The Voice, YWP's Premiere Publication



Each month, Young Writers Project publishes the best work -- words, images and sound -- of this community. This premiere publication features writing from community members from all over the world and reaches 15,000 individual IP addresses a month, a good deal more than 15,000 humans who spend a lot of time reading AND they come back to finish! Help us get more readers! Spread the word -- and the link: https://youngwritersproject.org/thevoice -- on social media, on your email signature, in emails to friends!

The selections for this magazine are made by YWP staff, volunteer professionals, mentors and Community Leaders on the site. If you'd like to participate, contact Susan Reid. 

Feel free to add sound and images to your posts! That will make this magazine even better.  To view it, click here.





 


 
Aug 16

The Voice



Special Summer of Stories issue! Enjoy!


 
Jun 04

The Voice - June 2018



A TRIBUTE to MGMC (& all about Voices for Change!)


 
Apr 23

The Voice - April/May 2018



Enjoy this beautiful issue of The Voice! 

 
Mar 19

The Voice -- March 2018



WHAT DO YOU THINK? Please click "read more" and put a comment on the side. THANKS. Your reactions are important. Be heard.
Mar 19

The Voice -- March 2018

 The Voice -- February 2018
 


 

WHAT DO YOU THINK? We need you to comment and tell us what you think of this month's magazine. THANKS. Just comment on the side.


 
Feb 08

The Voice- February 2018

Jan 16

The Voice - January 2018

Dec 05

Nov/Dec 2017 Issue

Sep 05

I am breathing.

I think
I almost stopped
breathing.
I am gasping
through pouring rain.
I open my eyes
—my mouth—
and 
breath.
I am 

breathing.

I feel

a heart

beating.

I am

breathing.


 
Sep 05
g_rob02's picture

Poetry and Tragedy

Poetry and tragedy 
                             go hand in hand. 
but never deal in tragedy,
                                         when you've had too much to think. 

 
Sep 05
Fiona Ella's picture

addiction

it's my first grade of the year.
solid 100 percent
and i feel a thrill as i look at it even though
i hate this system. 
and it's not even a thrill because it's a good grade
because god only knows 
that grade has a whole semester to go down.
it was only based off of a few things anyway. 
no, 
that thrill came from the simple reality of 
having a grade
that curse of last year. 
that reinstituted prison. 
i hate having grades. 
i hate the way having your learning evaluted
kills it. 
i hate how subjects i used to like
are converted into numbers on a page
and those numbers determine my future. 
i hate having to obsess over these,
and i gloried in having a whole summer free of it. 
and now the prison is back, 
and i welcome it with open arms. 
because i no longer know how to evaluate myself
without it. 
Sep 05

Beautiful Dying

He's standing there again.
Right in front. 

Stomach fit full of bees 
and a shirt that smells strongly 
of 2am books 
and burnt morning coffee. 

Your minutes turn to hours,
hours to days,
days to years. 

Where have you gone
with your green velvet pants
and a hole in the right side of your head?

Please tell me what it's like
to hold the whole world
in your ears. 

No, don't tell me. 

Show me.

Show me what it's like to slip
your silent honey fingers
into someone else's overwhelming
life. 

 
Sep 04
wondering about rain's picture

The dark of an unlit candle

All the flowers in the world
wouldn't have been enough,
not nearly.
Not enough to cover the gentle
valleys of your heart or the
bed of candles lit as prayers
and silent whisperings to something
bigger than you. 
All the time in the world won't
erase the ever present
smell of the kicthen as you,
small but a force of nature,
worked through out it.
The quiet shuffle at 5 am
as you awoke to a day as I am sure
had been done your whole life.
Wisely crafted from years past
I felt you always saw
right through people.
"Oh Mija I have missed you".
I have missed you too but now
the words are spoken
to an empty chair and the 
quiet flickering of candle light.




 
Sep 04

Women Stand Up

At camp we play a game,
Called Women Stand Up.
We stand up for what we’ve accomplished,
We stand up when we’ve been hurt,
And we stand up for our truth.

Women stand up.
All of the intelligent engineers,
Painters, and singers.
The brilliant architects, chemists,
Mechanics and dancers.
Stand up,
Not just because you are a women,
But because you’ve accomplished something amazing,
You have been you.

To the non-believers,
Don’t be surprised at what we can do.
For the world tries to seperate women and education,
Just as much as they try to seperate art and science.
Unfortunately for them,
We can’t be classified as “art people” or “science people”,
We can't be stopped by your inability to innovate,
We aren’t just “people”.

The headlines won’t read: “First women to do…”,
They will simply state: “First to do…”.
Because when we succeed,
Sep 04

Into the Lonely Woods

One step, then another
I follow the well-loved path
into the lonely woods

I take in the scent - 
ever so faded, but familiar somehow
wavering through the air
in the light fog

I can hear voices, but not their words
Many voices, woven together in their lack of language and meaning
Voices I do not know
but know the pain of

I come to a crossroads, and do not hesitate - 
for if I did, I would never make my choice - 
and continue forward on

No matter where I turn
or which path I take
they all bear the footprints
of those who came before me

I wonder what the first person to come here did
If, with nothing to lead them
they could not find their way
and withered to nothing

I never see a soul - 
only shadows, hidden in the corners of my eyes
and in between blinks
I know they are there, nevertheless
for their voices never stop
Sep 03

Marble Doves Can't Fly



Your salt and pepper purled carpets
smelled of sultry dandelion fluff,
the sun illuminating the cinnamon-brown
lincon-log blocks resting on the dove-threaded swells.
(Is there peace in a metric rectangle, perched on the clashing seas?)

The bark-brown seeds would take to their feathers
as we kicked through their sunny fluff,
I’d see the full-seeded flower heads as a globe
where the equidistant inhabitants raised their wizened brows in triumph.
(How long ago did you realize the world could never be that sage?)

The dandelions are stitched 
into the foreground of my memory,
though even then I knew why the fences wore black arrows:
the stones in this meadow were graves.
(Did you know any of the dead, or are you searching again for kinder strangers?)

We searched for the most distant date, 
one eights, one sevens, last two digits trailing,
Sep 03
Quella's picture

The Sweetness We Forget

Perhaps death smells like autumn leaves,
maple hands gently fallen,
bodies curled in sweet blood hues
Laid at the feet of their mothers.


What a wonder it is that we try so hard to pretend we will never fall from our trees.
It seems such a tragedy to leave this world bare,
To be swallowed by snow.
We forget it seems,
That there is a sweetness in
The bloom that comes later
And a sweetness too in the falling,
In returning to the earth
In red.
Sep 03

starstruck



...i thought the stars had alligned
i saw galaxies in your eyes
you brought only tears to mine
i guess love really is blind...
 
Sep 03

I Once Killed a Butter Fish

The time was ten,
the sun bright, cruel-almost terrifying.

The light wasn't silver or gold,
the light wasn't blue or jade,
it was only a sharp, clear air that
somehow blinded me through each thickened cloud.

The time was ten one.
Ten two,
ten three and four,
ten five,
ten eight, ten thirteen...
The time was soon to be ten twenty,
and inevitably to be ten fifty.

What we called "butter fish"
would fly up in the air when we kicked
at their piles.
Their dead, colorful piles.

The butter fish were red and green,
they drifted with incredible grace and control
all the way to our tiny feet.

The brown ones didn't fly.
The brown ones would melt
into the earth if you stepped on them too hard.
The brown ones were weak and rotting,
dead and dry...

The butter fish, though beautiful,
were fragile in many ways.