Young Writers Society

Erm. Here I am?

LET'S GO NAPO!

Edit: I fail and put Nano.

~*~

Edit: -____- I've read a lot of everyone's NaPo poetry so far and I feel like I'm the only one writing bad stuff. :/

Poem 1:



She is a paper girl,
composed of yellowing newspaper clippings,
words and phrases overlapping each other,
'Killer Strikes Again'; 'Inflation'; 'Earthquake!'
the words of the world
peel off her face


and fall to the grey brick road.

Poem 2:

So I'm reading over my earlier ones and realize how much I hate this.

[/spoiler]

Poem 3:




Don't do that, dear.
It's creepy.
You're not winning her heart,
you're scaring her away.

You see how she nods to what you say too soon,
and looks everywhere but your face,
her eyes lingering on the door and what lays beyond?

Go clean up, run a comb through your hair, maybe wash it first,
you look dirty.
Like a sewer rat,
or one of pesky roaches that flee to the corners and crevices when you turn the light on.

You didn't see the look on her face when she saw them,
but I did.
It was a mixture of pity and disgust, like she wanted to help them, but mostly to get away.
Kind of how she looks at you.

She pulled her dainty little skirt up a little higher to get away from the frightened, survivalist roaches,
then pulled it down when she saw your staring eyes.
She wants to leave so badly
but she can't because you come from money
even though Dad and Mom haven't been very supportive since you dropped out of Harvard.

What'd you think?
That'd you make the next Facebook or something?
Maybe.
But now all that's going for you in an excellent career as a cheap exterminator.

You were always good at stomping on and kicking things,
first Mom's glasses,
then those wretched bugs
now this girl's chances at finding true love
because Dad and Mom will love to hear that you're engaged and
her Mom's greedy, blind eyes care about nothing but repaying all that debt
and she doesn't have the guts to say no.

That's not love in her eyes, dear.
It's not even respect.
That's fear.

Poem 4:

It smells like summer.
A scent that brings fond memories of
sandy sun-lit hair and salty ocean spray
Wilson rackets strapped to backs, tennis balls visible in bike spokes.
Mickey Mouse hoodies, Converse and once black but now bleached red shorts
and
the feeling that the laughter and hot dogs and fireworks
will inevitably end.

Poem 5:



She whisper-giggles the secret in the way
that little girls do, dancing through the grass and
kissing the rain before perching on a withered branch and singing taboo songs.
Before she grew, up she went on the swings, high high high, until her fingers
brushed the clouds and petals bloomed across the sky.

She locked her eyes on mine and breathed her lullaby lie into my ear;

Daddy, I'm pregnant.

Don't do that, dear.
It's creepy.

win.

Don't do that, dear.
It's creepy.
You're not winning her heart,
you're scaring her away.

whassss he doing??? >.>

Personally, I'm not sure. Buuut, it's creepy. The poetry gods have told me that much.

Poem 6:

I saw a girl die yesterday.

She was weeping tears of blood
her skin, washed-out and pale
as I thrust the blade into her veiny arm deeper and deeper,
searching for something real.

The sun shone through the stained glass,
dying her skin a diluted blue, green, red
lips were cracked, like a porcelain doll
whose face was shattered with stones,
but the stones were words
or voices,
laughing in her head, serenading her deepest fears.

Her eyes were blood-shot
from the amber bottle in her bag;
Her mind was hazy
from the pretty pink pills in her pocket;
(What would Father Joseph say?)
but she thrashed and kicked,
her fist against molten silver;
then the mirror girl was gone
and shattered glass sang from the floor.

She was more useful dead anyway.

Poem 7:



I saw a girl die yesterday.

She was weeping tears of blood,
her skin, washed-out and pale
as I dug the blade into her tight, veiny flesh deeper and deeper,
past the gold crosses burning into her neck,
past the sticky, black ivy twining up over everythingeveryone
past the demon spiders spinning a shroud of silk,
searching for somethinganything real.

The sun shone through the stained glass,
dying her skin a diluted blue, green, red
lips were cracked, like a prettypretty porcelain doll
whose face was shattered with stones,
but the stones were words
or voices,
laughing in her head, serenading her deepest fears.

Her crystal eyes were blood-shot
from the amber bottle in her bag;
Her mind was hazy
from the pretty pink pills in her pocket;
her body shiverflinching at the golden apple's touch.
(What would Father Joseph say?)
but she still thrashed and kicked against me,
her fist against molten silver;
then the mirror girl was gone
and shattered glass sang from the floor.

"She was more useful dead anyway"

Amen.

Poem 8:

she pirouettes through the room,
empty other than the ghosts that whisper their hunger,
she pirouettes through the room,
silent other than the filthy harmony of screaming death,
she pirouettes through the room,
clean other than the sidewalk rats that stare with greedy eyes,
she pirouettes through the room,
warm other than the the rush of december air that wisps in like smoke,
she piroettes through the room,
perfect other than the stupidfatugly girl that hides in the mirror.

Poem 9:

hands are laced, entangled like
earphones, are hidden in her
pocket, clock that counts the
time, it was time for her to
leave, a message at the
beep, goes the car
horns, screech and ambulances
wail, scream, shout because there's just so much
pain, full moments of life
flashed behind her
eyes, of glass peered at
her body, was buried today,
is the day where
nothing
is
left.

Poem 10:

maybe.
maybe if he hadn't taken the subway that day.
maybe if she hadn't been running late.
maybe they wouldn't have met.
maybe she wouldn't have tripped over his leg.
maybe he wouldn't have helped her up
maybe love wouldn't have blossomed,
roses tangling up their legs and arms,
brairs bloomed into
her hair,
bonding them forever and always
the thorns pricking her sweetly, drawing blood with utmost care

Ehm. I dunnnnnnnnoooo what to write:

Poem 11:

A smile played on his lips,
as he said it again,
"My name, it's Tom".

I licked my lips and
tried it out,
"Tom. Tom. Tom."

He looked at me,
head cocked,
"And you are?"

I pondered the question,
searching through the filing cabinet of my mind.
"I don't know."

He stared bewildered,
his brow furrowed,
hands laid awkwardly on his knees.

I turned my head,
focusing on the blank, white walls.
The filing cabinet is empty.

I forgot his name already.

Poem 12:

Butterflies dance on the tips of her fingers,
where teardrops of paint dry. She is
throwing away those memories,
forgotten like that promise from
two years back
or the can of flat Diet Coke
that sits patiently in the back of her fridge.
Her mind has blanked,
a thousand paper cranes overlapping
the fear and anger and unsettling thoughts,
exiling them to cyberspace or weaving them
into blankets of nothing.
A smile has broken onto her face,
and she feels like running a marathon
or soaring into the sun,
fearless
because she knows she won't burn.