Young Writers Society

my dove will fly
fear for her
gilds my bones
and it pricks through
my flesh
to freeze them
and break them
and twist them.
~
my fingers
felt numb today.
i wonder
if that was her heart,
brushing out to feel me,
begging me to hear
and understand.
i'm sorry
that i didn't hear her
as well as i should have.
my dove
with broken wings.
i will nurse her
and heal her
till she can fly again
and maybe i'll
sprout wings
to fly with her.

star-flecked girl in pain
there are stars and scars and
bars around my
heart, i fear the world

simple v.s. confused
oh, but
doubting myself
is so easy.
to believe
is to be
confused.
doubt
is easier
and simpler.
i think
i'll keep
my mind
this way.
better to be
simple than
confused
and wishing
to rip your
brain out of
your skull.

a conversation: what the naysayers say about worth / unworthy
them, accusatory: bleeding heart-
why do you feel
so broken?
your love is
jagged
and it wrecks me.
me: i'm sorry
i'm sorry
i'm sorry.
them: as
you should be.
me, hesitantly: i'm broken too.
them: you don't deserve
that pleading tone.
me, defeated: i know
i know
i know.

~

the only thing
i know
is that i am
unworthy.

bright eyes
yes, i have bright eyes
most of the time.
yes, you should be afraid
when they are dull.
yes, they are
bright with the
tears i do not shed.
no, i am not
feeling okay.
the happiness
that normally lights my eyes
is replaced by
a glistening sadness that
i try to hide with emptiness.
i am an actor, but a terrible liar.
and i can't pretend this is just
another character i must play.
this is a part i'm drowning in.
i have been switching between masks for too long.
i have forgotten what it is to be myself.
i don't know myself
anymore.
so when you look at me,
call me bright eyes
for the irony
that my heart
is heavy
and my mind
is not that bright
at all.

~

dear telepaths: what a dark place to be.

--------------------------------------------------------------
A conversation between me and a friend after reading this poem:
friend: why is this so relatable?
me: i guess because we all feel the need to be bright. we don't feel that we can be loved even when we go dark.
friend: that was deep.
me: thank the abyss lol

god-centered grandmother
i don't want
your blessings
or your prayers
when you
won't give me the
simple honor and
kindness of
genuine love.
what is god
when you are so
gormless and your
life is so
static that
you resort
to gossiping about
your grandchild
with her mother?
there is nothing wrong
with loving god
and being
religious.
but when you turn it
into this
poison-slick barb that
hurts and
doesn't heal,
it can become
the kind of wrong that
decimates cities
and contaminates goodness,
turning pure to polluted,
turning goodwill to ill will,
erasing the history
of a good relationship
by replacing
basic human decency
and kindness
with a revolting,
self-serving sort of interest
i hope to never let stain my soul.

i love her like a song, a bomb, a many hidden things
and then i'm
so in love, it hurts.
listening to the playlist she made me
in the morning for rebirth.
her pink and yellow aura
slinks into my dreams.
i can't wait for her to wake me
so i fall apart at the seams.
i want to feel her skin on mine
and love her till the dawn.
everything's a warning sign
i love her like a song
loves a lyric,
like a bomb
loves a fuse.
i'll love her when the lights go out
and that love, i'll never lose.
i love her like the hidden things
and i'll love her like we choose.
petal over petal,
they turn and live and sigh.
they remind me of her skin
a soft, sweet lullaby.
i'd sink into her forever
and never want to leave.
of course, she makes it easy
to love her like i breathe.

poetry
some poetry
floods my veins
easier than others
and i wonder
(sometimes)
at the reasoning of it.
is it always my heart?
or is it
different?
does it vary?
if so, greatly?
i'm so
tired
of feeling and
feeling and
feeling and
feeling
e v e r y t h i n g.
i can reach out and touch
the stars
but the bars
of the world will
cage me
and the cloak of the night will
shade me
and as i call for
someone to
aid me,
i look inward
and my poetry glows faintly.

exception
there is something so beautiful
about being someone's exception.
"i hate people"
but then they look at you
and their eyes soften
and you know you are the exception.
"i can't talk to people right now"
but then they listen to you intently
and chime in with witty comments that
make your eyes sparkle with laughter and love.
"my social battery is so dead, i can't be around anybody"
but then they cuddle up with you
and you think to yourself
how lovely it is
to be their exception.

judgment
there's drilling
in my head
in between
my eyebrows
and i feel like a gavel
pounds there,
breaking me
into fulfilling
the judgment
you've sentenced me to.

love like water: echo on narcissus
i like to think
i love like a mountain
and not like a wave.
water is fine, but not as love.
it slips away
too easily.
my love is
vain in the way of water,
his love for
anyone other than himself
washing away easily,
the focus of his love always being himself.

my sisters don't understand
how i can keep loving
someone who doesn't
truly love me back.
his love is like water.
when he pours himself over me, i feel so blessed and clean and perfect.
when he takes it away, i feel cold and sullen and unworthy.
with his wash-away love, he makes me stay.
my love is needed to balance him out.
so i love him like a mountain stream,
a current forever present,
and hope that
i'll one day weather down
his self-centered nature
and finally see the love i deserve
shining up at me at last
like a smooth pebble
from a clear stream.

skipping stones
if you've ever wondered
how the pebbles in a stream
fit together so perfectly
and mold to fit your hand
when you move to throw it,
listen to the song it sings
as you toss it to the depths.
quiet your mind and
become as still as the trees.
the pebble
is not first
a pebble.
first, it is a rock.
it is jagged and sharp and something
the water can't help but roll around,
bouncing it from
one current to another,
letting it collide and mingle with other rocks
in the same journey along the way
before viciously ripping them apart
and setting the rock on a new path,
making it tumble and spiral and spin until
it is weathered smooth.
so when you pick it up,
the pebble sings its journey
of how a rock became a pebble
and how a pebble will become a stone
and how a stone will become sand
and how that sand will become
the blanket the pebbles and stones sleep on,
waiting for someone
with a traveler's soul like theirs
to come, pick them up, and skip them till they drown
and come back
and become everything they've been told they'll be.

everywhere
there is magic here
for those with enough
starlight in their hearts,
moonbeams in their eyes,
and shadows in their souls to find it.
for magic only comes
to those whose spirits call to it.
"like calls to like".
remember who you are and what you've become.

strong
don't mistake my silence for strength.
there is weakness, cowardice, and pain
hidden in the words I never say.
don't mistake my open mouth and mind for
weakness.
I know kindness and I know pain.
do not make the mistake
of thinking that I am
anything other than myself.

by the light of the oil lamp
i press a kiss to your cheek
and the world
clicks into place.
i slide my arms around
your sweater-clad body
and i can't imagine
a better place to be
than nestled up in you.
i breathe in the essence of you
and light the love in my chest.