Young Writers Society

Well, maybe.

We'll see if this actually happens (and if it does, I remember to type things up/post).

ETA: Thanks, Pez, for the interesting title

1.
somewhere between the shaking walls
and toolate nights
spent glazing eyes on backlit screens
it hits you:

the storm is the destination,
not the obstacle
or liminal space between
points on a plane.

Maybe I'll be back with something better, later. I'm just amazed I can even write, the way this week has already been shaping up. So, here, have a poem I typed directly into the textbook!



it's hazy, sometimes
the lines you try to draw
between you and i and me

the lines you draw
in fat red pen
you found in your pocket
last week
[it came from work; you put it there
so you wouldn't lose it]
and it starts out strong
but dies halfway through

the ink too dry to catch paper
and wet enough to draw blood.

Everytime I read one of your poems I just about erupt with squeals, like a cat. Like this. 8D Persy showed me.

Audy <3

Here, have more "type it in the textbox" poetry. Mostly because my brain is just fried, and I really want to have time to comment on everyone's threads, but I just don't have the brainpower right now. This weekend. I am going to have some fun. Earlier, if I get this assignment done fast enough.

3.
it's cold, again:
beautiful cool wind
and promises of more
in grey skies and a sunset
you can't see
beneath a layer of cloud and color
too bright to call purple, but too pink to call sedate.

These days speak of winter
hopes and leave the threat of spring behind
with summer only a whisper
of something still to be yearned for -
not feared.

you can smell the late-season rain on the air,
hopeful and clean
and never enough to satisfy
a thirst for storms
and the peace found in uncertainty.

(so, I decided I had to write instead of sleep. Not my brightest idea)

4.
it's the same sounds every year,
of comfort and routine
and baseball somewhere
and salty sweat
caked on after hours in the sun
wiped with grass stains
and dirt that finds its way to sock-covered heels

and you remember
with nostalgia, not fact,
and the created memories hold sway
over certainty and the lies you told yourself
the first time 'round
to just get through

but the sounds bring you back
to the sun beating down
and the toohotplastic holding an old pink radio
that cackles with "strike three!"
between an announcer's butchering
of another batter's name
and the heckling the crowd can hear
from dugouts over their own cheering
and the ever-circling birds
looking for crumbs.

it's the crumbs you remember.

I'm forcing myself to write. It shows. Painfully.

5.
it's all in the lines and measures
and a "1-2-3, 1-2-3"
that echoes between your eyes
and all you can see is the first three lines
with a pickup that runs over the downbeat.

I can't look ahead
when i'm too busy
staying on top.

6.
I hold it in my hands, sometimes
the silver keys and ink-stained pages
loose-leaf bound
by infinitesimal lines
that hold the sounds of a thousand lives
sung by notes and silence.

I think my theme this year is "I just typed this nonsense in the textbox." Heather, I'll have a hate limerick for you at some point tomorrow, hopefully

7.
it's the 4am howls that get you
and rip through a dream,
tearing at the edges of unconscious
connections that manifest your greatest fear
into a single scream

that only sometimes encompasses
how your heart pounds against the hand
you use to clutch your chest
even knowing it can't keep your heart in
or the darkness out.

with one eye open and one ear turned out,
counting sheep to the ticking of the clock
that stopped moving twenty years before

it's the reason you don't sleep, anymore

From poe-tree: the one that I actually wrote, not the one from all of our lines. I'll prolly be back later with more. The second was done with a combination of lines from me, Rydia, Sparkles, and Tae.

8.
glass pages
lie broken at the foot of the stairs [a painting that was]
smashed into lines
that bleed into infested midnight waters
staining pages black and holy days
fly overhead, hiding the stars.

8.5
glass pages
lie broken at the foot of the stairs [a painting that was]
broken frozen faces
shattered, and a new page turned:
broken hearts make exquisite paintings.

I read the road and cross my bible
written from the road
staining pages black and holy days
pray that airplanes will pass over
and fly overhead, hiding the stars.

Your lipstick redrew me like charcoal,
hear t and smile covered in cheap lipstick
and red stained tears
that leaves traces of Da Vinci on my soul

she used to read a book about the last supper and the holy grail.

Sleep deprivation is reaching new heights. This week cannot be over fast enough.

9. it’s a new sense of despair,
the sound of a dog whining
and not knowing why –
the sense of an impending something
nameless in fear and fact and a manifestation
that never manifests except in
aching chests and bones that refuse to settle
and a body that is never warm enough to sleep.

I didn't sleep last night, either. Well, at least not enough. So, have some word vomit (better than actually vomiting, right? Maybe this'll keep the nausea away...).

10.
you live for mornings like this:
cold enough to feel it
but warm enough not to care
colors brighter than even spring has right to be
felt acutely between bright sun and cold wind
and no other soul to see
the bright and beautifully desolate
stillness, broken only by fluttering leaves.

10.5
there is no unconditional love,
because even the dog will notice if you stop playing.


11.
the trees were my favorite, from the time
I couldn’t lift myself up until the branches could no longer hold
my weight
and they grew as I grew
but their magic left the more I read
until I found it again
between a broken spine and pages that smelled of wisdom long lost –
but I wonder:
how do the trees feel
that I finger so lovingly something made entirely of them?
//that I finger so lovingly something that they died for?


so... that ending on 11 needs help. Guh. I have two versions up already, but I don't like either of them.

I don't even know, anymore.

12.
it’s too early for summer nights
and oppressive darkness’s stifling heat
that radiates hours after sunset

and i can’t sleep wrapped up in layers
to cocoon warmth and hide everything but my eyes
from walls that listen to every breath you take
when every breath is labor lost from
bugdust that comes out to play
from hidden pockets of heaters and lampshades
where they wait out winter storms.

it’s too early for summer nights
when all i want is winter.

13 (?).
glass pages
lay broken, shining under moonlit rain
and passing headlights
[one by one]