spiritually self destructing.

You're at the top of your game,
sweetie, the dream girl whispers
into my ear,
no need to fret.
She looks like a celebrity
I had a crush on once.


It marks a year, today,
since I first learned I was good
at something.
Good at keeping a conversation,
good at dwelling on things
that won't be as important in the future,
and great at deeming a good chunk of my life
pointless.

4

I said it was pathetic that you
wanted to die as the future seemed
bleak, but maybe you should
just grow up.

I said you need to grow up because
life is too long to spend in waiting rooms
under hospital lights and not shutting up
over pissy/whiney emotions
straight from the serotonin.

I said you whine too much because
punching pillows don't do you good
no more, they're rage induced blog rants
that no one will ever read and will be
the death of you; a blood clot
waiting to happen since you were 13.

I said you were too optimistic
because you aren't better than me,
every word you say is a reminder that
we won't grow up even though we try to.
We're faux adults at a young age. Face it,
you don't have a plan, neither do I,
but it'll all come down to who sheds
more blood in the end.

I said I liked you in the beginning,
but that's when I didn't know what to do.
At this cross road I need to tell you to grow up.
Not that you think so, however there's a difference
between having a plan and actually going through with it.

I said you need to grow up because
hope is overdue, but having balls aren't.
With all that time you spent scolding at me,
I can't say I hate your guts,
but everything surrounding it.

5

Every time teens "are teens",
the genie from Aladdin echoes
in the background.
psst
teenagers
take off your clothes

Every time I do something,
it's met with dry laughter
and scattered applause.
Psst,
Willard,
stop writing poetry.

6 YWS ate my poem yesterday, just realized now. Here it is.

A mannequin with red lipstick
smeared on its face sits
in a modern art museum.
The world is cruel and ugly,
dying is easy now
is inscribed in its chest.

A fellow acquaintance describes
the creation as "lit",
I describe it as terrible.
We sit there in awkward silence
as the constant reminder
flashes in our eyes.

7

I cracked open its skull
with viciousness,
quickness,
and a baseball bat.

Red and green confetti
covers my dress shoes
as it breaks through
its isolation.

"find a nicer way to kill it,"
my teachers always said
whenever I get too
"caught up" in things.

As the gypsum bones make
an angel on the floor,
looking like a poorly made
Pollock painting.

My teachers said I should
write a pop song, poetry,
a blog post, or anything to get
out the little devil in my heart.

So I smashed a head made out of butter
with champagne poppers underneath
to prove the point that
their's don't make sense.