Young Writers Society

I will catch up today / tomorrow during school.
This is what I wrote today, a poem about chat being killed. (thanks vast):

Murderer, put away your knives
and sharpening stones. Cease your butchering
of our sentences, for we only wish to talk
before night's end, and before sleep comes
to rob us of your grace.

We hang out here, in the chat just chilling
like sides of beef in a meat locker,
when your footsteps ring through the chattering
chains, clanking togeather in your awkward awe.

We're fumbling and bumping into eachother, now
sitting as we stare, watching you proclaim that you've
found a new song to listen to. And through the cloud
of your breath, we can see fragments of the truely dead,
burried in perfect silence and broken only by your hacking
away at an old topic.

You haven't realised that we've moved on,
that we hang here, with sylabels cut into our
ribs and bones removed, we stand on, and for
mere thought, dear murderer.

We are dead in body, yet more alive
than the knife you held, when the conversation
was cut down.

I am regreting this now... Anyways, poem number 2 for today (will edit tomorrow):

I stand from my back poarch watching the
clouds layer the sky like the siding
of a house, they break off in the distance-
stretching into the night.

As they are broken on the old swing sets of mountians,
that walk by the sky- black barely touching
what used to be orange streets, yet when the sun goes down
the night is still not green, and full of motion.

Crickets stalk my idle thoughts, cracking their legs
from the undernethe the bent blades of grace.
I have found myself lost in the midnight rain,
my hopes fall such as these, leaves dripping wet
with yesterday and branches of the trees holding strong
to what could be tomorrow.

These are mere windows of what nature could be,
I can hear the wind ruffling the trees, as they ease
their grapse on my mind,
but I cannot feel their parting much like how
I cannot find the cricket, who breaks my silence.

I am sorry for the poor quality again.

Your hands were cut from stone,
shaped with clay and burned with wood.

I wish I could be as fake as you,
as cold and as "strong", while having no real form,
until set on fire by our words.

I stole your heart from the tv,
the droning sounds of 3am illuminate my dirty floor,
bottles from the nights when we cared enough
to not drink before 8pm, now leak such old and
intoxicating memories.

So I may drink my fill, and hopefully forget,
the concept of friend, especially when you left.
Your hands almost completely turned to dust as I let go.

I found the only thing I have left to remember you by
is your middle finger...

Yeah, fuck you too.

I really like these:

Crickets stalk my idle thoughts

and

I wish I could be as fake as you,

I'll be watching. :3

Another poem.

I am a remote without batteries,
unchanging and forgotten in the seats
where my family sat.

And watched movies like we really cared,
but now the tv is broken and dirty,
the cords have been chewed through
and I remember the static that coaxed
memories into dreams.

Where the hum of microwaves and smells
of popcorn walk through the kitchen and into
the living room, followed by hands that clenched into
tight fists at the scary parts.

With voices whispering and ruining the movie in
just the right way, so I wasn't scared when the character
went in "there".

And when the credits came with the lights,
I found myself still burried in the coutch,
reminising of the family that used to power
my younger days.

2nd poem written today.

I'll take this noose that I
wore around my waist and tie it
to this burning bridge.

As I lean over the rails and fall,
my head is held in the air like a helicopterm
my vision of the distance dies, as it streams into
the black river below, streching my legs until
they're nothing but shadow.

My torso begins to convulse, trying
to fight off the night- Holes the size of a road sign
burn into my empty stomach and smolder to my faulty right sholder,
that I used to push myself over the edge with. My left hand, that
rested in my forgotten pocket, glows as it covers-
what's left of my chest.

My feet lie in the river now, I can see them like
the black ground under the clear water, my stomach is whole,
yet still crying with a hunger for the end. As I pick myself up
from the shallow end and walk to shore,

I think: Someone cut the rope.

thrid poem for today.


I saw a rat in the feild,
through the twiching stocks of wheat and
tall grass; it ran in unintelligeable patterns,
dodging left and then right, like a car on a track
that lost controll, it knows where it's going but
it cannot get there so easily.

There's a bolder in the middle of the feild,
and I saw the rat squeeze under the rock
to its home beneathe the stone. This was a grave sight,
or rather, it still is. The rat had reason to run so franticly,
a hawk watched from the sky, and now perched itself
upon the engraved plack that reads:


The name was scratched off, but the message is clear:
The sun sets. And the rat moves once more,
leaving its home in search of food. Before the wheat stalk falls,
you can hear the body snap like a beetle crushing beneathe your foot.
Quietly, the rat is revealed

and preyed upon by an owl, just four feet from this old
ambitious stone.

Poem is all disconnected.
___
We are skulls, they are minds,
we hold them as they, command us.
The cracks in our crowns do not form
plates that the brain can stretch itself
because they are the result of countless battles
between ourselves; and sleep.

Skulls laid by nightstands watching
the night progress, they are the inspiration
of dream, the light that powers calculators,
letting us figure things out.

And upon our inspection, you can see grooves
mapping the cradle like how the bare branches
of trees map the sky, but only with the parts they touch,
can we know in which way, our nous needs to grow.

Though time, they find new jewels for our crowns,
the cracks shift places as though they are only a thin skin,
sliding over the surface and; keeping its fragile nature hidden.

Silence falls on an idle crowd,
standing, mouth agape, at the ruins
of their capital.

A bird chooses to speak
and asks, "what should we do?" of the doctor
and the lawyer, only to be answered with
silence.

Then, it asks "should we rebuild?" to the mason
and the cop; and still, silence.

Now it cries out in the face of the teacher
and the parent, "Someone tell me what to do

From my view, your nature is giving up"
The bird flies away
disappointed

Because when they finally responded,
they said please.

Attempt at not writing as dark.
__
Though this old cabin air strokes of lightning
free our shadows from our bodies.

They dance on the walls, when thunder cracks
a beat, and a soprano of rain glances off the metal
pieces of the roof.

The fire, hosting from atop the candle, turns to the
shadows and bows, obscuring them from the half
open eyes. And then they go back to their celebration,
once again dancing like the barrowed leaves, orbiting
eachother in an autumn storm as they fall

But they stretch and tire in the morning.
Just as the soft sounds die,

the shadows cry, while they walk to the
sleeping bodies to rest, after listening
to the sounds of the storm.

The candle goes out and the smoke rises
with the sun. Just, as we do.

Dear farmer,
I thank you for the kind words,
and for the puzzles you undid.

My father always said you're a good man,
yet when good came with you, it was blade,
that my mother always watched. Curiously,

she had been weakening for some time now,
she had said the wind has faded,
that it no longer chased leaves from the trees,
and it would soon die. I am glad that she is no
longer suffering, but I think she'll miss the
volcanic sunrise, warming the cold black spots
on her body.
And the grass parting to cover any
ground for her grace.

She had always been in pain, my father said,
when she'd walk the feilds alone, the pendant
around her neck would chime, following her to her
"shift" at the slaughter house.

My father said that our family won't die,
that the farmer is a good man, and he'll
make sure that we're okay, that we'll...

Stay togeather.

We fit; my mother and my father,
my sisters, brothers and I.

We held your blunt hand as you
took our's and led us with dogs from atop
a horse, shouting at us to get into our "homes".

And I must thank you farmer,
for your kind and looming giant shadow, and for
your time spent razing my family.

I just wish I could have pieced it all togeather
like my mother had...

Before you killed her.

While walking on main street,
I passed a newly opened book store
and decided to go inside.

And through the bright isles, newcomers
were blinded by the light glaring off the
plastic covers of new classic books.

As I stumbled through the store,
I came across a corner I could see,
and a book with no title nor author
printed on it, I wanted it.

I wanted to know its secrets,
why no author owns it, why it doesn't
present itself, so I took it home.

And in my dim, denk basement, I didn't know
that I begun to find a story in its blank pages.

I threw the book in fustration,
because it had one word printed in it:
Why.

I tore out a thousand of its infinite pages,
what would have been chapters of time
just falling to the floor, where I set them
on fire.

I snapped the cover, kicked the spine,
and tried nearly drowning it in the toilet
atleast five times.

But it would not yeild to me, it would
not give me the story that would excite
my life, even just for a a day.

I gave up, and left it in a pool of wordless
ash.

and when I returned to it, three days later,
it had completely recovered and my story had been
burned into its once blank pages.

and at the end it said:
I just needed to prove my desire to read.

I remember when people actually
wanted to talk, conversations
were just like a coin flipping in the air.
Each side getting its respective turn,
and now... It's just that penny in an unmoveable
sewer grate,

Shining for what it used to be.