Young Writers Society

Prologue
-5. Bloodless; I Bleed
-4. The Cosmic Wonderings of a Teenager
-3. Pray Tell, What Is There to Gain from Losing the War
-2. Choked by a Script
-1. Ghost of Pitiful Memories

Life and Its Victims
1.What if the King Thinks Themself an Idol
2. The Ruined City
3. Ballad of the Left Behind
4. I Can't Apologise for Growth
5. Injecting Myself with Poison Again
6. Oh to Be Unharmed Again
7. If Only Love were Contagious
8.

Interlude Part I
9. Your Again
10. War Cry of the Betrayed

Death and Its Frenemies
11. Promise Me I Still Exist
12. One Promise Shall Be Kept
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.

Interlude Part II
20. Voidpunk
21.

Void and Its Lovers
22.
23.
24.
25.
26.
27.
28.
29.

¿ቻጎክልረቿ?
30.

Bloodless; I Bleed

My veins have been empty for a long time.

Someone came along and drained them,
licked the jagged edges of my flesh clean.

My hands throb in a constant low hum,
and frost clings to my stiff fingers.
But the numb swaddles my insides.

The numb acts as a plate of body armour.
A layer between my pale flesh and the cruel world.
But it’s armour I’m not supposed to have,
for everyone else has blood in their veins.

They claim that blood makes us human.
No person should have blue-tinted fingertips.
No one should have a silent heart.
But here I stand: human and bloodless.
Here I stand: cold and unfeeling.

But no one wants to touch a shell of flesh.
They expect the supple feeling of working veins.
They want a heartbeat to sing in your chest.
So, I fill needles with water and food colouring.
It’s nowhere the same, but everyone’s easily fooled.
The water feels foreign, but that’s a small trade to make.

It’s a rite of passage to slice the palm of your hand
and spread the blood that pours across your things.
You’re supposed to smudge blood on your relationships,
smear plasma and platelets across your face.
But red food colouring only runs across surfaces,
dripping in too quick waves of watery liquid.
But everyone just assumes my veins are hyperactive.

No one blinks at the fact my blood evaporates
instead of leaving a thick, rusty crust.
They don’t notice the red dye that stains my fingers
or the artificial sweet of my farce blood.
So, I keep injecting the charade into my skin
and hiding the hundreds of track marks on my arm.
I wear my sleeves down to my knuckles.
Keep a stockpile of bandages in my bathroom.

What happens if the store runs out of red?
Or if someone notices my solution is cold?
Everyone expects my veins to feel warm.
Am I as inhuman as they thought?
Is there something wrong with the hollow of my veins?
Should I go to the doctor to fill my veins with real blood?
Should I crave that iron, coppery smell?
Should’s do not matter because I will never tell,
only continue my dance of water and food colouring.

I wonder what it’s like to have real blood to spill.
It’s been too many years to remember the sensation.
How does a heart feel when it’s beating?
Does it shake your skull, strain your lungs?
Does it hurt when your nerves spark to life each morning?
It must, for the numb settles over you like a thick quilt,
so feeling must choke you like a steel noose.
I’m much more comfortable like this.
Water is cheap, and food colouring is plenty.
So why would I need to change?

But now I’m expected to bleed.
They want me to cut open my hands more and more.
Dye and water rushed out of me in a torrent; my skin shrivelled with the constant dehydration.
The track marks have doubled,
my needles are steadily running dry.
But, to reveal my desert veins is to reject personhood,
and I’m too far in to expose the lie.
So this game will continue until it can’t.

Too many are thinking me odd.
They’re starting to question the red on my hands,
the length and consistency of my sleeves.
How I always cringe before I bleed,
how quickly I mop up my mess and leave.
My skin now permanently reeks of sugar.
My arms are unrecognizable.
Is this how my otherhood is revealed?

How does one pretend to feel pain,
when one does not feel joy?
Or, well, anything at all?
How does one fake functioning veins
when the memory of blood is too far away?
Was this charade doomed to fail?
Or did I make a mistake along the way?

And now, finally, the moment of truth.
How well does my concoction stand up
when someone asks me to bleed all over them?
Be vulnerable, be truthful, be hurt.
But the very act of asking for my blood
requires me to lie to you from the beginning.

But you take a dagger and slice my palm,
watch the dyed water pool in my hands.
And I can smell the sugar, see the fake red.
And as you draw my fingers to your lips,
I can tell you know the difference.

You shriek as the red pools on your tongue.
And I’m sorry, so sorry, but I do what I must.
Do you know what would have happened to me
if I didn’t pretend to have blood?

You are terrified of my echoing numb.
You see empty, shrivelled veins as inhuman.
So, yes, I lied; I tricked you, I did.

But I’ll walk away with my tub of water,
and my gallons of food colouring.

Bloodless, I bleed because you say that I must.

I wonder what it’s like to know you’re going to die.

I mean, I know I’m going to die. Everyone knows life doesn’t go on forever. But I wonder what it’s like to really know, to stare down the barrel of the gun.

What would it feel like if I knew I was going to die an hour from now? When suddenly, all of the things I wanted to do were out of reach, when all of my tomorrows have shrivelled, when I am stuck with what I have done, no time to do anything else.

That cosmic loneliness, slipping away from the only world you’ve ever known.

The pressing knowledge that the people around you will continue without you. That your family will grow, your flesh and blood not even knowing you. They won’t miss you, won’t mourn your passing, because they’ve never seen you alive. You’re a story to them.

What does it feel like to grow old? For your bones to creak and weaken? For your youth to fade away from your skin?

What does it feel like to have dementia? Do you know you’re not yourself, that you’re missing something? Or is the person you used to be completely obliterated? Do you even notice you’ve changed, or does it feel like the world shifted instead?

Do you even notice that something is wrong? Or is the rest of the world wrong to you?

I wonder what it’s like to die.

Does it feel like anything? Is it lonely? Is it freeing?

Do you even notice?

Is it best to die unaware or to know in advance? Is it peaceful to see the end in sight, or is it terrifying? Is the time to say goodbye worth the fear of leaving the world behind?

And I know what it’s like to grow older, and I know what it’s like to forget things, and I’ve watched people pass away, but it’s not the same.

To grow from child to teenager isn’t the same as a teenager to adult or adult to elder. Or is it? Is it so similar I don’t notice the difference? Is it all the same in the end, the unforgiving passing of time just as offensive no matter the stage of life?

To forget what you had for breakfast is different than forgetting who your child is. It has to be, or more people would stare at their family with dull eyes and blank smiles. It can’t be the same; it just can’t.

I wonder what it’s like to forget everything about yourself.

To have your entire memory base wiped clean, not even your name remaining. Do you become someone entirely different? Is it terrifying, or do you not even mind because you don’t know any better?

Can you make someone forget how to breathe? Can you make someone forget how to be human?

Is there even a way to be human, or is that a concept we all pretend exists?

What is society, and what is humanity? Where does one start to create the other? Is humanity anything more concrete than a construct? If you strip away society, what of humanity will remain?

I think society creates humans as much as humans create society.

I wonder what it would be like to be the only human in the entire world.

Would it be lonely? Or is loneliness created by the knowledge that there are humans out there? Would you slowly drive yourself insane, knowing that there will never be anything that understands you?

Could you even exist? Or would you simply close your eyes and waste away, oppressed by the quiet?

I wonder what it’s like to live in a silent world.

For your ears to be unburdened, to never speak again. No stutters, no whispers, no laughter.

Just hollow. At least, I imagine it’d be hollow. But, eventually, when the only thing you’ve ever known is complete silence, then it’s normal. What would it be like in a world with no music because some don’t even know what it is? I suppose it would make no difference to them. You can’t miss something you don’t know.

I wonder what it would be like in a world where I never existed.

What would my parents be doing? My friends? Would it even be that different, or would my absence be swallowed by the seven and half billion people that exist with or without me?

Do I even matter?

Sometimes I wonder if I even matter.

In the end, I’m just another teenager. I look at the same moon and stars as everyone else. I regurgitate the same questions, the same ideas, the same dreams and hopes, and feelings.

I am nothing new, nothing special.

I wonder why the world likes to hit copy-paste so much. It turns people into cliches, writing the plots of decades in circles. What’s another century but a bad sequel to the first?

But, I suppose it doesn’t matter if all we are is carbon copies. It doesn’t matter if we dance the same dance we’ve always had. I’m determined to do it well, memorize the steps, and perfect my form.

If I am going to be just another speck in an ever-expanding universe, then I’m going to enjoy it.

I wonder why everyone is so caught up in being the best. If you’re not the best version of yourself, what others think of you is void.

I wonder why I'm so caught up in stilling the world.

It’s the constant spin that allows me to wonder anything at all, so I might as well spin along with it.

Say, we have fought the same war for years now
Peace could just be on the horizon
If only you lay down and let yourself rest
Finally, surrender yourself to the inevitable
Wouldn’t it lift a thousand burdens off your shoulders?

I must say, you’ve been a formidable foe
I have fought this battle for almost my entire life
So, I don’t know what you expect me to say
A chance to surrender isn't the escape you think it is
It’s insulting that you expect me to turn tail and run

Your pride has always been larger than your confidence
My spies have told me your doubts about winning
So why continue this treacherous dance of ours?
Here’s a chance to lose on your own terms
To settle yourself to sleep without guilt

Your fiendish allies have left out the critical parts
We all doubt our standings in a lifetime war,
but I have conquered those doubts a thousand times
And I will conquer them a thousand more
Then, once you’re comfortable, I’ll conquer you too

But this war doesn’t have to be lifelong
Who really has the strength to fight that long?
There’s no need to subject yourself or your allies to that
We can be allies, I promise you
Just put down your weapon and close your eyes

As soon as I surrender, this war will become lifelong
But are you admitting your own weakness?
Are your supplies drying up, leaving your people starving
Perhaps you should end the war, then
Walk away with your almost victories before you’re eradicated

You’ve surely misunderstood me
I’m offering you a way out of the fighting life
Do you ever wonder what it’s like to rest truly?
To rid your bones of that deep, echoing ache?
Surrender, for your sake, and you can finally see

That deep ache is called life, you fiend
To forfeit that is to forfeit everything I’ve been fighting for
I don’t expect you to understand
But don’t you dare come and demand that from me
The only white flag I wave is in tribute

But what if life isn't worth the fight?
How much have you bled and broke and cried?
Has life ever come to offer you comfort?
Is life here right now offering you rest?
Admit it; life isn't grand enough to warrant a decades-long war

Well, I’m not surprised that’s what you think
You claim death is rest, that defeat is slumber
But, what does a dead man accomplish from the grave?
What do ghosts own but their melancholy and regret?
I will never submit to your ideals; get used to it

But imagine what it would be like for just a moment
A dead man is not expected to be anything except still
Ghosts only suffer because they made the mistake of coming back
The dead rejoice because they are untouchable
You will be free from your shackling expectations

No! I will not listen to your pyrite lies!
There is nothing to celebrate in my defeat
There is nothing to gain from my surrender
Cease with your faux peace talk before I skewer you here
You are a beast, and lions and men cannot compromise

Fine. But before I go, consider this:
You have caused so much needless suffering
Your family has been stuck on the sidelines for too long
They deserve the relief that comes with this war’s end
So if not for yourself, surrender for them

God, you’re so insufferable and just wrong
Do you realize the devastation my surrender would cause?
Not just among my family, but my friends? My allies?
Are you stupid enough to believe they want me to lose?
Or are you deaf to them asking the same question I am now?

And what question is that?
Well, pray tell, what is there to gain from losing my war?

I just want to be myself today
To speak in mumbled whispers and flawed sentences
To stumble and trip and scrape my knees
But it’s not in my script, so I can’t

Is it too much to ask to breathe today
Or to simply ease the iron weight of my lungs
If only I could rest for just a moment
But it’s not in my script, so I can’t

Perhaps I will finally give up today
What good is blocking that eats away your muscle
What good are lines that steal away your voice
But it’s not in my script, so I can’t

So I wake up to perform again today
Repeating and reciting the same lines
My bones protest and ask for something new
But it’s not in my script, so I can’t

And I will go home and practice my lines today
Memorize all of my blocks and cues
My eyes cry and beg for some sleep
But it’s not in my script, so I can’t

And I will stare at my ceiling until midnight today
Practice and rehearse my play in my mind
And my body will try to shut me down
But it’s not in my script, so I can’t

I wake up and start it all again today
The new day comes right on cue
I would bleed out just to change the pace
But it’s not in my script, so I can’t

I just want to be myself today
To speak in mumbled whispers and flawed sentences
To stumble and trip and scrape my knees
But it’s not in my script, so I can’t

There is a ghost on my roof
It wanders in circles throughout the night
Chains scraping over roof tiles
Dizzying whispers sneaking through my window

There is a ghost in my attic
It drifts endlessly amongst my things
Singing songs of those I have forgotten
Blaming me for those I’ve left behind

There is a ghost coming down my stairs
Its feet never quite brush the steps
But they still buckle and groan under its weight
Driving away the sleep from my nights

There is a ghost on my sofa
It sits there, day and night, entirely still
Eyes wide open, following me always
Staring into my soul and hating me for it

There is a ghost in my bed
It haunts my brimstone nightmares
And taints my rare stardust dreams
It whispers vindictiveness in my ear

There is a ghost in my mirror
And it’s all my eyes will ever see again
That transparent semblance of flesh
Those empty chasm eyes

There is a ghost in my skin
It fills my bones with melancholy
Drowns my lungs with bitter guilt
Anchors me to the floor

There is a ghost in my soul
Perhaps it’s been there the entire time
Planting thorns into my identity
And it will never let me go

What if the king thinks themself an idol?
That their throne is spun with lies?
Does that tarnish the silver in their crown?
Does their doubt doom their country?
Or is it simply a fact of life
that kings fear their wrongdoings?
Should they pray away their insecurities,
as hidden as they might be?

What if the prophet thinks themself a liar?
That their visions are less than daydreams?
Do they begin to curse the message in their head?
Or do they smile and just pretend?
Is it best for them to speak of the future
even if they fear it’s an untruth?
Or should they stay painstakingly silent
on matters they don’t trust?

What if the saint thinks themself a sinner?
That their faith has turned to dust?
Do their fears turn into prophecies
as they tumble into the dark?
Or does their good continue to glow
in an oppressed soul of shadow?
Is the perception of sin enough
or must it be tangible to count?

What if the hero thinks themself a villain?
That all of their good deeds are wrong?
Do they call it quits on their journey?
Hang up their sword and let it rust?
Or do they shoulder the burden of doubt
and force themself to carry on?
Is their self-doubt another enemy to defeat
or is it the victor in the end?

What if the leader thinks themself a follower?
That their goals belong to someone else?
Do they turn on themselves and to someone else
or do they accept their hardships as proof?
Proof that leaders are human
and colourful struggles make paintings out of people.
Do they bend into a new, flexible shape,
or do they shatter like a sheet of glass?

What if the judge thinks themself a criminal?
That their morals are cold and brackish?
Can they rule with an unbiased mind,
or does the fear in their heart poison the scales?
Do they rationalise crimes they did not commit,
or do they rule with a steadier, titanium fist?
Are they stronger for their struggle,
or does their battle steal Lady Justice’s blindfold?

What if the doctor thinks themself a killer?
That their scalpel is a work of malice?
Do they count the heartbeats of their patients,
or do they drown them out with quick incisions?
Do they flinch at the sight of blood?
Keep extra bandages on hand?
Or do they continue like everything’s normal,
force their crimes to the back of their head?

What if the prodigy thinks themself a regularity?
That their accomplishments are fool’s gold?
Do they doubt every award they’ve ever won,
or are the trophies the string holding them together?
Can they tell the difference between winning
and trying their absolute best?
Do they live their lives in certificates
or cry in medals and plaques?

What if the genius thinks themself a fool?
That their intelligence is rotten?
Do they dedicate themselves to the textbook,
or do they give up before they disappoint?
Is that disappointment imaginary,
or do they manifest it with their apathy?
Is apathy born of a tired soul
or a soul thrumming with fear?

What if the artist thinks themself a sell-out?
That their paint is chalk dust and cash?
Can they see blaring popularity in their strokes
or do they force themself to look away?
Do they destroy their work before it’s seen?
Does killing it kill the anxiety of being known
and being called a carbon copy?
Or do they crumple and never create again?

What if the novelist thinks themself a cliche?
That they are simply a repeat of that last?
Are they crippled by their expectations
or is it the world piling them on?
Do they know originality doesn’t exist,
or do they strive for the nonexistent?
Can they draw the line between desire and reason,
or does the critic in their heart shackle them?

What if the friend thinks themself an enemy?
That their comfort is jagged and dangerous?
Do they hallucinate blood on their fingers?
Feel bones breaking beneath their palms?
Do they distance themself out of worry,
or do they come to sleepovers anyway?
Do they fret and coddle, stew and brood,
or do they smile and giggle to save face?

What if I think myself a fraud?
That I’m worth nothing after all?
Why do I bother writing these thoughts
if they mean nothing in the long run?
Am I just terrified of being fake,
or am I already so?
It’s hard to tell when acceptance and paranoia
feel all too similar in your throat.

I'm really impressed by your game-plan / the way you've divided up your index with planned subjects - I can definitely tell a lot of thought went into these pieces not only individually but how they fit and relate together. There's definitely an intensity in your poetic voice - which I think was really well portrayed in this last poem where the onslaught of questions and question marks over and over-again really do show an intense inner-reflecting or even paranoia at the end. Always a fan of memory being portrayed as ghosts too, I think that metaphor really does work and I like the ways you expanded on it.

Looking forward to seeing where your poetry goes, you're doing great! Best of luck!! <3

Ahhh, thank you, @lliyah! A lot of thinking has divided the collection and what poem will go in each section. I love ghosts as memories; it's such a fascinating concept so thank you for commenting. I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far.

Once upon a time, there was a grand city.

Its silver spun towers stood above the rest, all Greek pillars and Roman arches.
Instead of weeds, the sidewalks bloomed with tickseed and lilacs.

And most of all, the people sang and rejoiced from midnight to dawn.
They lifted their gold-dusted hands, voices lilting and open.
Their voice sang the stars to sleep and urged the sun from its horizon bed

And throughout the land, each kingdom worshipped the city
They longed to be as bright as its prophets and scholars
They begged their gods to have the tongue of its poets
And, most of all, dreamed of singing along with its citizens

Everyone spoke of its grand successes,
but ignored its bloody past of wars and massacre
The sun had blessed it so the tarnished past would disintegrate
But a sanitised past fools allies into complacency
And soon, you’re left alone in the bloodiest of wars

And the city, mighty as it was, was too mighty to help
But the leaders did not panic; they nodded along
The city remained fortified, its walls concrete, so why worry
Why fear a war that may never come to pass
Why prepare for a battle when your citizens are safe from siege

So the city was urged into an expectation of peace
They always assumed the moon was on their side
That the heavens would align just right to shield them from harm
And the people sang each night to protect this one-sided oath
In hopes nothing would deface the soul of the city
And perhaps, in a way, that promise was kept

Most kingdoms have lists of all things that cause harm
But this city, in its arrogance, ignored them all
They only prayed for protection from war
Foolishly forgetting flame, famine, and flood
They forget Pompeii, a city choked entirely by soot and ash
And Atlantis, the castle stolen by the sea
They believed themselves to be luckier than a city could be

For them, it all started as a spark in a dry field
They ignored the drought they were in, called it temporary in their hearts
The dehydrated weeds went up in smoke like they were born to do so
And soon, the entire field followed suit
Hundreds of people died within the first hour of the fire
Then thousands more were eaten by the ruthless flame
And once night rolled around, the people lined up to sing
The stars only rained blood in twisted sympathy

The leaders gathered in smouldering rubble and sent countless letters
Each stroke of the pen stained with saltwater and regret
But every sheet of paper was ignored, even when covered in ash
Three leaders died with a quill in their hands
And even then, no ally came to save them, absolutely none
The citizens fled, leaving everything the city was worth behind
They waited and prayed for even the smallest drop of rain
But once the sky wept, the city was already a sea of ash
And the people mourning for three-quarters of their brethren

No help was coming, no support and no supplies
So, it was up to the survivors to make sure the city remained
They banded together, injured or not, and started to rebuild
It took months before a single street of houses stood
Half a year later, old friends began to come around
They scrutinised the makeshift shelters, the cracked roads
“This city was so beautiful before! You were everything to envy.
What happened to this sacred place, this impeccable city?”
And it ached in their bones to know they lost so much
But were still expected to be nothing less than perfect

The citizens stopped inviting allies after that
They shut down roads, gave themselves time to recover
The rest of the world sputtered and mocked them for it
But the city had nothing to give them, no way to appease them
A whole year later, the city stood tall once more
Its Greek pillars were just as beautiful, their tickweed as lucious
But the people were different; they were quiet and sombre
Their houses still smelled of smoke, their clothes scored from the fire
The news of the fire never spread, and the flames were never known
But it was clear when the people cried something had changed
It was clear when the stars were met with silence the city was ruined

This is to those who have been left behind.
Those who have bled just as much as anyone,
but it somehow meant less to the world.
Bruises stain their forearms,
and scars run like paint on their thighs.
What would it take to bring them into the light?
To stop implanting glass shards in their diaphragm?
Remove this serrated dagger from their ventricle?
Could that possibly be too much to ask?
How do we decide who gets the spotlight
and who's left to suffer outside the theatre?
Call me childish, but it's not fair.
They deserve the same kindness you take for granted.

This is to those who are trying their best.
Even when it seems to hurt more than help.
Why is a person graded on how much they have to give?
If someone's best is not enough,
are they doomed to suffer at the world's hands?
Step away, back up, and let them breathe for once.
You're suffocating us, hand around our throats,
stealing the precious air from our lungs.
How much more could you want from us?
We have nothing left to give you.
Will you keep stealing from us
until you've stolen the very ground beneath us?

This is to those who ache every morning.
How does it feel to cause that hurt?
Do you revel in it?
Take a blood-stained finger to your lips?
Your hands are doused and coloured red,
and I'm sure your soul blackened to ash.
Is this how you win, you take pride in our defeat?
Do you wish we didn't keep running
in our desperate attempt to catch up to the world?
Well, your hatred is not enough this time.
We will keep running until you dismember us.

This is to those who are struggling.
The pain outnumbers the reasons to fight,
but we keep fighting anyway because we must.
Could we enter a stalemate, please?
Just long enough to heal our injured.
Maybe honour and bury our dead.
I don't understand why life is a constant war.
Why must we be divided into winners and losers?
Is it not enough to simply be human?
Why do you crave so much more?

This is to those who don't want to wake up anymore.
You can't exactly blame us.
What do we have to gain at the end of the day?
We're not starting a scar collection
or trying to hang our scratches in museums.
Our beds have turned into escape hatches
where your cruel taunts and kicks will not reach us.
Why would we want to leave our sanctuary?
Especially when the world has nothing to offer.

This is to those who are tired of disappointing.
Do we understand why we're so regret-inducing?
No, for you have never explained,
but a lack of reason doesn't erase the ache.
You still despise us, even if you never say why.
And as much as I find it selfish,
I am no place to stop your delusions.
So, we only disappoint, and we bleed because of it.

This is to those who want to mean something.
No one can tell us how to do so,
but that has never stopped us from trying.
And there you are, in your blinding glory,
making definitions out of your life effortlessly.
Can you spare us some instructions?
Or will you spit on our shoes and laugh in our faces?

This is to those who are losing their battles.
Winners write the rules, so we're left to die.
If only we could turn the bloody tides.
If only you would recognise this war was unjustified.
I've grown exhausted from waging this fight
when neither of us will win anything in the end.

This is to those who are close to giving up.
What is the point of continuing anymore?
There's nothing to gain, and we've lost everything.
You only want to fight because you're winning.
If the tables were turned, you'd want to go home.

This is to those who are destitute.
We have nothing left to give you.
Threats and blackmail only serve to tire us.
You have already stolen everything.

This is to those who need to be left alone.
If you talk to us once more, we will snap
and we are tired of apologising.

This is to those who want to be loved.
I'm sorry that's too much to ask.

This is to those who, like me, just want to be enough.

Hi there, Lorde! Great going with your NaPo so far I'm impressed you managed to get a prologue of poetry in before April even started!

We're not starting a scar collection
or trying to hang our scratches in museums.

I think this is a really haunting image, but also with a bit of an ironic tone there, which conveys the speaker's personality. I often find that big sweeping poems can be challenging to make unique, but you've certainly managed to put a particular voice to this one.

I really like your found poem as well. My favourite lines were:

I need to be your daylight
Be an old enemy

It's unexpected, fresh and intriguing. Keep up the poeting!