Young Writers Society

9/30


My boyfriend let me use this idea of his for a poem- well he told me about it because he knew I was doing NaPo and wanted to help me out with ideas. So the genius is his!


it's about a man-
a boy who loved the taste
of brass.
cool, pressed to his lips
whispering to her,
coaxing her to sing
her melody fraying his shirt collar,
rustling his hair- matting his hair.
it keeps him awake at night
feeding on his soul
eating tunnels through his heart
the bloody flavour of metal leading him
to a different instrament
one who's song he thought
would cure the rot in his stomache
and pressing the barrel to the back of his throat
the familiar taste of metal-
a comfort, not a threat.

10/30



stay young-
stay as young as a fresh batch
of tadpoles.
call upon your inner child
and make a wish into your
soup bowl.
this is where metamorphosis happens
on your lunch break
In a room of boring people
between twelve-thirty
and twelve forty-five
in a land where first kisses bloom again
and again.
where you have cake for breakfast
every day for a week.
where the temperature is always warm enough to go swimming
but cool enough that you can enjoy summer again

11/30




drinking your way free of the ocean-
seems like your only option
unless you plug your nose
grow some gills
break the surface tension long enough to...
to..
to.
long enough to plunge your body below.
deeper and deeper
father and farther
you start to suspect the sea
is a holding tank -
a bank -
of the world's supply of tears
and when you finally pull the plug,
letting everything drain out,
the earth sighs in relief

12/30



you sing for me,
in a world of mumblers.
particles pass us by as we prepare
for the rest of our lives-
they're about to begin.
and we pretended to hesitate
because that's the social norm
but we knew. we knew.
this is where the wind meets the sun
the sky meets the moon
this is where we remind ourselves
that there's more to life than cold beer
and late night dramas.
we knew.
we just pretending to blend in
because that's the only curriculum
in school.

13/30





womanhood.
its not pink, wrapped in petals
it's not sparkly and perfect.
it's not coated in creams, and oils-
lipgloss, eyeliner, mascara.
womanhood isn't red- well sometimes it's red.
but it's so much more.
the essence of being a woman goes beyond
boundaries set by
people who
have nothing better to do than
devide.

manhood.
it's not blue, trucks,
and muscles
its not an emotionless gorilla
watching sports day and night
with no imagination except when it comes to-
anatomy.
the essence of being a man is way more complex
than the rules
written by 2D people
trying to devide us

14/30





egos stop us from
listening with our ears
when we want to be right
we feel we're right
but we're hiding;
we fear desperation.
the cycle that kicks us all
in the shins
and tries to tell us
*you're not relevant*
as though we weren't born
the same way
as them.

15/30




coddled.
she said we didn't lick our spoons
because the thread in our stomachs were tied
with the loop of
maternity,
paternity,
...eternity
and I don't remember the word
that describes the act
of love
forced love.
blood is blood
we don't own it.
stop claiming it for your
lineage

Oh <3 I really like 'the great divide' c:

Thank you, Cat! c: That was actually one that I wasn't that fond of... but it's nice to know it wasn't as bad as I thought!

16/30



it's raining because
spring loves us
and it wants us
to plant flowers
even though
it knows
it's cousins will scorch them
wither them
and freeze them
to their core.
but it cherishes
every smile
every gasp
every pleasured nose
that the flower's create
and it feels that
it's worth it.

17/30


there was green there.
fuzzy, moist, smelling of must.
liquid dripped
from the top
and it landed on my head-
in an uncomfortable way.
I wouldn't have been there-
shouldn't have been there,
but a familiar
calming
friendly sound
lead me into the root cellar.
his voice croked-
and I went deeper.
sorftly he called
softly
and when I found him
I surpressed a gasp-
so thin
so frail
he fit on a petal
and I craddled him - balancing -
on a sunbeam that pulled
the cellar ladder
to level ground- the great above
and it called me no more

18/30

summer shreads my hope
for an equatic earth
as I float to the surface
of the ashphalt sea.
throw me a paddle-
mine drifted away
with my ship
and goldfish
and cousin today.
why do I feel
so water-logged?
my toes are puffy
my fingers, wrinkly
but I haven't been lost at sea
since the tide went out

19/30

I don't walk down stairs anymore
the sound of dust mites
chewing on retired
lightbulbs
is a bad influence
on my gag reflex.
so I stay on ground level-
parallel to the practical thinkers
that riddle our streets
with the pennies that
overflow from their pockets.

20/30

the sound of the bell
knocks the reality into me-
that pain
good pain
is hard to come by.
and sometimes you need a helpful foe
to explain why
you continually fall
without the will to
pursue;
even the tip of your nose
is miles away.
and it hurts my ears
when the bell rings
and it's time to
hear the bitter exchange
of wisdom being spat
into my eardrums.

21/30

I was cold.
dead.
the field by lake was the place to bury me-
but they were short a box.
and I didn't fit in match boxes anymore.
and I didn't like the scratch of the match
on my walls.
so instead of pretending to forget me
you put your arms around me
and the blood - oh, the blood
it swelled my ankles
but guess what?
it was flowing like a waterfall down my chest;
through my sweater.
heating my ribcage
but with life?
life is a strong word.