Young Writers Society

half mast

the flag is half mast today.

i sit on a boiling metal bench nearby,
listening to the whip of the faded flag
in the late spring breeze.
a lone robin sit upon the pole,
unbothered by the waves of fabric below.

i wonder why it's half mast today.

people scuttle by, ignoring my still form,
bustling to get to their destinations,
single minded focus yanking them unnoticing
past the flag, half mast.
the flag ripples on.

i sit and watch, hoping it's not for me.

memory

memory is like photos left in the sun,
every day, new light stripping away the once vibrant snapshot,
faces left to fade into shadows of colors.

it's like stacks of VHS tapes with crossed out labels,
echoes of what was once there peering out under the sharpie.
it's the flashes of forgotten videos under the new,
where the tape skipped in the recording.

it's a feeling of déjà vu when you swear you've done this already,
or was that another time, another life?
it's the redrawing of a familiar face on a new friend,
or old names with new faces and the struggle to keep them apart.

memory is like a puzzle made with sand,
a million pieces shift slightly and make something new.
it's a familiar scent carried on an unfamiliar breeze,
emotions carried with a familiar scent.

it's hearing a song and seeing the face that smiled
as they turned up the volume.
it's a bowl of soup wafting up the feeling
of a tender kiss on a forehead boiling with fever.

it's everything forgotten
as an echo of today.

firefly

i wonder what it would be like
to be a little firefly looking up at the night.
would i admire the stars as romeo admired juliet?
but, soft, what light through yonder dark sky breaks?
it is a cookie, and the stars sugar crystals upon it.
or maybe i would yearn to dance with the heavenly fairies,
my own light sparkling in the endless galactic parade.
would fireflies even dream of life beyond the skies?
i would let my little wings carry me
until i could see nothing but stars.

poetry is

poetry is a jumble of feelings wrapped in metaphors,
croissants made of complicated emotions
that simple words won't do justice.
it's dewdrops on the first ideas of spring,
morning light kissing the growing blooms
as they stretch up to greet the day.
it's a whisper between lovers,
a secret for the ones who stay silent enough to listen.
it's tears and rain running rivers over your face,
the broken cry of the pieces of your heart.
it's an orchestra of analogies,
layers of melodies echoing through the hall
threading through your heart in waves of passion.

poetry, in all its wanderings and ponderings,
is a love letter to the universe.

tears

even the sun weeps
as the ashes drift away
from the ruination we have wrought
to be human is to destroy
everything we see
a reverse midas touch
as the rivers run
with the tears of the sun
gilded pain glowing
in the dying light of day

for all the lies i've lived before

i can't remember the last time i felt like me.
my personality is a mask i pick like clothes in the morning.
i have a closet full of them,
precarious stacks of lies hidden behind closed doors.
what is the true self if not layers of the false;
if not petticoats of protection against prying eyes?

i'm not sure there's anything under the masks anymore.
living a lie for a couple decades wears down the truth;
a waterfall of pretenses eroding any semblance of identity
once thought to be carved into stone.
even stone wears smooth.

the truth died the minute i made my first mask.
handcrafted for certain people, certain situations.
costumes collected like loose change,
if pennies reminded you of every mistake you've ever made.

is this how it's supposed to be?
three million lies stacked in a trench coat,
masquerading as a person?
is this the lie we're cursed to live?

tears paint rivers over the newest mask i'm cursed to make,
the faintest echo of the face i used to have.

the idea of love

my lips are lined with phantom kisses,
a whisper of a dream i can't remember.
my heart is aching
for something i've never known;
yearning for an illusion.

i've fallen in love with the idea of love.

my childhood was a diet
of fairy-tale romances,
and i fell in love with the idea
of someone seeing all of me,
and still covering my face with
kisses as sweet as cherry blossoms.

of a lover sneaking up from behind,
encircling me in a bear trap of a warm embrace,
or of maple syrup-scented air
as we make each other heart-shaped pancakes,
even though it's mid-afternoon.

of making sandcastles,
me watching you grin
as you try to build up the tower,
only to have the hungry waves crash in,
devouring the foundation again.

of winter pinching our noses pink,
us huddling close as snowflakes kiss the ground
so we hurry on, mitten in mitten,
to a home filled with soft blankets
and warm drinks with way too much sugar.

of bodies curling together through the night,
puzzle pieces perfectly shaped for the other,
and a soft face caressed by sunbeams
being the first thing my drowsy eyes see,
and a petal-soft kiss a good luck charm for the day.

but when you read a book,
you can close it when it goes too far.
maybe i'm just a late bloomer,
but it's already the end of autumn
and the first snowflakes are starting to fall.

so i'm left loving only the idea of love.

reincarnation

i don't believe in reincarnation,
but sometimes when the sun hits my face just right,
i can feel the echo of a thousand lives before mine,
turning their faces into the light,
layers of cellophane blurring the same feeling through time.

(Enspoilered for gore)