Young Writers Society

vincent van gogh?
more like
vincent van no.

Parties;
I don't want to get drunk and watch movies,
but I want to plaster my lips on the face
that is projected over mine,
sloppily making out with an LCD system
while the images on screen
appear as rorschachs.

"Get out of the way! Up yours!"
they scream as I slip tongue
and twist my head.

I use intimate words as umbrella terms
with kindergarten-grade exaggeration
to at least get a grip on it.

"Love" can't describe everything,
neither can "beauty",
but ugly is a mean word
and hate is an overreaction.

The world spins,
that's the most I can accurately describe it.

my penpal from Nebraska
would send me drawings
of roses made out of corn.

they're as tall as a tree
and their heart pumps more blood
than mine, but at a
slightly slower rate.

I dream of 17 hour flights
in which only one earbud
actually works,
and none of the music I listen to
is in mono.

I tried to play every song at once,
but sensory overload led to me
threatening to blow the whole place
to smithereens.

Smithereens, I tell you.

Do I understand the kitsch
of a dying adolescence,
or does it not make sense
like the Douglas Tigers
Junior Varsity Basketball Trophy
from 1998-99
that has been in my windowsill
since our first kiss?

There are some things
I can't properly articulate
or comprehend;
all the metaphors
you've thrown my way
I can only answer
in drunken and fumbled
reiterations of
philosophical concepts.

The only coherence
is the apology
sitting in the
back of my throat,
and few other words
not just in the situation.

OOOOOOooooouuuuuugaeeehhhhhgghhhhhhhh

That's a metaphor
for a whale,
presumably swimming
or singing.

I want to jaywalk at night
and skip until
my legs separate
at the crack.

.....ooooooooEEEEUUUUUUOOOOOGAAAAAAAEEEEEEUUUUGGGHHHHH......

That is a metaphor for a whale,
presumably swimming or sinning,
but not beached.

Beached whales
omit odors in a sixty mile radius,
and while the sandcastle I've built
smells like blood and fried chicken,
nothing can be dead if
it still has a beating heart.

Dipping fries in the foam of a root beer float,
this is our way of reaching a fair trade agreement;
if I concede to eels being natural tyrants
in the hierarchy of the Sea Kingdom,
you get to dress my paper
with dastardly bastard loops
that exclaims your excitement
about the Seven Deadly Fins.

Beached whales, for example,
commit gluttony and sloth
for "eating too many beans",
but if it had eaten its own heart,
it would have committed suicide.

I'm feeling your wrath
with a loving affliction,
if my unenthused face says anything
other than confusion and panic.

The whale's heart is still beating
whether or not there's a gaping hole
in the side of its body.

romantic theory states
you can trace freckles on a skin
to match a constellation,
and the line that connects
the freckle between your toes
and the one on your index finger
is reminiscent of a slide.
a fun one.

"show, don't tell when it comes to poetry";
my groin has this incomprable quirk:
whenever it's room temperature,
the birds and the bees swarm my bonnet
and sweat rains down my face
until I have the ability to focus
on the plate of spaghetti in front of me
instead of hormones.

It all started when I was 12,
when I thought that I had
erectile dysfunction.
So I wrapped myself in sweat pants,
turned off my phone,
and took a whole bottle of viagara.

But, instead of a boner,
it gave me a heart attack,
and my body remained limp
in the bathtub.

My hands go south
whenever there's an itch
to feel the only place
where my heart mattered,
yet I am still short
of my ultimate goal
and my prom date remains
disappointed
in the back seat.

All your lyrics are about anxiety
and how it's basically a suicide bomber;
you started playing the songs
on your shitty CASIO keyboard,
a terrorist synthesizer.

It acts as a personal soundtrack
to all the drone strikes
in the Middle East.

They capture the landscape
almost perfectly,
but fails to hold any actual weight,
so you sit on your hands
in Suburban Nevada
and refuse to move

until the point
the feces in your pants
become pebbles.

back when i used to cut myself,
i'd text tobin every hour,
demanding he chauffeur me around
downtown or to his house
so i didn't obsess over
wanting to break my own nose,
shove ____ into traffic
and see a semi-truck
obbbbbbbliterate
his bones.

i've stopped using capitals
in my poetry because
i no longer like sharp edges,
plus ____**____
always capitalizes their words
when they write about some
faux-poetic lust for unrealistic love,
and i vowed to myself
that i won't become someone i hate.

i want to become afraid,
i want to cry whenever you drink.
i want everything you do
to scare the living hell out of me
because it makes my art better.

if i start scaring the hell out of myself,
my art will return to sporadic diagonal lines
instead of immature mind-blabber
on a laptop screen.

clouds are pokemon
and i can't see straight;
i do know that the clouds
look pretty tonight.