Young Writers Society

i'm late to the party

metamorphosis

still dont know
if its raining outside
or if grey noise has settled
inside of my ears;


curling around myself,
spiralling my spine
into something thin
and ridged, a pitched
closing mouth shell

that does not echo.


i am living underground now.

the earth is a cold thing,
all heat and motion inside and still,
quiet, frozen on the out and part of me
hears the rushing of the water

all the time, all the time

i am hoping
you will not remember me

that the lack of recognition
moves into sleep,

grey hands, moving
under the pillow, seeking out
the last moments of a dream,

that i might, pale and quiet as skin
on sheets, disappear

into the morning with it

the lungs open:


there are things more dire in this world
than an exercise in futility.

there is more lost in the breath,
open wound mouth

and last allowance for kindness
before, as the expression goes,

the well runs dry.

i wake in the afternoon;
we are long legged together, warm and soft
as light; i

am still asking for your kindness.
our home has flowers on the table,
silverware in the drawer that curves
to meet our fingers, we have books
collecting on the floor, ideologies,
tense mouths, limbs that,
regardless of anger,
swim and reach into each other in the dark.

i sleep next to you, dream of your voice,
curve into you like metal.

These are all so lovely <3 i've missed your poetry so much.

open wound mouth < make me hold my breath while i read your poems, why don't you?!

i am 100% a slacker and <3 u guys very much






the hills are going --

the fog folds them under its arms,
pulls them further away

and i have told my family
i am not made for cities,

that the pulse in my wrists gets lost
in the clatter, that being here
turns my mind as grey and polluted as it --

and i am still learning
to be, i am still aching
for places i visited
as a small child, i am
remembering the height
of trees, learning my own
wingspan, the rush of water
in the river’s current, i am
drowning in the
insignificance of my own experience,

and i am going --

i am hoping that i can fit in the folds of the fog, that
i will not implode under its weight,
that the hills will accept me as their own

i am building myself a church
of quiet. i am whispering into
the cup of my hand,
drinking from its sound and
i am stretching my thin,
elongated body until
it is only the most
tremulous of soundwaves;

if you listen, closely,
put your ear against
the wrist of your heart,
if you wait for the vibrations
of sound against the bottoms
of your naked feet, there
is a quiet in everything --
there is a built brick peace
that listens for you

my mother is forgetting
what it is to suffer;

a empty shell
learning to uncurl
shake the sand from its ridges
discover that it is filled with
ocean, light, a thousand
voices with so much to say

That third-to-last one that you just posted a bit ago is lovely. <3 The repetition you use in it works well and those last couple of lines hit hard.

falling asleep is
a difficult practice:

an underwater breath,
a quickened heart,

the stacatto, cruel-minded
drum of your heart in your ear

too heavily set into your pillow;

and the practice of dreaming
is a difficult one,

all subconscious and no kindness,
waking up heavy and damp,

asking your lungs for breath,
asking yourself if the world

really is so cruel as you see it in your sleep.

there is a built brick peace
that listens for you

Oh my god thank you

easter morning: the thunder
reaches into the trees
parts the leaves with its teeth.

the house is so dark;
we look at the hills
through the windows,
watch the rain through our small scope
and it is a family day --

i drove home during
the sunrise, watched the light
slowly steal over the bogs
lining the highway and

we are waiting for the rain to pass,
still and still.

i am nearing the end
of your diary: sometimes
as im fumble through
whisper thin pages, i
look for some image
or semblance of you in here,
look for your voice
or hands or gentle skin
as if they were things to be
pressed and kept
and realize that maybe
i didn't know you as well
as i'd said, maybe
i wouldn't recognize them
even if they were there