Young Writers Society

Time for some fun, yes? Let's.
So, this concept of this Time-Waster poetry exercise is quite simple:
Write a poem using your letter as the first letter of each line. We still start from A and proceed in order all the way to Z, before starting it over again.
There are, of course, a couple of rules.

1. Please keep it clean. It'd would be cool if we could keep everything in here at an E-rating.

2. It must be at least two lines long. Also, while you can feel free to write a full blown piece, please don't make it of epic proportions. We don't want to make the page difficult to navigate.

3. Please do not skip letters, challenging as they may seem.

Here’s an example:

A letter to the heavenly world
above seemed forgotten in the mailbox;
Alex doubted, and dearly wished he would not.


And that's it! Get goin'!

Battle for what you
believe in. Fight for the
broken, the hurting, the
blind. You'll survive well enough, though
beaten you may be.

cypress trees are heard
crying as the wind rips them from the ground.
carbon, that is all, lost in the wind.
children watch them rocket passed the window.
catch one, I dare you.
cyclone, take me home.

Dreams may come, and
Dreams may go, but
Dying dreams fall from the sky,
Down, down, into the
Deep dark abyss.
Don't lose those dreams.
Don't lose that sense of hope that
Determines how high you fly, and how
Deep your love goes.

Eastward, you say.
Everything begins there-- the sun rises, the
earth speaks and rumbles and raises its arms to stretch.

Esther looks are you,
eyeing you curiously.
Every day? You're sure?

Earnestly, you say
Every day. I'm sure.

Esther does not look convinced.
Embodiment of skepticism, she replies,
Eh. Seems too boring to me.

Fridays are the loneliest days, though you wake by me.
From the windows I watch as the mist rises, and wait
for the hushed murmurs of your hair, for the
footfalls that brush over the stairs, along some cold, cold
floor. I will not watch you leave, though the curtains, the
flowers, the birds--all rise, and bend, and sing, and
follow you. I will not know how solemn, how
fierce, is the tilt to your chin, though I have not
forgotten how you looked at me, that very
first time, that very first day.

Fog lingers like regrets. You are gone. It's still Friday.

Grace, my mother said, was not for the wicked,
given to the slow witted and unruly, the
glossy underbelly of sociality. My mother believed in
God, who sat at her table every night and sold
gilded bibles to her loveless children. He said; God
grieves for the baby, for the sister and the brother,
glottal stops forming his words in a stutter of
gross intention. This God is a man my mother met
groping her coat to her throat in the midst of this
growing pain, this loss of divorce.
Gold glitters in the morning light and she is
giving in to him, who sits our table like a stamp,
galvanised to her desire for dislocation. My mother’s problem
grips her to us like a vice. She is too afraid to walk alone.

Hailstorm of fire burning through my soul
Hideous beings descending from the sky, trying to
harvest my everlasting love for you.
How did I get here?
Heavenly thoughts flood my mind when your
hazelnut hair touches my skin. I make
herculean exertions against their
haloes of suffering.
Hallooes engulf my brain and I become the
Hellhound of their nightmares. They scatter. The sun
heals my wounds while your love destroys my
Hadean thoughts. The storm has past. Our love
has triumphed once more.

Idolatry spoke from half-open lips, awed--
I saw quiet murmurs from her lips, but his eyes were
icy, icy, icy, cold and uninterested.
It was awful, knowing how quickly he
ignited the thoughts of her, burning up the pictures of them together;
if only he'd known--
I wouldn't be sitting here with her,
imagining the ways to comfort her and kill him,
immuring all the hatred
I had for him in a vice, trying to pull it back
inside myself, for after she found her
identity without him again.

Inside though,
I was a tidal wave, and my
imagination was working.

Joyous joyous is the dog as he runs, and barks, and
jogs by your boy's side. Take example on him.
Jake is running. Be happy too. It is only
just. Your baby bird has found his wings. Look, how he
jumps--the span of his shoulders, the flutter of his arms.
June has painted him summer-green and -gold, and
July will soothe the bruises that bloom now; smooth the
jagged angles of gangly limbs, filter dark dreams through
jade and tourmaline. Look at him glad and bright, and be not
jealous of the summer that stole him away, of the wind whistling
jaunty careless tunes. Look: how handsome he is, standing amid the
jonquils now so young, and pale, and tranquil.

Knowing that you're here, always
knocking on my door, it feels like a
knife in the back, after all you have
kindly done to me, destryoing me..
Kiss me my love, it is all you will get;
Kindness is no longer an option, as long as you
keep killing me from the inside, you will always be
kept out.. always.. forever.

Lovely notes littered the floor
like forgotten rose petals, wrinkled and
loose--
looking down, I knew that you hadn't meant for me to see them,
lost and almost sad. But, your
language made me smile, with your handwriting all
looped and elegant and scrawled, on and off and on again.
Love was capitalized.
Loss was too.
Lacy words, I thought. I wondered why you didn't capitalize hope. It seemed so
lonely.

Morning breaks and you are gone,
Make me feel like the night was
meaningless, and my efforts to
maintain your love were not enough..

Mindlessly walking through the room,
Moving around like a forgotten soul in the
maelstrom of neverlasting hope,
Minefield of sorrow and suffering.

Memories of lost desires
materialize in front of my
mottled eyes, memories of the past,
Mostly bound to me by your image.

Mockingbird of longings, that you are,
Mischievous being that has
mislead me from my way.
Making my heart be forever yours.. I
Mourn.

No more do we harbor dreams of grandeur;
now we sit on the porch swing in gray
noon light, watching the
neighbor kids ride their bikes across the cracked asphalt.
Next time, you say, we'll find a house in a
nice neighborhood without sheets-across-windows and shifty
noises echoing across the polluted
night sky and without the
n-words, stringing jewel-bright
necklaces of suspicion across our front stoop; it's
never good, you see, to be so
needlessly white.

Nodding, I light my cigarette and say,
Nice; I never knew you were a closet racist.

Ominous words, he spoke-- dark
opals pouring from his lips like an
omen that you read in a book. There it was: The Grim.
Oblivion in a hound, in a howl, in an
occultist mouth. Death.