Young Writers Society

Hi. I'll post the stuff that doesn't entirely make me cringe.

I've also forgotten how to write. I hope I can relearn this month. I have a long way to go, yet.

Yesterday's is awful, so here's part of today's, an extension (yes, yet more!) of the loss themed one started in last month's workshop! I'm beginning to think I have more a series, though, than a single poem. Meh, I'll decide later.


VIII. (uh, numbering is approximate)
there's an empty space
on my bookshelf.

IX.
the rain feels cold, again.

X.
Two sweatshirts
and bright sun
can't chase away the cold.

XI.
she huddles, shaking
behind him,
to hide her face
from stark, naked divide.

what this is I don't even. Also, I love/hare prepositions and (inter)personal pronouns.

3.
sometimes, I want days of twilight.
cool wind and warm cement
echoes of birdsong
and those that feed
ghost's seats still warm
whispering of forgotten tomorrows.

OR

3.
sometimes, I want days of twilight.
cool wind and warm cement
with echoes of birdsong
and the people who feed them
ghost who's seats are still warm
whispering of forgotten tomorrows.

I like the first version of number three better! The flow is a tad awkward around lines four and five but all it takes is a second read through and it's beautiful <3

I still have no idea what I'm doing, so here's a few small ones.

the chill saves us,
sharpening sense
through pretensions best left
to top shelf nights that never come
up to dreams.




but you don't remember
early morning
promises to forgotten idols.
dust brushed off
to sell new souls
old preacher's hell
riding on wind that holds
'till dawn.



sheets are always cold
when you don't remember how
to not sleep alone.

but you don't remember
early morning
promises to forgotten idols.
dust brushed off
to sell new souls
old preacher's hell
riding on wind that holds
'till dawn.

<3 So much love for this one and the last is a nice haiku

Uh, I have a few small ones that I'm not comfortable posting, so instead you get this one that I wrote last night at like, midnight. Or something. I know it's not finished. Heck, maybe it's multiple poems. I haven't decided yet.


I used to be able to hold it in my hand,
intangible lines connecting
you and i and the space between
dark and light, dusk and dawn
and the cracks the sun slips through
to escape what we hold until
our knuckles turn white and our faces
the blue of our veins
and watch as it slips
from our fingers
that still grasp
at what never was meant to be held.

Did these two last night, discussed a bit with Audy and Pez.


you listen for the sun
in hopes the dawn
doesn't bring a storm.
but you wake to thunder
and pre-dawn dark
masked in hail
and wind that blows
dreams to pieces
but still you listen
for the sun.



all i know is the
space between,
and how to nurture distance.

you held me, once, do you remember?
the sun beat down and smothered me
trapped between your arms.

I wrote one (ish?) in the workshop earlier that I'll have to nab, still.

i remember the days before
with all the remorse of
nostalgia
and days gone past
sharpened by the soft edge
of memory.