Young Writers Society

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i.

A taxidermy bear with a Christmas wreath
around its neck sits near the front door.
For some reason, I don't expect it
whenever I enter the house,
but closing my eyes
is enough to keep me safe.

II.

Table talk about the intangibility of motivation
wastes thirty minutes extra because apparently,
"you can't lie to yourself" while taking a poll
about standardized testing.

III.

Their rambling is math rock chords
with a few misplaced strings,
and apparently taking dinner up to my room
isn't appropriate.
"Stupid dumb teenage angst
from a stupid dumb teenager".

IV.

Thanks, mom,
you were the one who told me
life was pointless too.
But that's whatever.

V.

Nothing slips from my mouth
as I head to my room.

room

I.

Homeless men sing Radiohead
while I browse the internet
and constantly tap my desk.
"Being bored means you're angry"
waiting for time to unravel,
become undone like a Weezer song
done to death.

II.

I scroll through
my social network feed.
"Yungins dont hav 2 regret nything".

III.

Yeah, well, we all have shame.
I haven't sold my virgin body and soul
but my words and thoughts flow fluently,
making fun of fluorescent light and tear
filled nights people have witnessed,
or those who disappointed their parents
by wanting to grow up fast.

IV.

Yet it's pretty bad I don't regret it.
Poor actions make you a poor person,
not remarks. Indulgence from God,
everybody,
let's cheer
by making me push off homework
one last night and say sorry
as much as possible.

V.

I comment "lol",
let everybody know how ridiculous it is,
and head to bed.

school

I.

This girl stares at me,
after professing her hatred for me
nineteen hundred times.
People don't understand
"K" doesn't end arguments
on a friend's status
about underage drinking.
Say that I don't have friends,
when I have a moderate amount.
Whatever floats your boat.

II.

Halfway through Drama,
an improv Dating Game takes place.
Contestant #2 plays an old British lady,
and nails it, until she says
"Oh, I'm South African"
when she was asked
if she was a Brit.

III.

"Yeah, so you're British!"
the class goes quiet.
Didn't know she was from there.

IV.

My day ends quickly
because I don't quite understand sensitivity,
so I'm sorry
I guess?

friends

I.

Phone Yahtzee consumes my time
while I wait outside,
a slight chill present.

II.

We start walking down the street,
jokes about summer and tests,
things long past.
I explain my kink for drowning,
because it would be cool
just to kick yourself out there on a plastic board
and know that you're surrounded by nothing.
And that you're soon going to die,
but I don't like that part.
They don't either.

III.

It's weird that we can talk about anything,
yet knowing how crap everything is.
I keep my eyes low the remainder of the time,
but I can't quite close them.
Awkward silence backs up
this freestyle of voice.

IV.

er,

V.
...

life

i.

"I'msorryi'msorryi'msorry
for lying about being sorry.
I have a lot of nerve
but it's whatever.
One can only say so many
things to excrete dominance
all over me so I look like
something from a kid eating plastic,
it's insane.
And it's weird because I can't sit alone
and just unreasonably crap on myself anymore,
it feels good.
A very beautiful butterfly
that feels great yet I'm
scared of time
and moving
and life,
but it's whatever.
Always was."

II.

I follow this with more rants
and thoughts
about not thinking.

III.

We follow this with dry laughs
and a walk around the park.

IV.

Yep.

everything

it's funny to hold things without hands,
or, better yet,
running into the house and high fiving a bear
while hustling up to the room
and listening to the same old music
backed up by birds chirping
since I finally opened my window
after three months.
I thought it was time to find courage
to enjoy myself and life,
and think
not about friends or insecurity
or motivation or happiness,
but the fact that
I have let three birds into the house.