Young Writers Society

2k18

trying this again

never completed the last two years

not gonna link 'em here because 1) they sucked and i'm embarrassed by them, and 2) i'm too lazy to look for 'em

if i'm not consumed by some otherworldly beast, i'll try to get at least one or two done here this year

get ready for some unnecessarily long poem titles

A pause from damnation for a sorrowful soul, sentenced from birth to trek an endless multiverse of hell-scapes, each more suffocating and dangerous than the last
--
The wings of a falcon, soaring high in the heavens,
cast shadows down upon my sun-soaked lap
as I sit in a meadow, basking in the warmth of sunlight
and wondering what world I'll arrive in next.

An ocean of misery preceded this paddock,
all shadows and phantoms, with no glimmer of hope,
but after a day of the terrors it harbored,
just as every other world only held me a day,
another door opened and whisked me to this sanctuary;

This idyllic pasture,
a field made of rainbows and smelling of honey,
with a single crowning oak set so near its heart--
it was a place I'd seen only in reveries,
through my lifetime of wandering, forcibly
through hundreds of horrible realms.

I'd seen hell before, or as close as one could get,
and I'd seen worlds forged only of death.
Worlds lost to rot, and corruption, and war
but never a tranquil plane such as this.

And though I, perhaps, should have sat in fear
of whatever monsters or evil might reside in the field,
I was oddly unconcerned,
and a laxness allowed me to rest for the first time
in my dread-fueled life.

And I never wanted to leave.

But as the sun glided lazily across the pastel
blue sky, accompanied by a troop of soft silvery clouds,
I knew that my first break from the terror
I'd only ever known, would not long be held at bay.

And as expected, at the shifting of colors,
from blue sky to orange then
an incongruous, threatening red
the door flickered into being a mere meter from my seat;
familiar evil that always stole me away
from one hell-scape to another.

And there was nothing to be done
as the door slid open in its place
and the vacuum to another realm began to pull me in.

I stole one last glimpse of the meadow I'd cherished,
knowing I hadn't savored it enough,
and the damning cycle of my inexplicable fate
resumed once again.

(finished this at a minute past midnight, so it doesn't count for April 3rd </3)

Oh traveler of seas, brave in your ignorant youth, be wary upon these waves, for they hide secrets even the bravest among men should hope never to uncover!
--
Purple waves extend forever
in every which way you swivel your head
and though the golden fish, bobbing to and fro,
babble encouraging words,
telling you not to worry about a thing,
you can't shake the sense of dread
mounting in your rib cage.

Your little wooden vessel
sails without wind, nor help from an oar
and as the skies above churn
between orange and red --
clouds wrestling with the sunset --
you feel that dread in your chest
begin to grow.

Anxious tendrils, the roots
from a seed of doubt
gripping and clutching and
stretching you to your limit.
A film of sweat cloaks your skin,
and the golden fish start to drop
no longer scales and fins
but stone. Sinking endlessly
to the threatening, indigo depths.

The sun has sunk as well,
and the moon hikes up the black tapestry
overhead, shining coolly
down on your little boat,
a sole comfort in the newborn night.

And as your dread begins
subsiding, you chuckle at your
silly fears. Unbeknownst to the
giant slimy fingers
rising, like pillars from the water,
around your little boat.

(This one was finished in time for the 4th of April!)

Long titles are dumb and unnecessary and actually really difficult to come up with after the poem's been written - it's easier to write a poem around a long title that I've already thought up, I guess - but yeah, this poem is pretty cliche
--
The incessant buzz of
self-deprecating thoughts,
drilled deep into my mind
by years of self-doubt and -hatred,
have only grown stronger
in all the time that has passed;
all the time I've left them
untouched, unbothered.
And if I could cleave them
straight from my head,
I wouldn't hesitate
to silence their chatter.

Eh, we'll count your april 3rd poem if it's close <3

(and this one counts for the 5th)

I didn't proofread it but I liked some of the imagery. I'm too lazy for proofreading right now but feel free to leave notes on any of these!

An audience of one at a solo performance upon a ghostly piano, moth wings alighting on music notes and wonder
--
Tentative fingers play softly on the piano,
pressing down the zebra keys in a symphony
of joy, and then despair.
Blinding arches of lightning crisscross the sky,
an erratic natural spotlight through
the massive hole in the ceiling far above,
and though acid rain begins to fall,
none burns the pianist or his art.

Sallow moths flit about the room, pausing
at intervals to gnaw on intricate curtains
and the shoulders of the pianist's dusty cloak.
Weeds spitting from the earth, through
cracks in the floorboards
blossom anew at the piano's cheery-sad tune,
an ominous fusion of polarizing emotions.

You flutter before all of this, a moth yourself,
but you do not gnaw or flit about--
you simply gaze in bewilderment
at the scene before you.
And as your senses flood with the
atmosphere of this surreal orchestra
in this dilapidated old manor,
a single drop of rain catches your wing
and you plummet for eternity.

This one goes out to all the liars and traitors and anyone else pretending they're chill when really they're not. But don't worry it's not actually calling anyone out, it's just a poem after all
--
Obscenities spewed from your arteries,
severed and free, the red ink of candor
splattering across the table we shared at lunch
and staining me with the haunting view of your true self.

I snatched a clump of napkins, dabbing at the mess,
hoping to salvage whatever perception of you I'd had
before. But it was too late. We were both changed
and there was no clogging your veins then.

So you bled out your thoughts and told me the truth;
how you never loved, or cared, or felt. And
you said you never hated, either. But isn't
apathy more painful than hate?

Eventually, you did close the faucet to your soul,
and as you gathered your belongings all up in your
cold, deceitful arms, you set out to find someone new
to pump full of all your venom-laced lies.

I'm sorry, my darling, but you can't save me anymore. If you let me live, we'll both end up dead by midnight. Just pull the trigger and save yourself
--
Kill me softly, like your dog,
when it's gotten too old
and can no longer walk right.
Kill me gently, but not with kindness
or whispered words of affection.
Kill me, not like weeds in your flowerbeds,
but just as swiftly, and with a true shot.
Do it quick-- before the sun sets
and the world is cast into darkness,
because once the sky is black
I don't think I'll be able to contain
the monster inside me any longer.

Kill me, not like weeds in your flowerbeds,
but just as swiftly,

I love this! <3

(Hour or so late for April 9th, so here's a poem for the 10th)

(no more long titles) Princess of ravens, why must you continue to lie. I come only as a friend
--
Black feathers, gathered in a crown around your head,
contrast against your white-blonde hair
and your sparkling green eyes.
Your freckles tell stories of childhood years
spent out in the sun. But I know
that you've never seen a living sun
in your lifetime.

You stand before me, just out of reach,
in a rolling field of golden grass,
and you smile. But is it a happy smile?
Or does it hide something sinister?

A crow caws harshly, and flaps its wings,
gliding on the gentle summer breeze
to perch on your bare shoulder
and the two of you stare right through my soul.

I know that death will come soon,
for one of us three. And I have my bets set
on my own head. But watching your smile,
that pearly-white tear in your sun-kissed face,
part of me hopes that it's you.
Because I realize that smile has never been real.

I love the tone of this last one. Kinda threatening, but also feeling smarter than before, a realization at the turn of the poem.

Ridiculous helium that's kept that balloon floating around my house for well over a month, what would it do to your voice? To your mind?
--
sucking on helium
to lighten my thoughts,
but the gas is so strong
that my voice fizzles out,
and the world can no longer
hear my tortured screams.

(I was unsure of this poem around the halfway point, and was gonna try to rewrite it, but my good friend @Evander recorded himself reading it, and I thought it sounded really good when read aloud? So here's the vocaroo link if you'd like to listen to my buddy read my poem: https://vocaroo.com/i/s1RP1fcpCz5c )

This meadow is familiar, where have I seen it before? Does the world just work in circles and spirals and turns, endlessly tumbling back to this place?
--
A glaring white shadow looms high
in the singular oak tree of this lonesome
dead meadow. The wilted flower corpses
crunch beneath each foot you place forward
as you approach the dried trunk of the tree,
and the entire valley pulsates, resonating
with your soul; a warning, making you sweat,
making your palms clammy,
making your eyes dart along the horizon.
But you can't tell what the warning is,
or if it is too late, once the pulsing abruptly halts.
The shadow is there, still, watching-- surveying--
it buzzes quietly, like the bumblebees that
must have once populated this meadow.
You raise a hand in greeting, to the shadow,
unsure of what else to do as you reach the
tumbling roots of the great tree.
A glowing, pale hand raises in return,
and the buzzing stops.
Silence envelopes the two of you
as you watch one another.
And the world fades to black around you.
The sky melts away, the ground shrinks,
like the edges of a paper set aflame.
You can do nothing but stare at the shadow.
And it smiles.

(It's not very good, especially considering the lack of poems recently, but it's something. Just trying to get back into the groove of this thing.)

--
You whisked me away on periwinkle waves
that kicked up, gently, against the sides of our sailboat,
and rippled with each fishing hook we fed into the sea
hoping to reel in Neptune's trident, or some watery beast of old.

You told me, under stars glinting and sharp, that we were forever;
and of lands far away, that we'd visit hand-in-hand.
And we sailed happily, eating marmalade sandwiches, laughing,
and whistling ditties 'til the sun set beyond the blue horizon.

But you never warned me of the dangers out at sea.
Of the titanic hands, reaching from depths below; or the sirens
and their intoxicating, melodic cries; or the dreadful, greedy pirates;
or that you would one day leave me for a more sightly castaway,

and drown our past in these periwinkle waves.

--
gauntlets of ice cling to your knuckles
high atop the peaks of a foreign world.
you clutch your sword tightly,
the only thing left to you from the past,
as a fiery demon scrambles through
the snowy coat of this fissured crag.
her skin is aflame, stark and sapphire,
but the flames are cold-- glacial--
more so than the merciless wind
that whips your body and tears your skin.
and you know that no mere human
can vanquish this evil.
yet you must try.