Young Writers Society

a child finds their first love in a book
maybe a life they dream of
or a far better world

we sow our lives into pictures
in curly childish fonts
to grow something sweeter

children are farmers of the fantastic
we water our dreams nightly
watch them like dragon's gold

by our logic adults should have them grown
but what adult plants their dreams
in storybooks and tales

what happens to us children
that we no longer farm

sorry i'm Pathetic
i guess i outgrew my worth
it was easier
back when i could swallow Fear
instead of choking on it

it was expected
we all have a Breaking Point
mine waited for years
but the fear overtook me
and the crack Defiled me

i begged You for help
but it didn't matter then
it was my problem
until the day it hurt You
and Your gift became Tarnished

You tried to Hide me
and told me i was normal
but the day I Broke
i betrayed Your hiding place
only then i needed help

funny how it now matters
because i got in the way
got help to save Your image

Take a breath; tell me what you see
The fire forever blazes
Choking a thousand faces
Take a breath; tell me what you see

The fire forever blazes
I see you in the ash
The flames lick; you don't thrash
The fire forever blazes

I see you in the ash
Our embers are your home
Through our heartbreak you roam
I see you in the ash

Our embers are your home
What are you doing in this place?
The smoke has scarred your pretty face
Our embers are your home

What are you doing in this place?
I wish I could save you
Start our lives anew
What are you doing in this place?

I wish I could save you
Open your eyes please
Give my hand a squeeze
I wish I could save you

Open your eyes please
Take a breath; tell me what you see
Is one of those things me?
Open your eyes please

Take a breath; tell me what you see
The fire forever blazes
Choking a thousand faces
Take a breath; tell me what you see

Was it worth it?

My ice cream has melted,
have I had enough or
should I lick the mess off my fingers
to hold on to an already fading taste.

April was slow to come,
fast to leave,
and I am sitting in its wake.

Was it worth it?

Am I a better poet than I was
on March 31st
or April 1st
or April 2023?

If you held me side by side
to the poet I used to be
would you see a difference?

Was it worth it?

I spun tales of abuse,
of daring escape,
of being terrified of what you could become,
of trying to live with who you are.

And in the sidelines I doodled hearts,
and sung of heartache and healing
and lost loves maybe found.

Was it worth it?

I wrote sixty-two poems in April,
in a corner where everyone watched.
Is that what poetry is now?
My spectator sport?

Tomorrow the curtains will fall.
Will I continue to write backstage
or will I keep listening for the audience?

Was it worth it?

I learned to tell a story in lowercase,
I learned to speak in abstracts,
I learned to weave in strict lines,
I learned how to breathe clearly.

And it is all these things and many more,
that make me cradle this April to my chest.
My sweat has made it precious.

Was it worth it?

And tomorrow comes May 1st,
the ice cream parlors will close,
and I will left with a sticky cup
and strawberry-scented arms.

Maybe I shamefully suckle my fingers,
maybe I toss the cup out.
But I smile at the sidewalk forward.

Thank you, NaPo, you were worth every second.