Young Writers Society

Because it's totes yes.

And I'm a little late. >.>

Poetry coming soon~

1. these shadows

these shadows, like hulking beasts,
follow me across the waves--
and then below,
to where a heavy darkness lurks,
and--

can’t you hear them?
they linger on the edges
of my awareness, of my life
and dig sharp, poisonous claws
into my mind, my life, my--

love is a dangerous thing, a
deadly yet oh-so-wonderful thing,
with flowers and butterflies,
and pointed shards of ice
but--

these shadows, like the darkness
beneath a beautiful mind,
eat away at my love, my sanity,
my everything,
and soon, I will be nothing at all.

And the next two;

2. red and gold

the heat of summer turns ice
to water to steam, and the leaves of the trees
in a spray of red and gold, fall softly,
while that heat turns hard tar
into molten stone.

like a spray of red and gold
from a mountain’s peak;
a signal for a coming storm--
and still, it falls, warmth
and heat, and soft, soft--

tar, melting and bubbling
beside the old oak tree, turns sticky
and clings to shoes, feet, old bike tyres
and the leaves, like a spray of red and gold,
and then molten stone.

3. i smell potatoes (a haiku)

i smell potatoes
on the wind by the old stairs;
mum must be cooking.

4. the stars came with it

shards of blue and white, and gold
were falling, and
when they hit the ground,
they shattered;
like a mirror reflecting the sky--

but the screaming overrode the sound
of shattering glass,
of that mirror breaking,
and we scattered, like a flock of birds
before a storm, and I--

remember when it was bright
and whole, untouched, like
still water, the lake, the beach
on a windless day in
midsummer?

and still, i hear the sound,
like broken shards of glass or ice,
and i remember,
when the sky fell
and the stars came with it.

5. a gleeful lunge

the shadows were thick and cloying,
sneaking across the decaying grass
and headstones in the yard,
bright then dark, and darker still
when the moon hid her face behind
the stormy clouds;

in the glow of the lone streetlamp
at the edge of that expanse of greenery and stone,
she stood beneath a yellow-hazed scattering
of dullness and gold;
she didn't see the shining eyes
following her every move.

bright and glinting with ill intent,
they lingered on the fringes of the glow
with sharp teeth and even sharper claws, those
things-that-go-bump-in-the-night crept forth, would pause,
and then crawl another step closer in order to cause a stir,
a fright, a sudden shudder, a--

scream in the dead of night, fear and flight,
a sharp-toothed smile, a wicked delight, and--
that glow beneath the streetlight,
now empty, a stillness, an eeriness,
in the freezing night and
it had been done with a gleeful lunge.

6. summer / winter (a haiku).

summer sun is warm,
the bricks are growing hotter
but winter is close.

Yup, another haiku. Cause I'm lazy and can't be bothered writing a longer one.



Edit: the next one.

7. pitter-patter

a pitter-patter of little feet across the floor,
a trio and one more of furry shapes rushing past
in a blur of grey, ginger, black and cream
and then a pounce and a yelp,
sharp little claws digging through denim
and into skin, not quite
drawing blood. Golden eyes in the fading
daylight, little white teeth glinting
in a stray band of sun. Laughter, and more
as little furry bodies rush away to hide.

8. ginger and cream

soft, silky grey-white-black;
a splash of ginger and cream,
blue eyes gone golden, white teeth
and sharp little claws,
a barely-there sound of
paws-on-carpet-and-stone, little sounds
and a shadow against the floor--a tiny growl,
a darting shape and then, in a blur, it’s gone.

And here's two more;

9. eyes (a haiku)

pretty amber eyes
burning in the darkness of
a thousand stars high.


10. darkest brown

a shift, a shuffle,
the rustling of a thousand
leaves, the pitter-patter of tiny
feet through the undergrowth,
a startling sound.

he thought he was alone,
but it wasn’t exactly so.

the hitch-pitched whine
of a dangerous beast;
an animal of the most hideous
kind, with sharp teeth and
even sharper eyes.

he breathed in deep, eyes opened wide
and there was a lunge, then silence.

rust and rose of the darkest design
splattered through green, brown, orange
and there beside, lay bones
bleached white and the
darkest brown.

11. the finest silks

legends tells of the finest silks
and all their demons,
of how they grew and changed,
and twisted into many things.

prada and charmeuse, messaline,
satin, lace, all the finest, most
expensive things one could want
or buy; if they had the coin, money.

and in colour it was
black, red, purple,
of the darkest and most
decadent of kinds.

12. darkened in a design

emptiness
and vacant seats,
those dark and quiet rooms
with windows beyond repair;
darkened in a design that
threatens your despair,
and your mind, your
sanity in the deepest,
darkest, scariest
of ways.

13. thirteen (a haiku)

i love the number
thirteen like the sun loves the
sky beyond the moon.

14. it dances

a flash of bright red against the dark;
a tiny, shining thread glinting
amongst the shades of yesterday,
a tiny hue of obscurity defined
by sharp edges and the softness
of lace, satin, silk.

it dances, a drifting natation
of grace, fury, sleeplessness;
singing, chanting--a
short, sweet canto of longing,
yearning, desire; a craving for that something
to douse a never-ending hunger.

and, within moments, that endless fury,
that graceful longing, an elegant
charm of something long
forgotten, neglected, overlooked;
the brilliant flash of red among bleakness
and a morose, hollow cave of melancholy.

15. this hunger lingers here

these leaves of mine, they cling
to branch and twig, and
hair, all tangled and despaired,
with bold, calm--
forgotten and barely there
as they tremble in the breeze
and, softly as they fall,
press against
skin; fingers, cheeks, lips
and cover
those beautiful amber-gold
eyes, then slip away to show
paleness in lovely contrast
with dark, fluttering lashes,
long and with
longing, they press to skin
lower down; neck, collarbone
and that place where
neck-meets-shoulder, and then
lower still; to the rise-and-fall
of pale flesh hidden beneath
cloth-and-finger, and long,
long strands of
sunlight-spun-like-gold
into fine, delicate threads, but still
this hunger lingers here
like autumn leaves on a summer breeze.

16. seeking

the lavender loves the pear
like the sun loves the moon,
or the apple loves the rose
and the lavender blooms,
grows tall,
just to reach the heights
that the pears reaches,
and grows taller still,
seeking--

and the pear’s height wanes
just for that beauty, that
wonderful creation that goes by
the name of lavender,
it seeks to grow old, to lean
and bow
for that most wondrous, most
beautiful flower in which
their mother of nature resides.

17. she dances

she dances, like the rose,
like lace and chemise, or
the thunder before the storm,
and twirls beneath the clouds,
lightning, rain
like the leaf caught in a--

spinning, twirling like
wind, water, rain
to a song only she
can hear,
and whose beat never
remains the same--

and yet, she never fades,
but flickers, like the flame--
bright, yet without the scorching heat;
a desert in mid-winter or early spring,
and at the end of the melody,
she dances still.

18. sleek silver

he caresses the cold,
gleaming form of
his beloved revolver, her
sleek silver beauty
outshines
that of any women
with a smile between her lips
and sweet, tempting lies
on her tongue,
and he remembers
the love
he lost with the fondest
of smiles; they linger here,
between barrel
and trigger,
sleek silver and golden wood,
a fast-fading memory
of a beauty he
couldn’t keep.