Young Writers Society

Ah, the inspiration of bad news. Enjoy

I'll Lower My Voice For The Winter

Its always more dramatic if I lie on the floor,
looking up at the separatist light.
It states its opinion like it knows mine,
"If only..."

Desire is off to find an open space to rent,
blank and uninviting to visitors.
It hangs cobwebs like neon exit signs,
leave me be.

I'll resist as you do the same,
and I'll sleep like you never thought to.

It was never so drastic to leave the walk,
say a few words, never speak again.
Wishing the grass would die on the way,
it won't.

Frontline of my mind, last thought to die,
like spineless impulses playing dead.
They scream for recognition hoarsely,
"We were here too..."