Young Writers Society

This is for me to post stuff and things.


The song that each poem is written to will go in a spoiler at the bottom of the post.

Trains

"Michael Bronson '92"
The words are rough under my fingertips,
splintered gashes carved across my bench.
I think he must've been here with his family,
waiting for a train to take them out east.
He probably had to take time off from his job,
but I'm sure he didn't mind.

And his daughter, she ran down the aisles
between battered suitcases and discarded wrappers,
a ballerina spinning on her pointed toes
while the tired-eyed strangers looked on.
She was pure in a way he knew he could never be,
and in a final tribute to free will he scratched
his name across the peeling boards.

The letters feel soft and warm against my skin,
like fresh cookies and old jeans
bleached in the sun.
They lick at my hand, tasting something familiar:
"Michael Bronson" Yes, that could be my name.

Equal Exchange

His breath reeked of madness,
carrying words typically reserved
for revolutionaries and zealots atop podiums.
Today he was alone, teetering
on the corner with stoplights in his eyes.
I watched the pedestrians evade him,
throwing change and vague advice
as they rushed past.
They were afraid,
but it wasn't his grimy hands or oil-stained clothes
that terrified them; it was his eyes
as they burned for someone who would share his truth.
The pile of coins sitting at his feet
made me think that perhaps modern man
has become so comfortable as a savior
that he can't be saved.

I hate you for beating me to a poem written by Approximated Sunlight.

Also, reconsider, "In his direction." It tosses me out of the momentum of this piece.

This has some naughty language. You've been warned.

Obedience Training

I told my dog to sit.
He stuck his tongue out and said, "No."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Well," he said,
"you tell me when to eat,
you tell me when to sit,
and you're always throwing sticks.
I fucking hate sticks. Stop throwing them.
Who do you think you are,
calling yourself a master
when you can't even figure out the stove."
He paused for a moment,
then added, "Plus, your ears are weird. I don't respect them."
"I see," I muttered. "Do as you wish then."

I giggled. I enjoy your poetry so lad.

Nightshade wrote:This has some naughty language. You've been warned.

Obedience Training

I told my dog to sit.
He stuck his tongue out and said, "No."
"Why not?" I asked.
"Well," he said,
"you tell me when to eat,
you tell me when to sit,
and you're always throwing sticks.
I fucking hate sticks. Stop throwing them.
Who do you think you are,
calling yourself a master
when you can't even figure out the stove."
He paused for a moment,
then added, "Plus, your ears are weird. I don't respect them."
"I see," I muttered. "Do as you wish then."

Spoiler! :

Okkervil River - Another Radio Song

I fucking hate sticks. xD

In the Garden

Do you remember the night the wolves came
to steal the babies we'd been growing in the backyard?
Or how the circles we spun with our burning brooms
left trails of light that made the sea of bared teeth
glitter and swell?

Do you remember how the cries seemed to reverberate
in our brain stems until our jaws ached from the pressure
of trying to hold our skulls in place?

I watched the first wolf hit you,
saw how it savored each drop of blood, drinking you
until your pale skin collapsed into the warm fur.
I tried to save you, tried to be the man you needed me to be,
but those shining white teeth were just too beautiful
and I let them love me.

And, lost among the blood and yellow eyes,
one of our darling babes crawled to you
and kissed at your exposed breast, searching for food.
Your soul had left long ago, leaving a battered crust in the dirt,
but in that child's eyes you were something true,
something constructed of nothing
but aether and supernovae.

Sadbox is sad. Keep it going man.

I demand an update.

I demand an update.

I suppose that is reasonable. He's just a wee lad, but I like him.


The Ultimatum

Tonight you have to love me.
If you don't, all of this oxygen in the air will combust,
and what good are two little piles of soot
underfoot?

Nightshade wrote:and what good are two little piles of soot
underfoot?

<3

Mach 3

Lights flashing
burning supersonic retinas
engorged
from cries coming a little too quick
for the ears to hear.

If I'd known
how tight the rope would sit round my waist,
my legs,
they would have been cut lose long ago.
If only I'd known...