Young Writers Society

I hate the music//I hate the silence - Number Forty-eight


I hate the music.
I hate the silence.

Do you want to get out of here?

From the living room flocked with people
to the bathroom where I could hear echoes
of voices downstairs, I sat on the floor.

To driving around and wasting gas,
I want you to know that there is
no one else I would rather be
emptying this tank with.

You love me, you hate me,
doesn't matter, all the flowers
you gave me are long gone.

Petals of the bluebonnets
you went out of your way
to find rest on the floor,
never to wake again.

Get out of here, a remark
that comes out my mouth
in a debauched haze.
You're drunk, you say;
I'm hurt, I say.

In a deadpan dialogue,
you give a vacuous gaze;
I can almost hear the trickle
of alcohol from your flask
into the wine glass you stole.

You gesture it towards me,
an offer of concord between us.
Reluctant, I take it from you,
putting the glass to pale lips,
the ones you desire so.

I rest my chin on the rail
of the overhanging balcony,
gaping out at the waning moon
as you tried to file your apologies.

Leave the hands of nightfall
to solace me, you can't amend
this pang of guilt right now,
no matter what you try.

Only time can remedy these wounds.

Give it until morning, darling,
try and soothe me then, but for now,
turn the lights off on your way out.

I leave the windows open
before I slip into sleep,
welcoming lamented howls
to seep into the quiet room
because: I hate the silence.
I hate the music.

First two lines come from @Lumi as a prompt!

Promises//Detonated Roses - Number Forty-nine


You promised that roses
would detonate in my brain
when we first met, and I laughed,
because I didn't think it would
actually happen.

At the time, I believed
that moths were more serene
than butterflies, less concerned
about wearing masquerade masks;
about putting on a facade. At the time,
I also believed that you loved me,
oh the lies I believed.

You promised that roses
would detonate in my brain,
landmines in a dreamscape
where nobodys roamed.

You promised, but never fulfilled,
draining the value of my words
into an empty basin.

The second and third lines are ones provided by @Morrigan! Also, 50th poem!

Our Parents' Bedrooms - Number Fifty

In our parents' bedroom,
there swells the din
of parting and of bells;
a pendulum clock hangs
on the wall, slowly arching
the nail that holds it upright.

A sacred place where we roamed
when they weren't around, climbing
into the tidy bed, slipping underneath
the many layers of blankets. We hid,
thinking they would never find us
in our sanctuary. Thinking they would
never notice the shape of our bodies,
noticable from a first glance.
Never notice the giggling that came
from the thick sheets.

Adolescence in our ichor,
we thought we were so clever.

Woah! Congratulations on getting to 50 - that is a pretty cool accomplishment. I like a lot in your recent work, but I really love #49 - how can you go wrong with detonated roses though? This is great:

"At the time, I believed
that moths were more serene
than butterflies, less concerned
about wearing masquerade masks;
about putting on a facade. At the time,
I also believed that you loved me,
oh the lies I believed. "

Thanks so much! <3

Prompt:

20.) Write a poem using the following image: a small rowboat tied to a pier, bobbing in the water under darkening skies.

Wreckage - Number Fifty-one


The rowboat bobs in the water,
the ripples foreboding of a storm.
The first drops of rain dampen
the wharf, sailors and peasants alike
call their children to come inside.

A scythe pulled that village
a little closer to being corroded
by the sea's sandpaper tongue.
The masses retreat to their cottages,
their cabins where they are in belief
the roofs over their heads protect them.

Death sweeps over the town,
a tumbleweed caught in the wreckage.
Left in ruins, the survivors take the remains
of what is not now debris, and leave,
cursing the sea and death and themselves
for being so foolish to settle on the shore.

Prompt:

37.) Write a poem about positive transformations. One example might be the moment that someone you thought was unattractive or plain was suddenly beautiful.

Metamorphosis - Number Fifty-two


the blankets are a cocoon
for you to harrow into.
a tomb, just for the night,
where you will wake from
when morning shines through
the curtains. there is
a thesis statement being
branded across your chest.
across your name, test scores
defining your value and your worth.
once you wake from metamorphosis,
your appearance will not be altered
but the attitude underneath will be.

Note: Weird font size due to the screenshots and cropping I did.

Seaweed Hands - Number Fifty-three

Note: These next three aren't as much spectacular as they are experimental. Gotta say, I'm feeling the burn-out a tiny bit right now. It's on the tip of my tongue and hasn't spread further yet. Might have to focus more on a single poem a day due to April Madness.

Prompt: Song called Alibi by Dessa from NaPo Music Jam provided by @Castor!

Kudzu - Number Fifty-four


The sheets are a Kudzu plant
wrapping around your body,
becoming overgrowth the
longer you lay there, moping.

The empty wine glass that sits
on your bedside counter
sure says a lot about you.

In daybreak, that is the time
to mourn, not now when
even the children can
see through you.

Left vulnerable to
the smallest of
conflicts, I know,
but you won't get by
unconscious on the
couch all day.

Are you going to let her
control you like this?
The threads she has
around your wrists
leave red marks that
branding your skin.

Are you going to let her
take out your cotton insides
and make you a puppet?

Prompt: Same jam, different person and prompt. This prompt came from @soundofmind with the song Stone Wall, Stone Face by Gregory and the Hawks.

Thirst - Number Fifty-five


Stone walls, stone fields,
is that how they expect us
to live this life? A sheep
fenced in for 'safety'
from the outside.

From the wolves;
a picket doesn't matter
when the wolves are
on the inside.

Animals bred to be
stripped of their marrow,
that's what we are.
Our resources stolen
and bones disposed of.

How many of the words
that come out their mouths
can be considered truths?

We are all terminal,
once you begin to think.
There is an hourglass
inside of us, yet, the sand
is tearing up our insides.

These stone walls
used to confine us.
These stone fields,
made to define us.

Yet, we still feed
on the food provided,
we still devour what
is put out for us
by the media.

That is true thirst.

Skyscrapers - Number Fifty-six


Could you imagine
being mounted upon
a skyscraper that menaces
over nocturnal creatures
roaming the asphalt streets
at this ungodly hour when
revenants come back to life
and when deities perish?

Could you imagine
being on the low ground,
the buildings lofty over your
trifling body as the rest
of the city sleeps, buried
underneath the roofs
that will someday be
nothing but rubble?

Inspired by nightmares + music someone showed me + it's the most honest poem I've written so far.

smile for you - Number Fifty-seven

these dreams turn nightmares
when i wake, tormenting me
with all i desire, a mouse
on a string, just out of reach.

i miss you, and i know
this thought is unrequited,
but can we talk sometime?

i miss your sable hair that curled
at the tips, how you rarely spoke
and made every word that came out
from those pale lips important;
something i could never do.

i could come over, we could
watch Ouran together, curled up
on your threadbare couch.

i could hold your hand and
trace the lines in your palm
with a single finger, creating
tsunamis, just like you told me to.

without my reveries of
what we could be, you
are happy as you are,
his arm around your
shoulder, and i will
smile for you.

Prompt:

a poem based on the following three generated words:

pride
strawberry
violin

a dulcet tune - Number Fifty-eight


the girl I gazed upon
from the seat in the audience
had strawberry-blonde hair,
violin resting against her neck
as she played a dulcet tune.
yet, the spotlight did not focus
on her; instead she stood on the
corner of the stage, where shadows
manifested. taking form, she became
but a sihoulette in the darkness.
everyone else, they seemed to be
paying attention to the center,
characters singing, and that's nice,
but i don't think people give enough
recognition to the background.
enough recognition to those
who are content being the
backdrop to a mural painting.

Prompt: The prompt is a single word, 'Convalescence' given by Autumns in a jam!

Tagging @TheSilverFox @SirLight @Autumns

arachnid - Number Fifty-nine

i watched a spider kill a moth last night
right outside the bathroom window,
and i'm still feeling the effects.

i watched the moth tap on the glass
frantically, as i saw the spider drop down
from her web and onto the seized prey.

i watched the moth squirm, kicking
and fighting with hands and feet,
but the spider web already took hold.

i watched, yet i didn't do anything--couldn't
do anything, the latch to open the window
sealed with rust. the torment danced and

i watched. i went to bed with the image
of the moth, wrapped in silk webs and
hanging upside-down; a white tomb.

i watched the moth die and i cannot
get over that, regardless if it happens
every day and night below my feet,
above my head, and behind my back.

I actually like how you connect convalescence theme with a mundane occurance. It makes the latter has a deeper meaning, a portrayal of something else, and for me, it makes me think of the atrocities happening around us where we can't do anything but to watch. I like how the simplicity of this poem makes way for the message to go through easily. Good job. '^'b