Young Writers Society

April 4th
The Storm

Hunkered down with bitter resolve
hardened with the savage knowledge
of what has happened to their fathers,
the grey-leaved veterans of the forest
dig their roots into the frozen soil

The expanse of ever-changing
blue, green, orange, golden quicksilver
is suffocated by the oppressing overhang
of the rumbling, tumbling, great black beast
burdened with a rage unfathomable
to the fragile dwellers of the surface
it rises so malevolently above

Like ants spurned by the searing flame
the cowering souls bound in flesh
are petrified by the many hounds of fear,
hunting with shining electric fangs,
that swarm in a bustling mass
under the massive wingspan
of the treacherous entity

Seen by some as a cold-hearted murderer
a widower of ruthless capabilities
a tyrant whose domain stretches far over all
a monstrosity of the winds and the rage of nature
a sinister revenge by the angelic higher beings
a curse and a blight on the pathetic
a thing, an it, an inanimate mass of energy
little do they know....
there is much more to a storm than first meets the eye

April 5th
No name, no label

There!
An eye in the crowd
poking through a fabric
woven with the clammy hands
of turned faces, burdened with a disgust
no one wants but them.

There! Again!
a face now, unaware it is being watched
not only by I, but the baleful daggers
of eyes belonging to the intolerant crowd
that spans maliciously over the globe

They are confused by the face
the eye is unlike their own,
it is not right!
Is he a loner?
a druggie?
a hobo?
a gay?
a goth?
Why isn't he like us?
He must burn!

Disgust becomes a poisonous moss
dropping from their faces
to their clenched fists
and stinging words.

How I long to reach out,
save the face and the eye
free of a label.
Yet I am not brave enough
to dare step outside the cocoon of malice
formed by the ignorance
of those who shouldn't be able to be

There! Once more!
The eye is still there
defiant, alone, himself
he is too strong to fall into the cocoon
he is too strong to be defined by others

April 7th
It's hard to be original

When "Some poem's don't rhyme"
reared it's ugly head
we young writers finally lost
our ability to step out of the poem
and look at it by the side of our reader

Now fear of plagiarism
keeps us scrambling for new material
a rare substance, that as history goes on
is slowly becoming extinct
"some poems don't rhyme"
marked the beginning of the end

Witty, cocky, slight humor
all wrapped up in a single line
one of the
hundreds
thousands
millions
of genius moves
already used, already dried up
it's hard to find fresh fruit nowadays

I have to get on a 7-hour plane ride soon, so forgive me for writing a haiku

April 8th
Wicked

A fate not chosen
Condemning an unfair life
To an innocent

April 9th
Inheritance

The cocky grin
you always where
even when your lips
are wrapped around
some bottle of beer
or the lips of some cheap
lousy replacement for
the best woman in your life
who is now rotting
in all but MY memories
for your's are far more dirty
than the muck where mom lays

You lie in the stained white bed
like so many before you
the black tar swirling in your lungs
is not as dark as the intentions of your heart
A cough, a wheeze, one last moment of life
and then your gone, and I'm left with nothing
Nothing but your crappy inheritance:
a reputation that haunts how I'm seen
a pocket of cash that will get me nowhere
a worthless hovel clogged with crappy memories
Thanks dad. Thanks for a reason to finally go find mom.

^ ME LIKEY!

April 10th
The window
Light,The warm beam of the sun shining through my bedroom window warms my soul.
The wind seeps through the open crack under my window and kisses my face with every howling breath.
The window is a clear passageway to all happiness with one glance through.
It leads you to a land of nature, flowers smiling back at me and tree’s rustling in the wind.
A land that is peaceful and undisturbed.
A place to sit and ponder in deep thought about what life is.
A window, something so small ,so insignificant that can change your whole outlook on life that’s starts with one simple object.
Through a window the sky can go on forever or it can be enclosed. It can only be what you perceive it as.
The sky can only give you what you heart allows.
The window is the glasses to help you see your life clearer.
The window can be the passageway to pain and sorrow or the passageway to hope and faith.
It is all in the eyes of the beholder.

April 12th
A text

What have you done?
Tried to ensnare
a momentous
groundbreaking
heart-tearing
emotion in a sea
of symbols and numbers?
NO! How nearsighted!
Through mere text
all eyes fail to percieve
any emotion: for the face
the heart
the mind
is lost in a lie
that spans throughout us all
and into us all

April 13th
Sanctum

An endless puzzle
no reward, no incentive
other than to succumb
to childish curiosity
and gain
a sense, so fleeting
it is a feather in the breeze
and then it is gone
in a month
in a day
in a hour
sometimes before you even finish
was it worth it?
to be the only one that's holy?

April 14th
Friends

Do you realize?
The impact of feathers
in a cave as dark as night?
A smile may spark a fire
blazing higher and brighter
than any mortal eyes can bear.
A laugh may set hounds of conflict
on the wild hunt for a certainty
that is as fleeting as the ultimate high
the weak chase on stilts of broken lives.
Yet if the smile is as hollow as your heart
your laugh as meaningless as love, or as
passionately poisonous,
then the cave shall crumble, and hope,
shall sacrifice in a suicide,
dream.

April 16th
The Road

Your whole life in front of
a road that stretches from
the murky innards of motherhood
to the cold silence of the heart's
last song. People say look forward
down the road, appreciate what
mysterious possibilities lie beyond
each gradual turn and sharp corner.
Yet what use is looking ahead,
when potholes grab your feet,
and the land is barren where you stand?

April 17th
A lighter Material

His glasses fall
from his brow
carved from marble

They hold the last light
I'll probably see in a while
Ripples of his skin
puncture his protruding brow
A thousand wasps of worry

Great is what he says
the same as always though
He tells me that what I breathe
into life, more than not is depressing
as is art. I reply with the same ice
that spawns from my heart.

You have talent
but not inspiration

My mind is a mushy froth of rage
Pain is all I feel, because that's all
the world give me.

You should try writing
a lighter material
like sunlight
or flowers

I bite my tongue
instead of his
and smile so plasticly
I become a mannequin
he believes he can puppet

April 18th
What writer's make

She says the problem
with writers,
is what is anybody
going to see, in somebody
who thought there best option
in life was to become a writer?
Nothing, she replies for herself.
Or if it is something,
it won't be terribly good can it?
Because, honestly, what to writers
actually make?

And I was waiting for this moment.

You want to know what I make?
I make words, come to life
and dance to a tune of imagination.
I can turn a thousand symbols
into a thousand things:
Pictures that enrich the mind
Lessons that cultivate our knowledge
Characters that inspire us to be more
Stories that will guide us.

I can reach out to a heart
and stomp on it,
or inflate it to the size
of the Chrysler building!

I make kid's dream
of what they can become
and then help them, become it!

I make adults see the world
like they never would again,
or they never thought they would.

I can make insults,
die in the throats of bullies
as I unravel them, and spin them
to a lighter material.

You wanna know what I make?
I make a difference,
something you will never do.

April 20th
Shades

Typhoons of opinion
whipped up by an object
of plastic and glass.

A mind altering
accessory, that manipulates
the senses with a cold silence,
and a blank, unraveling
obsidian stare.

Sparks of the brain,
cast off by calculation
are caught tight in the black net
of the object, as it wraps around
the eyes, and hides their shine
from all those who dare perceive them.

Adorned by sellers of luck,
they are shields for the sight
from light's intense rage,
and the haze of confusion
colors cast in contrast.

Clenching brows,
covering eyes,
enclosing ears,
They become dictators
of your own senses,
and then they impose,
project
affect
intimidate
your surroundings.
And you become a god.

April 21st
Spoken with silence

A word dies
in your throat.
A world dies
in your heart.
It's been drowned in
your tears, and mine.
As we wept in longing
for what we so willingly
gave up.

Our hands part
one last time.
Stained with rain and blood ,
as is our hearts,
broken like glass
each missing its vital
part, the key to it's
survival.

Ironic comes to mind
we lose each-other
to find that what we
sought was what we lost.
Is it a joke to someone?
A joke like the once
that used to only be
funny, because we were
the ones who gave them life.

A ruined dream
we sacrificed
in our hope's suicide.