Young Writers Society

Back Scratchers and Sunshine - Number Ten

Responsibility is the ache on your shoulders
when you wake up in the morning after sleeping
for four hours on a bed of nails and nightmares.
Your deepest insecurities make a statement by
carving names you thought were obsolete
into the ridges of your spine where
back scratchers and sunshine
will never reach.

To the Potbellied Redneck Staring at Me and My Girlfriend At the Local Bar - Number Eleven



I'm sorry, you look confused.
Do you need directions?
Do you need me to
call an Uber, or
do you prefer Lyft?

One minute, you're hounding us to kiss
and the next you're slurring words, explaining
why women like us need a man like you.

Yes, this is my girlfriend.
Yes, we are holding hands.
No, we are not interested.
If you have any problems
please send a letter to my
P.O. Box located at Goto, Hell.

Goldfish - Number Twelve


The snack that smiles back welcomes death
and all of the comforts, anxieties and inner turmoil
dripping from the Reaper's crescent scythe.

The snack that smiles back from a bottomless bowl
eyeball forlorn brothers and sisters being taken in handfuls;
little do the fingers clawing at the sea of carbs know
these orange smiles and vacuous stares
are but a coping mechanism.

The snack that smiles back is
hollow on the inside.

Moonlit Eyes - Number Thirteen

Moonlit eyes pierce my soul
casting judgement upon
my every action.

I'm less worried about my fate
five minutes later when she's
hanging off loose pant legs
and begging for tuna.

This one's for the twelfth because I wrote this one last night but my internet kept being shaky.

Blanket - Number Twelve

I want to live in a country where our flag
is a blanket to immigrants, not a quilt of thorns
where the vines are woven into intricate patterns
and the roses made so romantic in the first place
are lost in an ocean of barbs.

I want to live to see a future
that I can believe in.

Harbinger - Number Thirteen


I'm a harbinger of false futures
with visions replaying in my head
like a buffering video with a stutter
except bloodcurdling screams and
the sound of anguish replaces music.

I'm a harbinger of false futures
but my largest fear is that someday
one of these visions will come true.

Note: This one's for the 13th since my internet went shaky (again).

Creamsicle Skies - Number Fourteen

The orange and azure clash for control of the sky,
the in-between creating the color of a Creamsicle
with stripes of white decorating the sky from
airplanes and shooting stars long gone.

Amber - Number Fifteen


With angel wings caught in amber,
we preserve you through time by
slitting the throats of our clocks
and by filling the moth-eaten pages
that detail your uprising and downfall
to the brink, scribbling footnotes
in cosmic margins seemingly as wide
as the universe, speckles of ink
decorating the vacancy.

Obscure - Number Sixteen

The rain obscures my
sight as the water swells, a
torrent on my face.

Starlight - Number Seventeen

Under the starlight
I will always remember
you, for your shine.

Shrapnel Letters - Number Eighteen



You taught me how a crumpled ball of words
can be a grenade, for better or for worse.
Shrapnel letters burst from the page
as I aim for the trash bin or
the back of your head.
I take cover behind a mattress
before retreating to pillow fort trenches
in hopes that the blankets sloshing above
(the ones held high by fans with shoulders
strong as Atlas's) will paint a new sky.

Note: This one's for the 18th due to internet issues (again).

Better Spent Alone - Number Nineteen

Summer nights spent
under the throbbing moon
are better spent alone.

I'll play connect the dots
with the stars, pointing out
constellations to the overgrowth
on the stop sign.

Even then, am I ever truly alone?

Wanderlust - Number Twenty


These are the names we call ourselves
when the wanderlust from when were kids
lingers behind, inhabiting igneous bodies.
Blood vessels erupt as magma swells
from the volcanoes on your skin.

These are the names we call ourselves
when the wanderlust from when we were kids
waves a lighter in front of us, creating glints
of naivety in our mesmerized eyes.
There's a difference between watching a flame
and nurturing one; that's why adults say,
'kids, do not try this at home'.

Note: This one's for the 20th.

Your Eyes - Number Twenty-one

Your eyes are a warm fireplace,
an embodiment of home that I return to
when cynicism begins to nibble away
at the tips of my fingers on late nights.

The tint of ginger surrounding your pupils
comforts the crackling apprehension
trying to find my vocal cords; a way out.

[Your eyes are what I look to when
all the galaxies I'll never see
take more than two hands
to count.]