Young Writers Society

The ache of an end is the birthing pain of a beginning.

I am a man of modesty,
But not humility:

I proclaim my strengths.
I admit my flaws.
I share what I know
And confess what I don’t.

Yet there are times
When even I
Am forced to my knees
By unrivalled majesty.

When shafts of glory
Embrace welcoming canopies;
When stone spires
Caress the sky;
When orchards of innocence
Blossom in dim caverns;
When granted mercy
Absolves those who died;
When mountains of solitude
Reveal painful truths;
And when liquid fury
Buries adamant belied,

How can I not praise
The world I worship?

When blessed to witness
An act of grace,
Only joy and sorrow
Can mingle in tears of wonder.

Does the breeze whisper of hollow dreams?

I wonder, sometimes,
If you are but a dandelion
Remaining forever on the wind,
A kind and courageous soul
Carried wherever fate wills.

Would taking root in fertile pastures
Be a proposition you could consider?
Or is the thought so far from your mind
That you’ve already abandoned it
In the patch of forest whence you came?

I wonder, sometimes,
If I am but a butterfly
Fluttering forever on the wing,
A frail yet determined soul
Ushered wherever love leads.

Would settling down in blooming fields
Be an aspiration I could imagine?
Or is the hope so far from my heart
That I’ve already relinquished it
To the burst of flames whither I go?

Sometimes, even an empty day could be enough.

I admit,
I’ve been sitting here
For a good while,
Wondering what to say.
What is there to say?
More than anything,
I just want
To talk with you
About everything
And nothing,
To pass the time
In your company
And delight
In the sounds
Of your voice.
Your presence
Fills even silence
With warmth,
But your absence
Leaves me to write
Jumbled sentences
That crawl across space,
Seeking playful teasing
To appreciate
Their pitiful existence.

When normality replaces gravity, I find myself endlessly amused.

Seed of the earth,
Crushed, ground, and baked;
Sire of the fowl,
Existence denied;
Milk of the mother,
Sustenance stolen;
Swine of the pen,
Bled, flayed, and fried.

Hero of the land,
Your duty awaits;
Quest of all time,
Our burden once more;
Task of the house,
We’re off to the grocer;
Just stop complaining
And please lock the door!

A song plays in my mind and my ears.

I sincerely doubt
You’ll understand
What I mean —
Until I show you,
Of course —
When I say
That a rhythmic
Tap on a cymbal,
A rising hum
From an organ,
And a simple melody
Sung without words
To a backdrop
Of green pyramids
And distant thunderbolts
Reminds me of you.

Once, love letters
Were but a beat
I drummed effortlessly,
As if with my heart,
But since then,
They’ve become
A promise I keep
At midnight,
Each night,
Bleeding under
The gaze of the moon,
Yet seeking,
Doggedly,
Endlessly,
Exsanguination.

To feel a land’s taint is a horror I never expected to endure.

I spy decay given form,
See it shuffle across barren soil.
Sometimes, a stray catches
An eruption of putrid fury,
The angry cancer insufficient warning.
Just ahead, mists of misery float
With a detached air,
Summoning the fears of the living
And the regrets of the unliving
To fulfil their dreams of despair.
Intangible as they are,
They command the presence of dismay
And exceed reality in immediacy.
Aberrations born of greed and panic
Whirl across the wastes, dread storms
That spill long-forgotten tears
And reap the hopes of the hapless.
To resist their might is to deny
Persistent dusk its due pleasure,
A feeble yet primal urge.

An unknowable cold seeps into my veins
And spreads a chill through my body
As the earth itself reaches out
With its ghostly, deadening touch.
Though I recoil, I share the embrace;
The loss of love and life
Is felt as acutely as if the bones
Upon which I tread were
Stolen from my own grave.
Dirt and ash weep in a clinging mess.
Phantom bells toll in empty halls
While absent choirs observe
Chanting pipes and keening strings.

Desperation and wicked folly
Conduct a funeral for the raided,
Leaving wives and children
To remember the sorrowing meadows.

Oh this last one was quite haunting, and had some really colorful wordchoice!

These lines were my favorite "felt as acutely as if the bones
Upon which I tread were
Stolen from my own grave."

These last few are feeling deeply introspective/reflective, where the speaker is just diving into some aspect of the inner life - pride, grief, loss, love, doubt - I like especially when you take moments to contrast that introspection with something external and nature oriented - it creates a neat contrast I think. Keep it up!

Aww, thank you so much once again! This poem is absolutely one of my favourites, and I feel like it's objectively also one of the best. ^_^

Haunting is exactly what I wanted the poem to be, and I also decided it would benefit from vivid imagery serving as euphemisms. The lines you quoted especially hint at a different part of the narrative that probably will remain obscure without knowledge of what exactly the overarching story is.

I'm delighted to hear your enjoy the contrast! Just introspection, although completely acceptable, is something I feel might be too... not necessarily "abstract" per se, but something along those lines. Using nature as contrast lends a sense of concreteness and also makes the poem more impactful. I'm bouncing in glee to see that it has the desired effect!

Forgive the Fidget her faults, for she is an esteemed companion.

She concerns herself
With flights of whimsy
And sometimes plucks on
The strained tempers of
Vulpines and lupines,
Yet there seems to be
Something about the
Bright splash of orange
That uplifts even
Dour spirits when thoughts
Weigh heavily, frames
Sagging underneath.

Perhaps it’s the sight
Of innocence and
Cheer enduring the
Griefs flung hither by
Cruel adversity
That makes weary souls
Appreciate her
Unsolicited,
But admittedly
Witty, remarks and
Ceaseless banter so.

Nevertheless, let
Not contributions
Of even slight worth
Go unsung, for joy
Is the tonic bringing
Life to the solemn,
Reminding the world’s
Atlases that though
They bear the sky, their
Feet stand on firm earth.

Exiles cling to the thought of their homeland.

There, beneath the burning sky,
Torpid breezes choked them.
There, the smoke-swathed mountains
Rage above the dreadful deep.

Basins yield foul bile;
Die away on lies of freedom.

There, the songs of welcome lands
Are but foolish dreams, so
There, the soot-stained people
Hid above the roasting rock.

Elders preach sure faith;
Scheme away on plots of freedom.

There, beyond the seething hate,
Racing figures joined them.
There, the blood-bade lanterns
Rose above the wicked war.

Legends yield sweet life;
Soar away on wings of freedom.

I marvel at your patience for idle musings.

It is known that many
Barrel towards the future,
Often as if to outpace
Regret and responsibility.
It was curious, then,
To realise you were
Steadily approaching
The tale’s conclusion
From both its ends:
What had passed and
What had yet to be —
Intertwined, as it were.

Perhaps time is such
That any progression
Is not merely the
Manifestation of fate,
But also the discovery
That our deeds have
Determined our path,
For good or for ill.
We collaborate with
Universal consciousness
To spin a yarn, creating
Threads of a tapestry.

If this is indeed true,
I find it unfortunate
That careless weavers
May partake in such a
Grand endeavour, but
I suppose it is a skill,
As any, that requires
Persistent practice.
Well, I count myself
Blessed to be partnered
With one whose work
Puts a spider to shame.

In truth, I consider
My own hands far
Too liberal with the
Length of the fibres
Pulled from the spool,
As my dry rambling
Surely indicates,
Yet still you tolerate
My lack of brevity
And willingly place
Your loom beside mine.

How is it that hope so often manifests soon after the acceptance of despair?

I watched in silent anguish as the deep swept away my heart.

Was I supposed to find comfort in the cinereous sky that next morning?

Prepared for the return of my cursed solitude, but not for words of solace, I left.

To depart with such lack of ceremony is not in my nature, but it was necessary.

Paint me a forlorn ember caught by the wind, for that was truth depicted twofold.

A life sundered, grief epitomised, is not something others need see.

Thousand is a number we knew only in death.

Roses would have had to suffice to communicate what I was never able to.

Yet the grave I dug was for a happier conclusion.

One bittersweet ending, it seems, was deemed one too few.

Was this truly a story that had run its course?

Enough to see harmony restored, but without full resolution?

To long for the fulfillment of an empty promise is a cruel lot.

Express your thoughts if the chance arises, for your chances may be finite.

My rebirth and some sense of meagre purpose is what I went to beg the goddess.

Love and the return of all I could ever need is what I received instead.

Would it be ironic if I asked whether you read poetry?

Shall I compare thee to a fine, summer’s day?
No, I shall not, for I have read perhaps
A couple or a few of Shakespeare’s poems,
And that wasn’t one of them.
In fact, I can’t even guarantee
That I’ve quoted the first line correctly!
Furthermore, though my diction is verbose —
And I’m not even being deliberate here! —
I am not so far gone as to use
The now-archaic second person singular.

I would have left this “poem” at that,
But that would be rather shameful of me.
See, comparing you to a day of the season
I happen to find the most uncomfortable
Would have been an injustice and a sin,
But how, then, could I not compare you
To a day of the season I have referenced
At least once before this month?

I shall compare you to a crisp, winter’s night,
For there is no time of the year
That can bring me greater joy and solace.
The air is quiet, treating my thoughts with
Reverence, as if sacrosanct,
Not unlike a dear friend soberly
Keeping their silence, yet knowing
Their company is held in the highest regard.
And when the sky blesses the earth with rain,
I revel in its majesty, be it gentle or severe,
As I shelter amidst its falling glory.
It is peace as I can know only then.

You might find chess boring, but I think you’d welcome the detachment.

A game of pushing pawns
And positioning bishops
Will undoubtedly hold
Little appeal to you,
But an intellectual battle
Requires no bloodshed.
Slaying knights would
Entail the silent removal
Of a wooden carving,
And toppling a king
Would be called checkmate.
So, shall we play?

Hunter are you taking inspiration from Fox on these titles