Young Writers Society

1. New Shoes
2. Headline
3. night skies
4. this isn't my garden
5. This Isn't Yours
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6. Number Three
7. Promise?
8. Break Me
9. Closure
10. promise me the sky
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11. those people
12. Booklets
13.
14.
15.
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16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
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21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
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26.
27.
28.
29.
30.

new shoes, walking down the street, head down
hands to self, shoulders hunched, old shirt, no phone
he has two girls at home, gettin' their hair done
he would'a worn a hoodie, but he ain't foolish

[his mama told him that they were comfy
but a sure fire way to get shot
he's never worn a beanie either]

sirens blare in his ears, but he ain't foolish
he don't run, he won't hide, he just walks
but maybe he should'a stopped

['hands up,' is what his mama said
away from pockets and the possible
gun]

he never carried anything on him
but the pictures of his kids
he ain't got nothing on nobody
is what his friends said

['you're not in a gang, are you?'
'no mama, i listened to you.'
'just making sure']

No phone, new shoes, head down, hands in pockets.
Obviously a threat -- ripped t-shirt, menacing face.
"Call in backup, we got a criminal down south
He's a large black male. Repeat, we need backup."

and his last moments were with his hands
over his head, with nothing but his dignity left
nothing but the last words of
'i'm sorry, mama'

his entire life was summed up into
a news story headline, large and bold
wasn't a fair legacy for the father of
four princesses who wouldn't know

[the castle he built for them, worked so hard for
was left to his wife who dealt with the mortgage
years and years in debt, with four princesses
who had to learn that wars have to be fought
with money and media, instead of with swords]

'Angel Or Thug?' is what his wife saw that morning,
after staying with their kids the entire night in tears
with pits of emptiness and despair clawing away
at their bleeding hearts, no one fighting the monsters

[the youngest was two years old
she could barely remember his face
after he was gone for a week]

the oldest made coffee that morning, after turning her mother over
and discovering the botched mascara and the wedding photos
it was too sweet but the memories were so bitter that they managed to
balance themselves out in the end, even when life seemed so shaky

[no one turned on the news in that house
someone managed to film his last moments
no one needed to see that, so they watched
pbs kids instead and didn't go to school]

his entire life was summed up into
a news story headline, large and bold
but his entire family was turned into
a poem, which wasn't fair either

his ribcage is made of glass
adorned with the glowing decorations, placed ever so carefully on his bones
they swish back and forth in the wind -- every time he breathes
something cracks

clink

it's funny
rips in his skin, revealing the blue truth underneath
embellishments on his side were painted on for glamor
night skies flood his wings
protecting him are small stars

he's a warrior, with broken bones and shards
treasures kept close inside his chest, never to spill open

he can never die
but he's tried
the world keeps on calling to him
telling him to fight on

his secrets stay close, his friends are few
they all leave, eventually
crumpled wings on the floor
wide eyes, life spilling

his frozen eyes have seen many battles
won and lost

the coliseum isn't forgiving
defeat echoes in his ears

he won't talk about it
losing one thing starts the fall into weakness

pillars change as he moves on to the next chamber
night skies only stay where he takes them
these stones aren't built for survival
but destruction and chaos reign

Shadowbinder, forgive him
for he's seen many things

they never say that it's easy
learning how to forget
when the vines continue to crawl up your arm
replacing all of the veins that once lived there

your blood became mine, at one point
when you took over
like those vines
in my veins

i hate you
but that's too strong of a word
i loathe you
but i'm too young to know that

the chemical structure of my brain
has been different for a while
with odds and ends refusing to connect
they say that's me getting older
and my brain getting stronger
but i think you know what you did

you have a new message

but it's never there
since you've been gone

you appeared again
in my dreams
lurking in the shadows

you threatened me
said that you loved me

this isn't love

your poison touches upon my lips
and i spit you out, shouting at the gardens
because i never wanted this
and you only appear in my dreams
but some days i think it's real

this isn't love

the fact that you found me
whole and alone
and broke me apart
is funny
because the story normally turns another way

you took a scared kid and made them worse
instead of how you thought we'd go

please don't take my friends away
they're all i have now

you're not to be romanticized
your garden isn't mine
these veins are mine and i want blood
but vengeance isn't needed

because i'll always have glue
and i'll never have you
(i never wanted you)
and rhymes are broken
and so am i

but maybe
i'll forget you

i want you out
i had you gone

the structure didn't matter when you were here
i'm too young for this isn't an excuse
when all i can write isn't even poetry

because the imagery of the blood i wanted to wipe across my face isn't pretty, with the crimson smile being too dark to wear. the way my stomach doubled down and how i screamed with my lungs ripping through my chest isn't pretty, with my shame being too dark to wear.

they say it isn't my fault
i've said that going back is a reflex i can't control
it's like the back of my hand, with all of the veins that stick out in ugly lines

i've given other people the same advice, which means my words fade into the noisy background of bad decisions and regret
and that my thoughts turn into ones and zeros in the main scheme of things

i carved you out of my heart, casted you aside, and buried my soul in lighter things
with my ghostly fingers hanging onto the idea of you for sheer life

you don't deserve my poetry

you said you were dying
you said that i saved your life
you said that you loved me

you don't deserve my tears

i keep on coming back to you
i went through old messages
i keep on coming back to you

victim blaming isn't my thing
i want to support others like me
but in my heart of hearts
i want to say sorry

did i ruin your life i didn't mean to i'm sorry please don't come back

maybe you view me now with poison
which i deserve
i hope my name clouds your very vision
i hope that you forget me
i hope i forget you

goodbye

You don't deserve my poetry
You don't deserve my fears
You don't deserve my happiness
You don't deserve me.

Leave me alone
Leave me alone
Let me think, leave me alone
Leave me.

I'm a child again, I'm putty again, I'm small again, I'm impressionable again, I'm weak again, I'm young again, I'm trusting again.
I'm not me.

You're in my thoughts again. You're in my head again. You're in my poetry again. You're in my fears again. You are broken cracks of my imagery, in the shards of my bones, in the repetition that fill the issues in my verse.

Because when I ripped my heart out and started again, you managed to find the way to invade the empty space in my blood. But, perhaps, I shouldn't give you that much credit. Because why invade when I left a vacant space, ready for entrance.

You have another message in your inbox, darling
Do you care to look?

Drag out my name again, spit out my heart, learn my secrets, and tear me apart. Because broken stories don't work when you fix them and they're better when you poke at old bruises.

"Did I not talk to you enough?
What did I do?
It's because I don't write, right?"

Because I'm so superficial, that I only care about my writing. That I only care about the alphabet and how it strings together to form words and how it breathes life into blood. You saw me as another one, smaller, impressionable. You found your little target.

How are you?

Someone said that you're not all that bad, that there are people out there similar to you but not. (Do they seek out young prey?) Sending messages. (Do they ask all of the wrong questions at all the right times?) Having fun. (They have friends too, right?) Little inside jokes.

Spit at my grave, dance on the dead, kill all my dreams, rip off my head.

Goodbye.

she was promised a castle when she was a princess
long vines swirling up the towers until reaching the top
knights guarding her doors to keep her safe
from the monsters outside that plagued her dreams
because princesses couldn't live in cramped spaces
only flourishing under manufactured light
"have you seen the circles under her eyes?"
when she reaches out to play, you can see how
her brittle bones don't help with her wild grasps
how breakage can happen at an instance

"turn the page, kid. there's more."

when she was a princess, her clothes were torn
with moths flying through large holes in jeans
silverfish gnawing at the ends of her shirts
her one dress -- blue and ready -- was stained
"can she wear that at the ball?"
because her prince wouldn't arrive at the gates
until she was perfect/unbroken/divine
the doctors wouldn't look at her
until her ratty clothes were mended.

"turn the page, kid. there's more."

when she was a princess, with long hair spiraling down her back
she always waited for her prince with childish certainty
"he'll never show up, kid. face it."
crawling through the halls, crawling into her ears and out of her eyes
leaving marks that wouldn't vanish, because broken dreams never do
she gave up hope, along with her childhood, and cut off her hair

"turn the page, kid. there's more."

when she was a princess, she was given the stars
she was given the sky, so that her grubby fingers could wrap around the dust floating in the vastness of the universe. she reached out at the flames and drew back her fingers when scorched. but the doctors wouldn't see her charred hands until later on in life. they talked about her princes and how they wouldn't come back until the bandages were taken off. about how the doctors wouldn't show up until her clothes were mended. how the seamstress couldn't arrive until a castle was built. about how her world crafted in her head would never be real.

when she was a princess, with charred fingers and space in her hands, she had the world
and then
she didn't

"turn the page, kid. there's more."

break me
if you dare

because my bones are made out of steel
sit by my hearth and i'll push you in
the fire is hidden in my heart and i keep it alive
so break me if you dare
because i'll take you down with me

she built up concrete walls around her head, filling cement in the empty spaces of her ears
she learned to grit her teeth and shut people out, refusing to look at them through the barrier
she knew that her blood that stained her consciousness wouldn't wash off, even with bleach
because her mama always told her that self defense was necessary and that alcohol would take the guilt away, burning down the back of her throat as she chugged away the sorrows

"you gotta get over it, sweetheart. because your demons will eat you alive, even if you don't let 'em. keep your head up and move past this -- have a glass of water and relax."

she tore down walls the same day she put them up, with the rubble around her dusty feet
no one told her that pulling cement out like wax would be painful, that noises hurt the mind
she learned to ungrit her teeth and vomit like everyone else, even with bleeding gums
that hurt from all of the brushing, but she learned to spit into the sink like everyone else
because her mama always told her that self defense was necessary and that alcohol would
take the guilt away, burning her skin as she smashed the bottles onto her thighs

"you can't do this to yourself, sweetheart. your demons are eating you alive and you're letting 'em. keep your head up, smile a bit -- have a glass of water and relax."

because she found red bricks that matched her stained consciousness on day two
carefully stacking them away from her head, in order to pass the time with broken fingers
because alcohol wouldn't solve her problems, even though the appeal of the burn was
distant
because her mama always told her that self defense was necessary, with barriers or demons
but fighting herself would leave a house that could not stand, with walls that would only fall

"you gotta move on, sweetheart. your demons have eaten you alive and you let 'em. keep your head up, keep this to yourself -- get me a glass of water and let me relax."

because her bricks were only three high and the enemy would be able to step over them
but she needed to leave room for others, because she didn't own her own goddamn body
spitting blood into the sink was necessary in order to swallow back the vomit
because you have to smile around guests, with white dresses signifying you're alright
because her mama always told her that self defense was necessary, but she shouldn't sacrifice her self worth in the process. killing your enemy wouldn't work

"i'm tired of this, sweetheart. you're a husk without a purpose and you ain't even pretty to look at anymore. keep your head up, stop crying about useless things -- get the guests a glass of water and leave us be."

because the walls weren't necessary when your hands were broken and twisted
she wouldn't be able to serve anyone with breath smelling like heavy copper and mint
and at least she could morph her gritted teeth into an acceptable smile, bright and cheery
washing out the sink with her broken hands pained her but it was for the good of the house
alcohol wasn't a good medicine but it ended up working, her liver started to yellow
instead of her thighs becoming red shards of glass embedding like the tattoo she wanted
she did the laundry, she found a way to scrub at her consciousness until the blood was pale
her white dresses became pink and then yellow and then she bleached out her soul
because her mama always told her that self defense was necessary but it tore her apart

"i'm done with you, sweetheart. our glasses are bloody and your eyes have lost the light. red ain't a good color on you. pack up your things and leave -- get me one last glass of water and leave."

he painted the sky with broken words, etched together
clouds forming disconnected phrases that rang true to his heart
the red hues of the setting sun uncovering the lies that echoed
his head was filled with empty truths overflowing and spilling

he took fate by surprise, ripping blue from the atmosphere
scrolling down Pinterest and learning how to pin DIY bulbs
in the empty spaces of his room, his mom wouldn't help him
it wasn't her fault that her mind was in a constant cycle

cloud chasing was for children, with his new sneakers and sandy hills
she promised she'd pick him up down by the riverside at sundown
but no one came but mosquitos, sucking away at his arms and legs
he learned to pick his shoes up and walk home by himself, with scars

his paint cans were empty and his brush was dry as his bones
which rattled in his sandy shoes and he scrolled down his phone
a few years out of date but at least it sent her meager words
he could Google how to take over the sky, without any help

even though
she promised

he was one of those people who yelled into the abyss
[his voice was raw and his lungs marred with scars]
he screamed into the void with warm tears on his face
push him to edges of buildings, for the sake of the world

he was one of those people who painted his room with wine
[he drank more than he painted, but a masterpiece was born]
girlfriends wouldn't stay but he could find solace with the walls
smash the bottles and tear off paper, for the sake of the world

he was one of those people who stalked his ex at 1am
[under a fake name with a fake image with a fake style with a]
she didn't love him, all of her imperfections changing her mind
call the cops, block his number, never find out about that account

he was one of those people who drank until his liver yellowed
[doctors held his hand and tried to explain but he never listened]
he was wheeled into the hospital with his family surrounding him
hook up IVs to his arm, watch him tear them out, lost causes die

he was one of those people, with small funerals and tearful girls
[he would have laughed bitterly and raised a wine glass to the abyss]
they didn't talk about his paintings, his ex, they don't matter in the end
turn over the damp dirt, mourn the loss of life, for the sake of the world

there have been ghosts living in her stomach
hallowing out her bones and calling it a house
with the walls rotting out along with her teeth
because pretty smiles never work for scares

she used to cry into my shoulder and i used to pet her hair
she used to cry into my shoulder and i used to help her fears
she used to cry into my shoulder until she realized that i couldn't be there
she used to cry into my shoulder
and then she didn't

i found her poetry journal locked up in her basement, with heartache surrounding the cover
chains wrapped around the pages of ink, so i couldn't see past the pretty exterior
when we used to smoke on the porch, i think she called that a metaphor of sorts
or maybe just situational irony
i never got the hang of her poetry

i used to hold back her hair as she vomited
i used to hold back her hair as she stood in the mirror
i used to hold back her hair whenever she needed me to,
that's what friends were for

there have been ghosts living in her head
hallowing out her brain and calling it a home
her hair hasn't been pretty as of late
because healthiness doesn't help her 'look'

when we sat on top of her house, she used to point at the sunset as we drank cans of beer
she told me that we were finally edgy and had made it in life, so i believed her'
because feeling tipsy on the roof was the best feeling in the world, with ice in my veins
when she fell off of the roof and onto the flowerbed, i only laughed

i used to hold my hand out to her when we crossed the street
i used to hold my hand out to her when we ran across the fields
i used to hold my hand out to her when we were on top of the world
and then i didn't

i found ghosts in her stomach the other day
haunting her nightmares and chasing the good things away
but she cried onto my shoulder and told me that they were good
so i asked for the keys to her poetry booklet and waited

she called her entire life a metaphor for something
but for the life of me, i couldn't figure out why

love is taking a selfie with no makeup on
exposing your flaws to the quick flash of the camera
arm around my neck as we smile into the light, laughing
imperfections mean more than memories, photos to look back on
you joke about growing old and nursing homes but you don't remember youth

you've painted yourself an image of the evil queen
biting into apples at stoplights and flipping open mirrors
extra mascara hidden in your purse for a rainy day, just in case
imperfections mean more than memories, things to mold yourself with
you joke about laugh lines without the smile, monotone works well on you

open up the camera, bite into your apple, and smile
because this kingdom only cares for the young
perfections make for good conversation
laughing over forgotten things
love is taking a selfie

he spent his childhood learning signatures that he'd never use
jotting a familiar name onto the page, signing over his life
curves and swirls for old documents, unfamiliar pages

a name that would be buried in the backyard under piles of curses
he left it behind with crossed t's and dotted i's
crafting a new one under his desk, waiting for a time

the clock ticks down as pages flip by
life changes to how you mold it

crossed t's and dotted i's
names that he'll never use
yellowed pages and money
just wait