Young Writers Society

xii. stay gold

your favorite color was yellow, a pale yellow
for the sun, for the note pads scattered on
my desk, with smiles and hearts to mellow
my pent up emotions after every day’s gone

or yellow like the dandelions you dreamed
would one day be our backyard, for our toes
to dig into the dirt, you shouted and beamed
such brightness, all i needed was you to close

off the grey clouds dripping on me for an hour,
and let my brain sink into your soft magic, even
now when your touch has long gone, the power
lingers in this house, a final idea to believe in

(you gotta stay gold.)

Your love pours into these poems, and I can picture the grey clouds and the note pads!

I love how the title connects to the color!

xv. awake

i’ve spent near all my childhood tying my
hopes to colorful strings around a beat,
my small, pulsing heart that tires easily by
my many attempts to step down, to treat
my friends on pedestals above me, for a lie
that sucking on hard candy’ll turn me sweet
and leave on my tongue traces of tasty dye,

for that is a magical item i hold in contempt
before i give up and crumble, my knees on to
the miserable dirt ground so low, it’s meant
for the peasants, who get dropped cold brew
in between gasps, choking at any attempt
to narrow the distance of long heights, true
that our circumstances are, i bet, or preempt

if given a chance, i could be just like them,
we could be just like them, for we might not
be able to fly, but we can fight and become
someone grander, someone that isn’t taught,
for flight is overrated, as is where i’m from,
our starts don’t matter if we’re all we’ve got,
as we’re even in the pitiful end, left dumb.

(maybe i, maybe we, can’t touch the sky,
but we’ve earned a chance, too, to fly.)

xviii. trivia: love

if these shapes are our love, then
surely we should have fought more
a circle traced in blue ink, cheap pen
for all the jagged edges to our core

i wanted tiny triangles, split squares,
anything alight with a flame that
matched ours, but without any cares
we've earned our worn, striped mat

that called all who entered a cat
lover or a dog parent, either or but
not both, as we learned from chitchat
that declared lovers having to shut

that old door that lead to the frame
of a picture of animals in one house
but i'll accept all, or any of the blame
if that means you'll be my spouse

(is this love, oh yes, it must be.)

xxi. stigma

i never asked if you could keep
a secret, and you never asked
why i locked my words in sleep
and cowered when you basked

in the light of the sun overhead,
but the dark is rich and covers
my head, blankets me in my bed,
waiting for a spirit that discovers

all of my worries and could erase
them out of my thoughts, so i can
breathe and relax, down, or brace
myself with every new brain scan,

i conduct, fighting against an urge
to simply let the words dangle in
between us, i'm falling, on a verge
of a breakdown, of being worn thin,

(of wanting to tell you something.)