Young Writers Society

Scratched CD mixtapes are playing, staining the night with 2007,
A crackling sound emanates from the speaker, eating the melody,
Leaving behind a cold London’s night in some sketchy alleyway,
And the sky was such a dark blue that it could’ve been grey.
Saucer-like eyes rounded with a thick rim of black eyeliner,
Leather jackets and lip piercings form an inky darkness in the alleyway,
Ornamented with the subtle strum of flint and the blue-orange fire of a lighter.
Like fireflies, the lighters spread across the metropolitan crevice,
And smoke billowed into the air, with the flash of flip phones,
and the off-tune dial of nokia phones, graffiti tags and oversized black jeans,
The lights flash and our digital camera’s flash in unison,
With the electro beats that shake the ground, and our heads are swinging,
And our eyes are lit, running away with the stars.

The ghosts of you and me walk around that abandoned car park
The blinding light shines down on the hotel and flickers
That’s what we are, ghosts
The memory of notes scribbled on the soles of scuffed up converse
Or inky Doc Martens that secretly blistered my feet
It felt like a piece of me was missing and I left it behind
Between your train-track braces and the bite of the cold air
Huddling underneath a towering green tree
And we’d stay near that ivy covered wall, laughing and speaking
Bleary eyes and raspy voices
Until the syrupy glow of sunlight began to pierce the sky
And the rattle of cheap skateboards at full speed down that hill
I laughed even though my shins hurt so bad from falling
And you did too
We stood at that bridge together
Watching the dim lights of the cars drive underneath us
Dancing to the 90s music from your bluetooth speaker

I feel ridiculous for missing you and I wish I could get over it
But whenever my mind is tired
It drifts back to you
And Saturday night at the hotel.

As I walked, I saw a million different faces,
Who I'd maybe like to befriend one day
And they'd tell me stories about their lives
I would mean something to them.
The harsh neon lights strobe into my eyes,
My bloodshot eyes, my dreaming eyes,
And when I go home, I'll let the poets know:
That when night falls, and the half-eaten crescent makes it's debut among the stars,
That I feel
More alone
Than ever.

Some really neat images here, camcam! I especially liked "half-eaten crescent" and "staining the night with 2007". There's something lonesome about urban environments and I think you've captured that here.

Breathe.
Check, one, two.
The interlude begins at 7pm.
My hand falls on the keys, gently, softly
My breath quickens and the notes spread in my veins
My heart pounds, thrumming a rhythm inside my chest
As the pale moon gleams a simple dream.
Then, my hands rise
Before they fall
Because all things that rise must fall
But just for a split second, between rising and falling,
I was free.
My fingers were weightless and I was alive,
The music went,
As did I,
And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music

I wake up at 9am, the time on the dot that my first period French zoom class begins.
The keyboard clicks a rhythm, accompanied by the whirring fan of my computer.
Bedraggled hair and a Rick and Morty shirt that hasn’t been washed in three days,
Panda eyes and pale skin, saucer eyes with a rim of black underneath.
The rain is brewing nicely outside, hammering on my window, knocking on my door.
The light of my phone screen illuminates my eyes, pulling me into a trance.
I knock an empty can from the stack of energy drinks next to me,
Eating salty potato crisps, chocolate cookies and last night's pasta.
The curtains are closed, and the floor of my room is barely visible.

“We miss you, where have you been?”