Young Writers Society

The peeling skin is falling off of screaming faces
Distant places where the past has long faded
Making flakes out of skin and flakes from people
Trying hard to beat in reason
To beat out treason
To abstract a constructed world of human being
In this, we are all seeing
The truth
Way ahead of time.

The scars are tacky, vulgar and blotchy
And the scraps of air and metal that fill me
(All the things that dwell within me)
Everything, I suppose, it’s not all beautiful and charming
For my life’s a mixture of things normal, things alarming
For whom I am and where I stand
And all what I’ve come to believe
Is something that I’ve learned to keep inside myself
To sit and boil, sit and seethe
While I lie
Behind the times

It’s crushing and I’m frail
In a hurricane of mortality
A mosaic of retaliatory
In hand-holding with sin on the quest for the Holy Grail
But as I said, I am frail
And I’m screaming, watching skin and beauty
Both fall – delicately flitting like leaves in smooth weather
But I’d much rather be silent, as in stunning
As in strutting through each shunning bit of work

And as all things shed in human kind,
We never appear to be behind
For we are all ahead of the time
A tick-tock
Double door knock
In the sacrifice of rhythm for the rhyme



not my best, but i feel the need to post a poem every day. critiques are welcome, but on reread i felt the need to beg you not to judge me by it.