Young Writers Society

I'm going to try and survive a second year of 30 poems in a month, which I think is possible since in January I wrote exactly 53 poems that month, which yes, I kept track of but wasn't really challenging myself with it. I did NaPo last year but part of that was off-site as I wasn't in the best state at that point so it didn't count for on-site, so this is my first official year where I'm going to be doing it completely on-site.

I won't link last year's since the poems that I wrote are quite pitiful and horrible, and I've come a long way from then. Enough with the talk, NaPo is soon, and that is quite exciting! I'm hoping that April Madness doesn't kill me, haha.

Well, I haven't updated this in awhile, but there isn't a large need to since NaPo hasn't even started yet! I've subbed to almost all of the threads now and I come by to sweep through some more once every morning or so, because I want to be able to keep up. I'll regret this later, but for now it's a lot of fun. I'm going to be looking for prompts and thinking of ideas because I don't want to run dry on those anytime soon. Alliyah and I have a jam tonight as you can see on both of our walls and I'll be putting that up in a forum post before so that you can get the link from there too, and that will be loads of fun even though I'm busy all of tomorrow and probably be dead almost all of Sunday.

It's a busy schedule and I have testing for the first week of April and the last week of March, but Spring Break is the week after that and I don't have to suffer any longer for awhile. Can't wait for NaPo to start and I do hope that I don't fail it.

in the garden - Number Zero


you sat, adamant in the garden,
sprouting from the ground in your youth.
you sat, anticipating a bird
to perch on a nearby branch
or for an ant to crawl from a mound of soil,
the world on its trifling shoulders.
the soles of your feet
were caked in mud by the time
the storm passed.

the sunshine broke through wispy clouds
with crowbar hands.
you cleansed of the dirt
on the back porch,
pant legs pulled up to your knees,
you hosed yourself off, left dripping
onto the sweltering pavement.
alone, you read a children's book,
spine broken and pages worn;
a dog-eared page showing
where you last left off.

a crumbling primrose lay
as your bookmark, flattened by
time. you sat,
waiting for something,
someone to come by,
but no one did.
instead, you spent hours
learning the calligraphy
of your finger scrawling words
into the naked earth.

Masquerade - Number One

I will stop trying
to be someone I am not;
end this masquerade.

Coarse Sands - Number Two

The night sky lay vacant above the boundless desert sands,
loose constellations sat in the azure, hovering over coarse sands.

The night sky sat upon the shoulders of Atlas, feet digging into
the ground. Broad shoulders forming plateaus over gritty sands.

A zephyr of wind blew across the surface, causing dunes to form
underneath the feet of men whose footprints were erased by bleak sands.

Juveniles roam the desolate land, hankerchiefs tied tight to their necks,
covering their faces and leaving only their eyes exposed to the pale sands.

Only fools wander into the inhospitable desert. Those who voyage in are
unlikely to come out, their ankles devoured by the calcareous sands.

Only the gullible meander their way into the desert, stuck in an hourglass
where the grains do not stop sprinkling onto the foundation of arid sands.

I love the conclusion to "in the garden", it feels so fitting for this kind of world and the the "sunshine broke through wispy clouds
with crowbar hands. " that image is perfect.

Masquerade is very straightforward, no? xD Kind of an anti-masquerade, that is interesting.

Coarse sands is lovely. I like your choice of stretching your meter and lines to give the poem the space and breath enough for the repeated sands. It definitely has this sense of an overwhelming presence, which is so fitting for the image of sand storms!

Thanks! And yeah, Masquerade is pretty straightforward. I like the first and third poems so far better than the second because it's just a little simple.

wallflower - Number Three


are the shy called wallflowers at parties
because that is the only place they can
truly bloom? in the corner, or on the wall
beside a spiderweb that is everpresent.
i laugh, because i know it's true.

are they called wallflowers
because that is the only place
they can truly flourish? and still,
they droop their heads, eyes
making contact only with the ground.

are they called wallflowers
because that is the only place
they can blossom? a stereotypical
red cup held in their clammy hands,
seen in those low-budget indie movies.

are they called wallflowers
because that is the only place
they feel at home? words getting stuck
in their throats as they try to make
small talk, but it comes out as nothing.

Autumn - Number Four



I remember Autumn
and how the decayed leaves
blanketed the naked earth.
Stems interwoven and
nooses tied. I woke,
late in the evening
to the sunshine
that peeked in
through the
windows.

Ankles
left exposed
to the open air.
Clothes on the floor,
right where I left them.
The lethargy aches inside
my bones, so ever present.
The wolves paw at these curved
ribs, attempting to play them, alike
to how a harpist would play a tall harp.

Blackberry Spring - Number Five

The groundhog's shadow is what tells
whether spring is here or if it is not,
though the bud of a flower speaks
the first day of a blackberry winter.

Frost, crawling over the harvest in
late spring, only to have its hands
pried off crops by the thin sunshine.
That is how I know Spring is here.

I love course sands! Like the use of repetitive sands at the end actually seemed to work and I really liked it! The whole poem was super refreshing somehow- like sometimes I read a poem and I feel exhausted afterwards, but the course sands one did the opposite for me. c:

Thanks! It means a lot that you liked it and thank you for the kind words. The repetition actually came from the fact that it was a ghazal, which involves that type of pattern, and it turns out they're a lot of fun.

Infinitesimal - Number Six


The sea swelled beneath us,
as you stood on the precipice
of a cliff. Your pant legs were
pulled up to your knees, shirt
clinging to your chest as though
it was afraid of falling off. Wet footsteps
trailed behind us, becoming fainter
as we got closer to the edge.

The ocean foamed at the
corners of its mouth, waiting to devour
our celestial bodies.
We plunged into the sacred waters,
making only a infinitesimal ripple
in its vastness.
The sea swelled above us
as we sunk, the air
emptying from our
tortured lungs.

Over time, the sand
tucked us in bed, a blanket
smothering our bodies, a gravedigger
of sorts. Putting us to bed
one last time. The last bubbles
leaving our lungs, escaping
into the fathomless sea

Edited Version



The sea swelled beneath us,
as you stood on the precipice
of a cliff. Your pant legs were
pulled up your knees, shirt
clinging to your chest as though
it was afraid of falling off. Wet footsteps
trailed behind us, becoming fainter
as we got closer to the edge.

The ocean foamed at the
corners of its mouth, waiting to devour
our celestial bodies.
We plunged into the sacred waters,
making only a infinitesimal ripple
in its vastness.

The sea swelled above us
as we sunk, the air
emptying from our
tortured lungs. For the screams
you let out could not be heard;
only the dwellers and inhabitants
of the deep blue hearkened and bottled
your bellows.

Over time, the sand
tucked us in bed, a blanket
smothering our bodies, a gravedigger
of sorts, for you and I.
Putting us to bed
one last time,
a faint, lamented lullaby
that came from the lips
of the ocean. The last bubbles
leaving our lungs, escaping
into the fathomless sea.

Mangrove Forest - Number Seven



The lamented trees
acted as an umbrella
as you stumbled your way
through the mangrove forest.
Torpid leaves blanketed its floor,
blades of grass up to your shins.
You ambled over decaying logs,
careful as to where you placed
your step. You did not see yourself
as an adventurer or swashbuckler.
And that is because you weren't.
You were bored, and it was nice out,
isn't that enough? Can't the reasoning
be simple for once? The reasoning to
dawdle in the forest was unornamented;
effortless, and that was enough, you muse
with more certainty.

Icarus - Number Eight

Together we sat on that makeshift swingset
made from rusted chains, wooden boards,
and rope that gave our hands calluses
for holding onto them too tightly.

Together, we faced oblivion as we swung
our legs back and forth as hard as we could,
stuck in constant limbo.

Our shadows stretched across the lawn most
at dusk, the sun retreating from the leaden sky.
If we had the technology, I am certain that you
would have been just like Icarus, ropes singed,
snapped over your shoulders, just like that.

That's so like you; crashing down from the heavens
in an attempt to get higher than high, you felt divine--
that sure lasted long. A foreshadowing of what would
later come: bloody knees, gravel piercing into your hands,
and a mistake you swore off for the rest of your days.