Young Writers Society

Poem 11

heavy dreams - 4.7.18

Last night I dreamt of a neopets account
that I don’t think I’ve touched for 10 years.

I’m supposed to be an adult,
but sometimes I still worry
about the virtual pets,
that are lingering unfed
in a forgotten account
that I left behind so long ago.

It’s this awkward tension
of feeling responsible
for something irresponsible
something so insignificant
that it matters,
at least to me.

And I want so badly to be
what I think an adult is, so
I stamp my foot and spit my pacifier
and scream, “I can, I can, I can”
the perfect ratio of responsibility
and confidence yet eludes me.

I consider playing for points to feed the blumaroo
but decide that may be too juvenile,
and so my virtual pets call out in my nightmares
“Feed me, feed me. Why have you forgotten?”
and I wake to wonder if I am starving them,
or starving the child in myself.

I thought that by now
I would have all the answers.
And when I see my mother in the mirror
I expect to also see her poise,
rather than a girl caught between
all these lofty responsibilities.

And the only answers I really know,
are that I don’t have them yet,
and a blumaroo needs food to survive,
and a child needs dreams to survive,
and I’m still not sure what to feed an adult.

I'm immensely enjoying your Napo especially since I am at that stage where I'm definitely an adult and I don't feel like a kid but I don't feel like an adult either, at least not one with answers. I think your last two poems are my favorite. They're so relatable and Poem 10 was so heartbreaking and beautiful and heartfelt at the same time. It's so hard to watch your friends or loved ones suffer with suicide or depression or any demons haunting them. And poem 11 is the perfect representation for where I am and a lot of people my age are in life. Gosh, that last line is so true for me and so relatable on a literal and figurative level I can't even explain. Can't wait to see the rest of your NaPo unfold.

<3 that last poem is amazing. So amazingly relatable xD

Poem 12

to my father - 4.8.18

*temporarily removed*

Poem 13

*temporarily removed*

Poem 14

grey - 4.10.18

my gut wrenches when I see the silver
thread sprouting from morning hair, still -
I tell myself it’s the sun playing her tricks
these are comfort lies I tell myself.
but truly,
i am horrified.
_____though not surprised.
surely this is part of my purpose;
being groomed for death.
living for work. feeding off anxiety,
drinking my own exhaustion like oxygen.
breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, and
there’s a fine line between breathing
and hyperventilating, and breathing
and when your own body,
breath in, breathe -
has pulled - out the white flag of surrender
upon your scalp, I’m second guessing myself
no matter how I turn my head
there it is tied down to my skull
a reminder i am a mere mortal
if you dare to look close enough

Poem 15

wisdom in seasons - 4.11.18

*temporarily removed*

I loved this one, especially. <33

Poem 16

unfiltered thoughts at bus stops - 4.12.18
(wrote yesterday, no time to post, please pretend this is poetry)


i.
"12 hour trip" i repeat and check my watch every 55 seconds just often enough, that the time never moves. and the man with the over-sized suitcase wedged in between his knees repeats "we close now, we close now"

and so i lose track of where i am

"we close now?" "we close now!" "we are still not close now."

i ate all my cheerios before the first stop - stomach sings, head pounds, rest.
just rest for awhile.

ii.
1 hour 47 minutes later, complete disorientation, where am i? why am i here? where are we? "we close now" says the man with the suitcase wedged between his knees.

here we're at the first stop. the choices: wendy's or run across the street to fast-food tacos. my choice is easy. oversized kitkat bar, water-refill, box of cheerios for the road! mini-mart delicacies, a small comfort for a weary traveler. a woman has stolen my spot, she pretends she hasn't by looking at her phone when i ask her to pass my coat. i move to the back, and inevitably steal someone else's unassigned seat
and so mayhem ensues. "That's not going to work honey, you got my spot"

i will move. the man with the suitcase wedged between his knees says we're close anyways.

iii.
now i'm in the real back of the bus, by the latrine and the pile of coats stacked on the last seat. a man from bangladesh hears my name and tells me he is a muslim. "Are you afraid of me now?" he asks.

i tell him we're created by the same God and that's good enough for me.

iv.
i read the same 12 lines in my book for the next 2 hours. until i am awaken from the endless cycle of comprehension and disengagement to the sound of my friend getting off at his stop, "we real close now".

v. and the man from bangladesh tells me he is interviewing for a job and needs prayers, i tell him "i will pray for you" and we exchange cheerios and protein bars.


vi.
i feel some deep connection with my ancestors as i see my phone is dying, i feel i know what they must have felt when the oil was running low at the end of the night. panic sits in, that my ride will not be at the correct stop, and my phone will be dead. and i will be dead. i fear i will miss my stop, so i hover between sleep and just conscious enough to know i have yet arrived.

the woman who stole my stop makes it to the back and taps my shoulder,
"anyone in the toilet"

she asks me, i have no clue, i was asleep, so i tell her "yeah, we close though" and she walks back to her seat.

vii.
45 minutes later we arrive and my luggage is thrown from the underside of the bus like a great dragon heaving up its lunch, and i cling to it hoping i packed my phone charger.

Poem 17

untitled - 17 - 4.13.18

there are certain feelings that don't come softly,
like the chill of winter air when it burns your lungs
you don't doubt it, or pretend it's something else,
as real as the skin at my fingertips
as clear as the breath caught at the sound
of the syllables from my name on your lips
sometimes you just know.

Ooh, I like #17 - you've got a wonderful, tangible metaphor there - I can almost feel it!

Poem 18

I only use my words - 4.15.18

i'm not writing poetry
I say, capitalizing the "i" to make it official.
and even adding the punctuation 'dot' at the end .
There. You happy?
Don't mistake these haphazard sentences and lines that drag on then
break-up unexpectedly
as poetry. Because I am not writing poetry.
I can't right now.

Poem 19

untitled - 19 - 4.16.18

he asks me what i'm thinking,
like i could give an adequate answer in words
to tell him about the exact amber brown of his eyes
or somehow give a rendition of the intonation of his laughter
if in words i could tell him
how my thoughts leap and squeeze my lungs
then dance between our words and weave between interlaced fingers
i'd tell him the truth
but until my voice can speak in more than words
i'm only left with poetry.

I love these last two <3 #18 is my favorite, it feels like my thoughts c:

Poem 20

busy - 4.17.18

lately, i worry i have not had time to smell the roses
because sight and breath are too valuable to
waste on anything seasonal
although i can't remember the last time i lived
in anything except this season
of the constant haste and forgetting to breathe and
forgetting which lines i've already said
because breath and sight are too valuable to waste
on remembering what's important. you see,

I'm busy right now,

and that's not just a statement
about how limited my time is because no one has time
to complain about clocks or anything else
that refuses to give, but takes and takes and
takes until you are only left with pocket change
next to pocket minutes,
breaths of time
to avoid spending all at once

but I'm busy
has become linked to my personhood,
a sad epitaph that no one had time to proof-read
but left an impression that no one has the time to register
but they'll leave roses and say that it's sad anyways,
because we're all busy.

and now the answers come quickly
so as not to waste time
what're you doing? I'm busy
how do you feel? I'm busy
who are you? I'm sorry, but
I'm busy right now, can I let you know at another time?

and i would finish this line in some sort of summation
about how the tyranny of the busy
and the shortness of breath
has left me short sighted
and short lived
because i have ceased having time to live anymore
but i can’t give you pretty flowery words to
tell you how the mess and stress
have started to define me; and
breath and sight are too valuable to waste on words
and finding meaning takes time i suppose, and
I’m just too busy to say what i want to say
and you’re probably too busy to hear me anyway