Young Writers Society

Pictures

They stare at you with lifeless eyes,

The smiles they bear, frozen in time

Their figures unable to mouth their fading cries

As if sharing their wars would be a crime.

Behind each mask is a different hell

These cheery smiles all, or will know they run alone

And the dark circles around their eyes cannot tell

How far they all feel they are from home.

The shadows screaming in his head,

Or the fears creeping until her bed

The trapped feeling the young girl bears

Or the empty holes enamored in his stares.

The memory was just another in a thousand

Those who knew them claimed it as an delinquent juvenile

The scathed field blistered and burned by man’s hand

But on the pictures, they simply smiled.

Rain 

Fallen angels whispering their blessings 

 The innocent tears of forgotten beings

They never grow, never are given a chance

Dreaming in their gloom, turning dust to gold

Unscathed in their spiritual trance**

In the absence of a heart the tears run down cold

Each echo of their life shattering in a million droplets

Each silently wailing for any creature’s help.

Exhaustion finally drives them into the drain’s roaring current

As every little parcel of their being drowns in the same torrent.

Their wails are then scattered by some wind’s gust

But in their mislead, intertwining hearts- lies the same thrust

That the sun will assure their rebirth to all

But the scars remain from their vertiginous fall

And the hope they lived on for days, gnawing on to diminish the pain

Is wasted. Cause no sun warms the content of a drain. 

Winds

The wind blows across stiffened, burnt trees

Whistling for worlds to mend, across burnt cities

I have seen wind before. Have I listened to it though? 

Have I truly, or is it just a lie that I sow..?

The fact I’m so good at lying, is quite a simple fact

My mind gaslights itself so that I believe I am right

But do you care for bristlings? Wind in the leaves,

Or is it just too little a thing for when the wind grieves

Do you feel the beating, or the riddled seas

Or even the gentle touching of the frostied breeze

Do you wonder what kind of dislocated cries it holds

Or the tempests, the maelstroms, the eruptions it has behold

Do you feel the taste of blood, the ashes in your mouth

The freezing, stark cold of a flood, or the spice of the South

The scent of death, slick and hollow; or the one of disease

But no. For you, wind is just a voiceless whisper in the leaves.

Listen to you heart