Poetry

Her blood is engraved into these pages

Slowly unraveling the truth

Exposing every flaw in perfection

Every short-lived high

Every precocious low

Has driven the knife deeper into her lingering past

the numbers scream

I’m not enough

I’m not enough

I’m not enough

we are not composed of numbers

so why do we let them define us?

(YWP Editor's Note: Congratulations to Csquared! This poem is the November 2025 winner of  The Tomorrow Project's monthly awards!

Past the burning day, 

at bedtime when I shrug off sleep, 

when I've got school the next morning, and I shouldn't be here, 

Instead of studying for the test

that I completely forgot about,

that is first period tomorrow morning,

I'm going to write a poem.

Because what else would I do? Study?

Hell no.

Let's be serious here.

The stars are reflected in the glimmer of the headlamp's light on the snow

And the air is frozen-- it feels like the sensation of holding your hand under water so burning hot that

it begins to feel cold

somehow.

There’s a lot I wanted to do,

but somehow my feet stayed still.

Days slipped through my fingers

like sand I forgot to hold.

People ask where I’ve been—

I tell them I’m “fine,”

living in a city I built

I never like the face I meet

when morning drags me from my sheets.

The mirror shows a version

that I swear I never chose—

tired eyes, heavy lines,

a stranger wearing all my clothes.

Peering through my window 

is someone peering back at me 

But do not fret, for it’s no man,

It’s Mrs. Chickadee -

And - i think She wants some seeds

Our world is filled with such

Delicate things, such

Beautiful little lights we

Find glittering in our eyes and

Try to tuck

you’re perfect.

all of you.

and i don’t need to say more

but i will

because i want to write about every one of you

Deft

Finicky

Supercilious

Pulchritudinous

Cassock

Dianthus

Diffident

Omnipotent

Ebullient

Jaunty