YWP Newsletter - 03/04/2019


Hello again everyone, I'm excited to be back and editing this month! Like the previous editor, I was inspired by Alexandra Contreras - Montesano's Poetry Workshop . I was fortunate to be able to attend and write at this workshop, where I was struck by the strength and beauty of the poetry shared there; that of other writers, and the participants. Alexandra spoke of the power of writing from personal experience to create a rich poem that connects with its readers. For this issue, I have chosen poems that I feel emulate at least an aspect of that aim, whether they bring a personal honesty, emotional poignancy, or a strong self awareness, these pieces are beautifully powerful.


As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.

This Issue features the creations of: eyesofiris, Graceful, Harper the Lee, k.daigle, Lady Midnight, Nathanial Steele, Rovva, and Rubber Soul

YWP HAPPENINGS: 

Writing on the Roof #4 : Writing Like the Beat Poets  with Angela Palm - Saturday, March 16th, 10am - 11:30am  

Special SoundCheck on Social Justice lead by YWP's Charlotte Hughes, Rebecca Orten, and Rajnii Eddins - March 21
6 - 8pm 

Check out YWP Events 2019 for more information on these events and other ongoing opportunities

(Heading Art Credit: Tim S. ) 
 

By LadyMidnight


I love with my hands
When my heart has nothing left to give.
I reach out to those flailing on the edge of  a distant darkness
That threatens to swallow them up.
My scarred hands hold them
And my calluses mold their memories
Into hope and possibilities.

I love with my head
When my hands have slipped away.
I love thoughts and odd little quirks that  bubble to the surface of the world.
I love crafting words into their shapes
And spilling thousands of ideas into the unprinted universe
Only to have them inked there forever.

I love with my spirit
When my thoughts become muddled.
My passion loves the world and tendrils of my dreams drift into depression.
I love without question because everything deserves a chance
To show its magic and beauty.

But you say I do not love you.
I did love you once long ago.
But you broke my heart into a thousand shimmering pieces with your harsh words.
And now a new love is growing

(Photo Credit: Graceful )
 
By Harper the Lee

You stood by my side.
I held your hand,
Clutching it like a small child.

A drumming echoed in my
fingertips. The same 
Drumming I felt when 
We stepped on that rollercoaster.
When we walked into the first 
Day of middle school.

And as we stepped onto 
The dock, the old, withered,
worn out dock
Something felt.

Different.

We had been there 
A million times. 
Our footprints had left
Traces, on the history
Of that old time dock.

History.

A boat in the distance.
I was ready to get on that
Boat with you.
It neared us, an unfamilar
But welcomed prescence.

Unfamiliar.

I was excited. You were excited.
There was a connection,
A tie, a rope 
That pulled us closer 
And closer to that loan
Sailboat in the distance.

Little did you know, my friend,
That that rope was tied
Around myself as well.
I suppose the feeling wasn't
Mutual.

And you, my friend, weren't
Ready to get on that sailboat.
With me.

So you took it upon yourself
To untie that rope.
But in order for you to get
On that boat without me,
I had to help you untie it.

You asked me for that sacrifice.
And I wasn't ready.
But our history, our 
Bond.
My love. 

So, alas, I helped you untie
That wretched rope.
And you thanked me.

But nothing could heal
My resent for you,
Other than you coming back
And retying that rope.

You seemed happy.
I watched you skip away
As the sailboat pulled into
The dock. 

And you got on that sailboat.
I could feel your fingers slipping
Away, although you had already let
Go.

I missed you. 
And maybe you missed me.
But in a way, you were the one
Who untied that rope.
And it's okay.

You didn't even say goodbye...

(Photo Credit: Rubber Soul)
By eyesofiris


Because sometimes 
I get this feeling 
in my chest, 
as if my heart is 
in a locked drawer, 
and no one in 
the world has a key. 

Because I've wished 
on every eyelash and 
flickering flame 
that one day 
I might hear 
your voice say my name. 

Because I spend my nights
scribbling half-full poetry 
into faded notebooks
that are too quiet
for me to share any secrets with. 

Because 4 is my lucky number-
I was born on the 4th in '04, 
there are 4 other people in
my family, I write 4 poems
about you every day. 
I think about college every 
4 minutes, 
and there are 4 letters
in my name.

Because my clock is always
off a minute, 
can never get the answer right, 
has slight antisocial issues,
can sometimes be passive aggressive, 
and might
be my soul as an object. 

Because words
can be measured, 
because their weight is so delighfully solid,
because they'll never let me 
down, because they always murmur
your name, 
because they catch me when 
I trip or fall or skip or 
land face down in muddy puddles. 

Because I'm writing 
this poem, because somewhere
in the world, 
another little girl
is dreaming. 

(Art Credit: Nathanial Steele)

Tiny Write Spotlight

"I want the color, warmth, burst, bloom, and wings of spring,
but patience is virtue
and what good is there waiting for the sun
when the moon still shines?" 
- Rovva
 
Think of a monster.
Why is it a monster?
- k.daigle                                                                                                                  

A friendship is like a sunrise:
It begins with fire
And ends with a star.
- LadyMidnight

 

YWP NEWSLETTER - 2/26/19

Hello writers, artists, and readers to the Newsletter! This week's writing features Abecedarian-style writing, introduced in Alexandra Contreras-Montesano's Writing on the Roof workshop Feb. 23. Check the upcoming events for more great opportunites to grow as a writer!

Skip this next part if you're a YWP newsletter regular.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weekly newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!

This week's featured authors and photographers are: LadyMidnight, abartell, angelaweasley, Graceful, eyesofIris, beautiful, Hazel. C., SodaPop, and futurefemalepitcher.

YWP Happenings:

Coming up! Writing on the Roof Workshops!! 4th workshop: "Writing Like the Beat Poets" with Angela Palm! March 16th, 10:00 - 11:30 am, rooftop conference room, Karma Bird House, 47 Maple Street, Burlington. Learn more and SIGN UP workshop #4 here.

Next month- YWP's SoundCheck!! Explore social justice on Thursday, March 21 from 6-8 pm at Burlington City Arts, 135 Church St., Burlington, VT!

Read YWP's digital magazine, The Voice!

Security
by angelaweasley

Airports feel like slipping
beneath security lines and
constantly losing purchase on people.

Darting over connected seats to glass windows,
everywhere is somewhere to watch you leave.

Finding which plane to track
gets difficult as
horizons blur
into shapes of you.

Just another few years to
kill waiting for you in the
lobby of departures.

Maybe next time you’ll get me a
new apology from the airport gift shop. I keep the last
one with me at night
pretending I’m still the child you bought it for. Sometimes I
question if you
remember me.

Sometimes I question if I lost you in
the sky or if it was on the
underground train to terminal C. I don’t remember
very well. But I can’t seem to forget

why we say goodbye in front of the full body
x-ray machine. I always hope the security line is long because
you have to hug me for longer, before you
zip up your suitcase, wave, and slip away.

(Photo credit: abartell)
Wishes
by eyesofIris

age 5, standing
before a cloudy mirror, 
can't decide between purple or 
dark red hair bows.
eleven minutes pass, 
finally time to leave. 
go on, let's 
hurry, hurry, 
Iris,
jagged stickers are still my favorite
keepsakes, love is twirling around in a tutu. 
liquid dreams fill up my bones, 
marshmallow melodies play in my mind. 
nudges from reality sneak past
over meadows of thoughts. 
purple bows rule over my hair, 
queens of the umber waves. 
resting on my wrist are
seven bracelets, a pinkbluegreenyelloworange
titanic monstrosity, all the color in the world. 
uncloaked, my soul shows a thousand
vivid candles, all on fire and 
waiting to be wished upon. 
xylophone lullabies, blow out
your candles, darling girl, watch as your wish
zips into the cloudless sky.

(Photo credit: Graceful)
Beasts of Blood
by Hazel. C.

All it takes is one fly in the web
beckoning the stabbing spider who
carries a cacophony of
deadly jaws and
electric yellow warnings of
fiery venom that liquifies me in a single
gaping bite.

Her window - wide eyes reflected mine,
intricately cracked and mended in a pattern
just clean enough to hold.

Kin are the stitches to an embroidered 
love: stiches fray as
moths gnaw at any bright perfection. 

Never take pearly bindings as an end
on which to balance your happiness;
perhaps dove wings shall spread,
quitely pumping the blood that
reddens in an instant
soaking the web of doily - lace.

Tangled in the glimmering silks of
unfulfilled whispers between wings,
venom beats with the reverberations of a failing heart.

(Photo credit: beautiful)
 

Tiny Writes
a celestial trio

Where does the Sun go on a rainy day? Does it run and hide, finding somewhere else to play? Maybe it goes to hang out with the moon. Or maybe it sleeps, waiting till noon. When the clouds part and the shower ceases. And back is our wonderful warm playful sun.
-SodaPop

I begged the moon to stay, but it kept on getting smaller 
Before one day it was gone.
Then it came back and my smile was almost as bright as 
The moon its self.
-Graceful

The sun and moon are siblings. 
And the stars are the blanket that keeps them inside the warm family bed.
-futurefemalepitcher

 

YWP NEWSLETTER - 2/18/19

Happy February, everyone! We'll make it through 2019 somehow! Let's savor our last beautiful Vermont winter weeks. . .until the dreaded mud season. Has anyone been celebrating those fun little holidays? ;) See the last newsletter for a list of them.

Skip this next part if you're a YWP newsletter regular.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weekly newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!

This week's featured authors and photographers are: fran.cescaRovva, beautiful, mythicalquill, adalet, abartell, irishjayne, Love to Write, hmseymour, and InezL

YWP Happenings:

Coming up! Writing on the Roof Workshops!! 3rd workshop: "Exploring Poetry" with Alexandra Contreras-Montesano! Febuary 23rd, 10:00 - 11:30 am, rooftop conference room, Karma Bird House, 47 Maple Street, Burlington. Learn more and SIGN UP workshop #3 here.

Next month- YWP's SoundCheck!! Explore social justice on Thursday, March 21 from 6-8 pm at Burlington City Arts, 135 Church St., Burlington, VT!

Read YWP's digital magazine, The Voice!

Honey, All The Kids Are Robots
by Rovva

I am not a robot.
You would believe the opposite,
but I devour the humanity you leave behind.
The world outside of our cages is cruel
and condescending.
Mom and Dad don't know how to tell their kids
that we won't live forever,
so they make us feel as though we are invincible
even though our fragile minds are defeated with repetition
again and again
and again...and again...
Ah, tell me about it.
They tell us that one day,
we’ll become just as great,
but we don’t want to become great,
we just want to become something.
Many want to become anything other than Mom and Dad
and that’s the sad truth.
They’re supposed to set a prime example,
But their artificial minds have been permanently wired.
There’s no change in circuit.
It’s just the same old dialogue.
Our brains are being ground by the media
and the program is forced down our throats.
We are given half-truths
and if not that,
then lies piled onto a spoon and chugga-chugga-choo-choo!
Here comes the lie train!
Open wide!
Chomp!
We gobble it down because we're all just children
and we are the children of children.
How could any of us know better
when our young minds are taught by those feeding us
who are the better liars
and those that criticize us
who are the better judgement?
We are programmed like robots
to do what we were born to do;
make money,
follow the rules,
stay in line,
make a change,
but keep your mouth shut,
wear a tie if you’re a boy,
wear a skirt if you’re a girl,
and if you’re a boy, pull up your sleeves.
if you’re a girl, pull up your stockings.
Don’t show your legs too much.
You look like a hooker.
Don’t wear makeup.
You look like a girl.
Our parents scowl when they see us
because they keep thinking we’re caught on overdrive,
but how could we be okay?
Our metal minds are melding
and we’re beginning to think that it’s all wrong.
The system is corrupted
and we’ve been told to just fall in line,
but we know so well that it won’t change for us.
We know what you did.
There's an error in your data,
but you have chosen corruption
over correction.
We are surrounded by machines driving machines.
Oh, the disbelief and horror,
but they leave it to us to repair ourselves.
How can we know better
when they refuse to let us know
and their regrets are passed down
through their most deadly lie,
love.
What kind of love is so unempathetic?
Could it really be unconditional
when the children of children
are playing in a dollhouse together
and the moment one steps out from behind the plastic doors,
the other shuts them in.
I’m not a robot.
I’m as close to a human as I want to be.
I may not be fully mature,
but I know what I want.
I would rather live in blood and flesh
than be tangled in wires and code,
so I implore you,
check ‘yes’ if you’re not a robot.
Metal hearts may be durable,
but can they really ache?

(Photo credit: beautiful)
The Edge of Nowhere
Writing and art by mythicalquill

Colin’s jacket is dark, heavy, sturdy—although there’s barely a hint of a chill in the thick summer’s night air. Its many pockets are full, almost as jam-packed as the tattered suitcase that lays beside him on the dented metal bench. But despite his preparedness, his head echoes with the taunting notion that something has been forgotten, something left behind unnoticed in his rush to leave home that morning. Reaching into his jeans, he grabs the remains of a dry granola bar, half-eaten on a bus ride that seems ages ago.

Whatever it was he’d forgotten, it’s not snacks.

Munching away, Colin scruffs his boot against the grainy concrete as the music in his ears attempts to soothe his nervous, tapping fingers. The last bus has long since come and gone from this stop, the streetlamp to his left flickering tiredly against the sky. The moon, like his mind and his pockets, is full—it does much more to light the fields around him than its synthetic counterpart.

With its help, the earth is visible for miles. But his eyes are fixed at the horizon, where the sky is still painted a slowly deepening shade of violet. It’s there that the faint silhouette of a secluded city is visible, its tiny lit windows up in arms against the darkness and surrounding nothingness.

“The edge of nowhere’s such a beautiful place,” croons the melody in his ears, and as he picks up his case and takes his first steps away from familiarity, Colin can’t help but agree.
enough
by adalet

why do we romanticize dependency,
obsession, feeling incomplete?
why not celebrate
strength, independence,
being there for yourself?

is it because
our idea of the perfect romance
relies on insecurity?

if everyone believed
that they're enough,
that they don't need
someone else to complete them,
how many multi-million dollar
industries would collapse?

why does our world
revolve around insecurity?

will we ever be
satisfied with ourselves?

will we ever be enough? 

(Photo credit: abartell, art credit Katelyn Brown)
Ten things that made me want to cry today
by irishjayne

(ode to wednesday mornings)

one
I wake up at
six o’clock
and the sun hits my ceiling
and clings to my
eyelashes
so hard I have to blink it away

two
I stand in the majesty
of the same sun
streaming through the bathroom window
and it is
better, less of a sadness
and more of a heavy appreciation
as I spit foamy mint in the sink
let myself remember
you are in pajamas
the house is quiet
school is hours
away
and you miss your mother

three
an odd feeling of
motherliness
towards little piggy/little simon
and their unfortunately youthful faces
with the milkweed hair of
children
and the impending sense of doom
that surrounds them
reminding me why I hate movies
(lord of the flies)

four
a glowing
reward far off in the distance
the setting sun
of a western movie
after the battle is over/bandits stopped/conflicts resolved
and 3 days in nyc is this reward
playing music
and we can’t make it work
my heart sinks like a stone

five
music that rubs
salve into my aching heart
the majesty of wednesday mornings fades
into biology homework
an empty stomach
unwanted responsibilities and a torn sense of self

six
I wasn’t here friday
I have no idea what we’re doing
as I’m torn from my pedestal
torn away from preparedness
less like crying, more like I’m going to be sick.
I cover it well

seven
going to get a cough drop from the
nurse as my sickness lingers
in the back of my throat
and a friend makes me hold his posters/water-bottle/tape
when he sees me
I’m not mad,
just hurt,
but not hurt anymore
I say
but why didn’t I get invited to your
new year’s party?
and I’m a liar because it still hurts
because it’s confirmation of my suspicion
because it’s just. so. different.
and the explanation
makes sense in the way
geometry makes sense to me
I put the work in and ask for help and practice until it’s clear

eight
working working working
being alone in class again
I don’t normally mind
I have acquaintances/4 volumes of poetry/my writing
to keep me company.
but I’m still feeling raw.

nine
play rehearsal and the theatre company
after school
two hours/30 minutes
I sing amazing grace and then leave.

ten
school still in session, and the sky is clear.
tomorrow is thursday, and
thursdays don’t hold the same
promise/pain of wednesdays
(today did)
nothing is cancelled,
nothing is delayed.
I would appreciate a pause, a respite.
I would appreciate waking up on thursday to the same feeling of wednesday.

(Photo credit: Love to Write)

Tiny Writes

silence is deafening in a creative mind.
--hmseymour

one small act of kindness, like saying hello to a stranger on the street, can change someone's day, It can change their lives. So try little random acts of kindness whenever you get the chance.
--InezL

YWP NEWSLETTER - 1/28/19

Almost a month into 2019...wow! Time flies!

A recent Tiny Write of PeachesMalone's was this: "The world kind of sucks, but at least we have books and chocolate chip muffins." It's totally true, and a great perspective to have. So it got me thinking. What can we look forward to upcoming in February? What books and chocolate chip muffins do we have to excitedly anticipate in the future? I looked up some fun February hoildays, and here's what I found: 
Feb. 2 - Eat Ice Cream for Breakfast Day
Feb. 7 - Wave All Your Fingers at Your Neighbor Day
Feb. 15 - Singles' Awareness Day
Feb. 17 - Random Acts of Kindness Day
Feb. 22 - International World Thinking Day
Feb. 26 - Tell a Fairy Tale Day
Feb. 28 - Public Sleeping Day

Remember to celebrate these next month ;)

Skip this next part if you're a YWP newsletter regular.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weekly newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!

This week's featured authors and photographers are: Love to Write, lila woodard, Maisie N, abartell, Anna P., Graceful, _Eliza_Be_Ghostly_13, and Abriatis

YWP Happenings:

Coming up! Writing on the Roof Workshops!! 2nd workshop: "How to Write a Killer College Essay" with Denise Shekerjian! Febuary 12th, 6:30-8:00 pm, rooftop conference room, Karma Bird House, 47 Maple Street, Burlington. Learn more and SIGN UP workshop #2 here.

Vermont Writes Day is coming up- Feburary 1! Seven special prompts will be posted on YWP and on a VT Writes Day site -- vermontwritesday.org -- that will be open only on Friday! More information here.

Read YWP's digital magazine, The Voice!

Pride
by lila woodard

they can preach at me and scream all they want 
but no one will ever convince me 
that it is wrong 
to love the way that i do. 

(Photo credit: lila woodard)
Friday Night
by Maisie N

You want to go out
But I'd rather stay home
You want to get there fast
But I want to take it slow
Make everything last
But still live in the moment
Never give up on the past
Never leave thoughts unspoken.

Because I want to have my cake
And still eat it too
Have a hundred first kisses
Before I settle down with you
Have you stay with me forever
But let me wander as I do
Keep it easy and casual
In a life built for two.

I've got a thirst for adventure
I've got wind in my sails
I want to see the whole world
Search for a holy grail
They say it's rough out there
So I'll ignore those scary details
Because if I never try
Then how can I fail?

Because if you love too much
It might turn to hate
When you never speak
There's no wrong thing to say
And if you never leave home 
You can't show up late
But if you never take a chance
You never learn anything.

I'll take a walk on the wild side
As long as you play it cool
And I'll kiss you goodbye
On your walk home from school
Just promise you'll stick by me
Even when I play the fool
And that you'll have my back
Whether I win or I lose. 

You remind me of my youth
But just like grandpa always said
You won't get very far
Using your heart and not your head
There is a lot more to love
Than the way people look
And you can't learn what you like
Just by reading a book.

I like you and I like rock songs
I like rolling the dice
I like taking my chances
Without paying the price
They say that variety
Is the spice of life
So promise me you'll never
Step in the same river twice.

So let's grow old together
Let's make a ton of money
Let's always tell the truth
But laugh like it's funny
Let's keep asking questions
Never knowing each other completely
Let some matters remain mysterious
But still love each other deeply.

(Photo credit: abartell)
There's a Hole in My Shoe
by Anna P.

There's a rock in my sock,
and a hole in my shoe,
and the sky is too wet,
and the water too blue.

Now my ears feel numb,
and my fingers can't hear,
while my head's speaking nonsense,
and my eyes hold you near.

I think my life's headed south,
where the roses don't grow,
and the ponds shimmer lightly,
where the dark shadows go.

And the light it burns dark
where there's supposed to be day,
but my heart has grown hollow,
and I feel lost in each way.

I feel like a child,
afraid in the park,
and people can't see
that my mind has grown dark.

So here I lay crooked,
broke and misplaced,
while I ponder my thoughts,
imperfections and mistakes.

Maybe someday I'll be better,
fixed up and brand new,
but, until then,
there's a hole in my shoe.

(Photo credit: Graceful)

Tiny Writes

Are our dreams our future?
That tugging feeling of déjà vu,
when you meet a new person for the first time?
Our minds
are more powerful
asleep then when we are awake.
-_Eliza_Be_Ghostly_13

Helping people makes me happy. 
Helping people going through what I went through makes me happy.
Giving them hope and telling them about their future.
We all have potential.
I love telling people that.
Watching them light up
when they realize
there's a rope dangling to them
ready to lift them out of the pit they're in
and show them the world.
-Abriatis

YWP NEWSLETTER - 1/21/19

Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day! 

Martin Luther King Jr. was a leader and social activist for civil rights. Not only that, but he used his eloquent power with words to greatly influence the entire country. If you need a spark of inspiration, look no further than his "I Have a Dream" speech. Take some time to remember his noble work today.

And on the other hand, look outside and enjoy this beautiful Vermont snowstorm! Hopefully everyone is able to get outside at some point, whether to ski, sled, or just take a walk. It truly is gorgeous.

This next part just tells you about the newsletter; skip if you've read it already.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weekly newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!

This week's featured authors and photographers are: AboutToSnap, LadyMidnight, futurefemalepitcher, Maisie N, ImkatsoyeahBloodMoon825, and sophie.d

YWP Happenings:

Coming up! Writing on the Roof Workshops!! 2nd workshop: "How to Write a Killer College Essay" with Denise Shekerjian! Febuary 12th, 6:30-8:00 pm, rooftop conference room, Karma Bird House, 47 Maple Street, Burlington. Learn more and SIGN UP workshop #2 here.

Read YWP's new digital magazine, The Voice!

Eaten With a Sprinkle of Happiness
by futurefemalepitcher

Cake and ice cream
At a big birthday party with all my best friends.

Fresh strawberries
Ripe,
Sold in a small blue container with netting over it
At a sun filled farm.

A cool,
Perfect glass of ice-filled water
See-through with glass green stripes around it
After running around outside with cousins for hours.

Warm Christmas eve dinner
Roast chicken and
Bread with butter
And family.

A vanilla cupcake
With pink peaked frosting
Best eaten with a sprinkle of happiness.

Pancakes and bacon
Sizzling in the pan
With the anticipation of Sunday to come with it.

Olives
Found at an amazing smelling grocery store.
Picked out sneakily from the container.

Brownies
Choclatey goodness melting in my mouth
Tastes like a spring evening.

Hot peppermint tea
With the corny tags that say happy sayings
Drank in Grandma's kitchen
With your sister by your side
On a winter's afternoon.

Hotdogs
Sometimes eaten by a campfire on an impossibly warm night,
Sometimes eaten grilled on the stove after an impossibly late night.

Turkey and cheese
With a sprinkling of lettuce
Sandwich.
Soft, dry bread crinkling in my mouth.

Food was meant to be savored.


(Photo credit: LadyMidnight)
Scatterbrain
by Maisie N

Somewhere I lost my marbles
Immersed in thought, I missed my train
I have always been so forgetful
I always seem to show up late
Two steps behind everyone else
Doors slamming in my face
While you have sunshine, I have clouds
I'm stuck, stranded in the rain.

So maybe I'll leave for somewhere new
Your eyes will follow like the windows of an airplane
A sunset from a different point of view
Looking down on familiar landscapes
Passengers clamor for only a glance
Staring at the blues, oranges and pinks
But I will stay still and colorless
Worried of what people might think.

Of course I think you are beautiful
Of course I love it when you say my name
Of course what you say to me is meaningful
But a traveler I will remain
Gone for a while, never forever
But when I return, I won't be the same
What we feel becomes who we are
And when I stand next to you, I am nothing.

You were always so sharp and focused
While I was completely lost and distracted
You liked me because I was mysterious
A quality you found attractive
I was then, to you, a lingering question mark
There never was method to my madness
The truth is that you were perfect
While I was only practice. 

You see me again and, as if nothing has changed,
You go on asking endless questions
Tell me you're surprised at my apparent age
Ask me my fears, my loves, my regrets
Knowing I could answer 'you' for each one
Over a painful truth, I choose silence
It hurts even more to live without you
When I know I still have your interest.

Somewhere I lost my marbles
You found them scattered by the train tracks
You picked them up, one by one
Not as souvenirs, but as evidence
Studied them as pieces of myself
Only to discover a few you had missed
So I became a problem you could not solve
The bane and bite of your existence. 


(Photo credit: Imkatsoyeah)
try not to stare
by BloodMoon825

there they were, in my public library.
i wasn't quite sure if it was,
but it was later confirmed as i saw them walking with a teacher from my school.
i sucked in my breath as i passed them,
and looked at the ground.
and behind the fiction section,
a clear veiw in between two books,
i tried not to stare.

before it came out,
they were a normal person in my school.
i didn't know them.
i didn't really think much of them,
and by that i really didn't have anything nice to say about them,
or really any reason to judge.

but they had a secret.
one that made me wonder
how on earth all the anger and hatred in our world has come to this.
one that kept the clock ticking in my head,
my eyes on my paper,
but at the same time,
very far away from it.
one that made local newspaper headlines burst.
one that kept us on the edge that whole week and beyond that,
with police fully armed in the hallways,
one that kept our heads spinning with information
that we were never sure was true.

all of this had gone on a few weeks ago...
the news on fire,
the bullet proof vests and guns secured in belts of the police,
the weight of all of this dumped on every single 11, 12, 13, 14, and 15 year old in my school.
the teachers as well.

with that secret passed on with whispers and news headlines,
all coming at me at once,
i was afraid.

i was terrified.

not only of what could have happened,
but of what could happen tomorrow,
next wednesday,
any day that in the morning,
i would think was normal.

i didn't really know how i felt when i passed that kid.
all of these feelings of terror, disgust,
but also shame, that our society hasn't become one
that would keep kids safe,
mentally and physically.

so i just stayed quiet,
walking closer to my mom,
trying not to stare.


(Photo credit: Imkatsoyeah)

Tiny Writes

I've always wondered what the amortentia potion would smell like to me. If I had to guess: brisket in the oven, rosemary bushes, and soil after it rains.

Pluck those dandelions from the ground
And weave them into a flower crown
“Queen of the weeds” they all shout but
Sunshine and resilience call my name.

-sophie.d

YWP NEWLETTER - 1/15/19

This is the first YWP Newsletter of 2019!! Hurray!!

Let's take this new year to take advantage of all the wonderful opportunities our artistic abilites allow. We have art, writing, expression. . .there is so much young people can contribute to the world. Make it a resolution this year to try something new, whether a YWP workshop, a new format of writing, a new genere. And reflect and celebrate your accomplishments of 2018! 

Feel free to skip the introduction if you're a regular.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weekly newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!

This week's featured authors aand photographers are: Abriatis, wondering about rain, Dancer, Sydney_Kulis, Graceful, Erik Nyhagan, Love to Write, Nightheart

YWP Happenings:

This Saturday! Writing on the Roof Workshops!! 1st workshop: "The 'I' in Memoryscape" by Mindy Wong! January 19th, 10 am, rooftop conference room, Karma Bird House, 47 Maple Street, Burlington. Learn more and SIGN UP workshop #1 here.

Read YWP's new digital magazine, The Voice
 

Those Deer That Looked at You When Your Foot Was on the Pedal and Their Life Was in Your Hands
by wondering about rain

Roaming eyes scan a darkened
lawn to find the out-of-placer’s, the lost
hobos stuck in a world not made
for them, might as well park a tent
in the middle of the frost heaved
road where you begin and end.
A smear on the yellow line is that
fence-hopper’s only grave marker.
I watch them try and check either
way but this pavement apocalypse,
this zombie ridden highway is hungry.
Haunt me with the ghosts of your glaring
saucers, Alien and trying
to abduct me. I look down and up
again at the moon, half expecting it
fell from the sky to make a home in your skull.

(Photo credit: Dancer)
wondering about rain's picture
stay
by Sydney_Kulis

sk

usually writing helps me think,
i can get away from whatever is going on,
but with you swimming in my brain.
i feel lost.
i can’t get away.

this lake you’re swimming in
in my head
for all the people i’ve loved
you’re the longest to stay
splashing in the waves
running on the shore,
sitting on the dock
talking
telling me your thoughts

out of all of the people
you’ve stayed the longest
i hope you continue to stay
i want it to become your permanent living space,
not just a summer house
where you bring your clothes,
and shoes
and let them stay
i hope you continue to swim
in this lake
in my head
for those who i’ve loved
i hope that you,
out of everyone,
please stay

(Photo credit: Abriatis)
I Found the Road
by Graceful

I walked down the shaded road
The one with the heavily bent trees
The one with the course ground
The one where you find your true friends.

I found my own path
The one that leads next to you
The one that accepts me
The one that leads with no shame.

I believe in true beauty
And got the stars and moon
I got the sweet morning air
I got the love that I always wish for.

I lead my life through the bumps
And mistakes,
I let myself be strong
And take on those daggers.

I respected myself
And got the approval of me.

(Photo credit: Erik Nyhagan)

Tiny Writes

Lonely is
something that is stolen. 

In the morning
we are all thieves.
-Love to Write

naturalization. 
what an odd word. 
an odd word to match 
an odd ceremony 
to match
the very odd feeling inside.
-Nightheart

YWP Newsletter- 12/31/18

This is the almost-2019-issue!! (and the last December issue) 

I hope everyone enjoyed the long holiday break and got lots of cold outside play or cozy relaxing family time! 
For many the new year is a new start- a chance to try or change something in their life that they didn't get to last year. It's also a time for reflection, looking back on all the fun memories they made over the past year. Do you have a favorite memory or a new year's resolution? 

If you're already familiar with the YWP Newsletter, feel free to skip the introduction. 

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weekly newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!

This week's featured authors and photographers are: lia.chien, Olivia White, LadyMidnight, Drift, Abriatis, irishjayne, Anne with an 'e'adalet

YWP Happenings:

The next SoundCheck is happening Thursday, January 17th, from 6-8 pm at Burlington City Arts!!

Writing on the Roof Workshops!! 1st workshop: "The 'I' in Memoryscape" by Mindy Wong! January 19th, rooftop conference room, Karma Bird House, 47 Maple Street, Burlington. Learn more and SIGN UP workshop #1 here.

Learn about more upcoming and recurringYWP events here

Winter Came
by Olivia White 

Winter came 
and all around the table frost cracked and grew like fungus,
icicles crept down from the noses of frozen men and women,
who sat like chiseled marble statues.
Some, with their hands full of sugar plums
some, poised, porcelain teacups halfway to their mouths, 
the liquid turned to ice,
others, their mouths open
waiting for the frozen gingerbread on their silver forks.

The chandelier above was crisscrossed with ice fractals
and sparkling frost.
And the wallpaper, no longer red and gold,
had sunk to silver-blue.

A boy,
the age of twelve,
knelt, mid-struggle 
in the corner of the room
his hands frozen around the leather collar of a weary hound.

The scene was forever still in its time,
the logs in the fireplace would never burn,
the tall clock would never strike to signal the new hour.

And the wind blew in from the North,
with it came bitter laughing.

But the snowflakes remained still outside,
frozen in the air.
The North Wind blew around them,
but nothing stirred. 

And the Moon,
melancholy in her solitude.
Rested her elbows on the shoulders of the cold world,
where the sea--now frozen--had once spilled over the edges.

And then Summer snapped his fingers.

And the world melted.

Photo credit left: LadyMidnight
Empty Hands 
by Drift

I.
You sit beside me in english.
I don't know when
or why we started talking,
but we did.
Something about you seemed,
untouchable,
like I could reach out to feel
your fluffy curls
and then you wouldn't be there,
that it would be fingers
grabbing hopelessly at mist.
And that's what I loved.

II.
We talk constantly.
The teacher hates it.
She threatens to separate us,
and I can see your face growing red
as she openly lectures us on the disrespect,
and yes I felt bad,
but it meant talking to you.

III.
I curl into your solid chest,
my spine pressed tightly
against wiry muscle.
I can feel your arms wrap around me.
This is the warmest
and the safest I've ever felt.
Is this love?

IV.
We talk less.
I made you a Christmas present.
You cram the paper
into your backpack,
shrug,
and walk away.
I can feel the hot tears brewing
and threatening to pour.
My cheeks burn
and my fists clench.
I resist the urge
to reach out
and grab at mist.

V.
You're on the other side of the bed,
absentmindedly tapping at your phone.
I close my eyes
and silently wish
I was home.

VI.
We grow apart.
Organically.
There were a few spats,
but nothing outrageous
or as dramatic as I wish.
My mother still asks me about how you're doing.
I haven't seen you in a year.
And we haven't spoken in two,
maybe three.
Isn't that strange?

VII.
I wonder how you're doing.
My heart can't help but ache
to know that you are safe
and content.
And I don't know why
I'm tearing myself up
over an enigma
that is cold
and beautifully absent.

Photo credit right: Abriatis
A Moment of Quiet in the Locker Room
by irishjayne

One shoe off
then the other.

Quiet besides the
rhythmic replacement of clothing
fabric against my skin.
The lights don’t buzz
the sink doesn’t drip
for once
my day is quiet as
nights on Inis Mor
I the only one awake
after
Good Will Hunting was over
and we in our corner room were tucked in.
Me, climbing out of bed
socked feet padding
to the window
and the breeze was
like
Cape Cod
like
my grandmother
my childhood
cookies from boxed mix
and books from eight cousins.

I existed in many places suddenly
in the picture frame on my mantle
in the surf at the bay
in that quiet little room
in my sister’s heart
in the empty locker room after class
in my memories
as I unmade 
and then
made
myself again
taking off one version to
be another. 

One shoe
then the other.

Photo credit left: lia.chien

tiny writes: 

i am an outsider                                    the exhaustion makes me feel human
peering through                                    
a glass window                                     by adalet
that is fogged up by 
someone else’s breath.

by Anne with an 'e'

YWP Newsletter- 12/10/18

Welcome to another December issue of the YWP Newletter! 

Lately, I have been enjoying the small breaks I find: getting cozy in bed on the weekends, watching movies, creating holiday presents, writing with tea. Winter's darkness, cold, and holiday/school stress can be hard, remember to take time for yourself!! Only a few weeks until school vacation, get ready. 

If you're already familiar with the YWP Newsletter, feel free to skip the next bit. 

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weelky newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!

This week's authors and photographers are: AboutToSnap, lana.W, Bre, Graceful, Abriatis, My Perpetual Wednesday, Rubber Soul, wondering about rain and, angry strawberry

YWP Happenings:
There are lots of amazing things to do this week! 

Winter Tales is starting this Wednesday the 12th and going until Sunday the 16th! Join us at the Main Street Landing Black Box Theatre in Burlington, VT. Buy tickets here

SoundCheck is happening this Thursday from 6-8 pm at Burlington City Arts! There's pizza! 

Learn about more upcoming and reoccuring YWP events here

That Wall 
by lana.W

Do you ever feel 
like life is written for you?
You ever feel like your thoughts aren’t your own.
You ever feel like some sixteen-year-old theatre geek
is sitting in front of a computer,
writing about how you feel.
You ever wanna just… 

reach out.

Push on that wall over there.
No, not that wall!
This one.
You know, 
the one marked, “Do not push.”
What would happen?

Hey you, I asked you a question.
Yeah, you.
What would I see?

A god?
A writer?
A cartoonist?
A director holding his camera?
There’s got to be more than this.


Photo credit left: Bre
Umbrella Dancers 
by Graceful

The big bell rings
Umbrellas pop open all at once.
Dancers swing under them,
Synchronized as they dance their way
Through London’s streets.
Their umbrellas move up and down
To the songs they sing,
The music of instruments coming from apartments
Filling the air with precious melody.
No more busy cars or buses
Taking up the streets,
Only the umbrella people
Singing with joy in the pouring rain.

Photo credit right: Abriatis

Tiny Writes: 

My Perpetual Wednesday
We are not the ones who hate.
We are the defenders of the unjustly hated.

Rubber Soul
As her lungs fall to pieces
She breathes in the dust 
Castles will fall
Just as metal will rust.
 

Haikus

Marigolds 
by angry strawberry 

She strove for beauty;
Oasis from apathy.
Petals fall to dust. 


Day 5: Drinking in the Haiku 
by wondering about rain

Fat cat and a whale
sitting together, happy
they drank too much tea.

YWP Newsletter 12/3/18

Hello everyone!! It's been a while since I created a newsletter- since July, I think! It's certainly much colder now... 
For this week's newsletter I chose works that focused mostly on longing and/or loss, there seemed to be quite a few, the choosing was difficult. This week's newsletter reminded me to enjoy the changing of the seasons, not resent it. 

As usual, if you're a regular and already know what the YWP Newsletter is, feel free to skip the next part. 

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter! These weelky newsletters are curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, recommend work for publication, create challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining, sometimes focusing on a certain theme... we aim for variety in our collection each week to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give the creators of YWP a wider audience, provide the busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some that we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: check out the other newsletters, and share the link with many others who may enjoy it!

Authors in this newsletter are: zazu, Quella, Graceful, LadyMidnight, and Rubber Soul
All photo credits this week: Abriatis

YWP Happenings:

Join us for the next SoundCheck: December 13th, 6-8pm, Burlington City Arts! 

Winter Tales! December 12th -16th, Main Street Landing Black Box Theatre, Burlington, Vt. Get tickets here!

Learn about more amazing YWP events here!

What it is
by zazu

What can I say?
People play different roles in their lifetime.
Some may be difficult to understand,
Even for the person who is trying it out for size.
Bursts of color,
Periods of gray.
Can people change each other?
The world is a circle of differences.
All unknowing, 
All strange.
Inspiration lingers in the air.
Catch it, 
And hold onto it.
What never changes?
Nothing.
Everything is so much more than that.
At some point a butterfly has to spread its wings,
And learn to stand out from the crowd.

 

The Light on the Table
by Quella

Today, I wondered
whether death is a womb as well—
whether anyone can fit the vastness of who they become
here
into such a small space again.
Perhaps though, the space is not so small.
 
I cannot say what the light on the table means,
Just that its voice sounds warm.
Its hands are soft.
 
Friend, I say,
do you know
your beautiful, beautiful name?
neither do I. 
 
Snowy Land
by Graceful

The trees crack,
Their moans echo through the forest
Before arriving back to my ears
The snow is heavy and wet
Sticking on the branches  
Weighing them to eye level.
The chilly air picks fights with my skin
Turning it a rosy pink.
The piercing blue diamond eyes that are mine,
Take in the snow falling on my face and lashes.
Pine trees graze my skin
The smell strong as ever.
Rays of sun filter through
Kissing my cheeks with warmth.
My feet move through the snow
Carefully leaving my footprints behind
In the snowy white land.

Tiny Writes 

LadyMidnight
When you reach for the stars                 
You get the moon thrown in

Rubber Soul 

I only had the nerve 
To grab her hand
In my mind

YWP Newsletter 11. 26. 2018.



Hello again! At the end of last month I said goodbye until March, but here I am filling in for the previous editor during  this last week of November. I’ve been a bit absent from YWP due to school and various other obligations, so it was wonderful to have an excuse to come back and get to read all the awesome writing that’s been created. As was the case last month, there is multitude of stories and poems, but not many photos or art. In fact, the above photo was actually taken by myself. Why a pie? Well, like many families in this county, mine made pies this Thanksgiving. I snapped a quick picture then, but it didn’t occur to me until I was enjoying a spicy, surypy piece what was really behind the delicious flavor. We came together to create this treat; we had shared the work and the anticipation, and now the reward. To me, pie is a symbol of family. My great grandmother’s specialty, I remember tins of blueberry and chocolate, apple and rhubarb set out like gifts. They’ve reappeared on different occasions; parties, weddings, Thanksgiving….but are always shared with family. Pies take time. From the kneading of the crust till it’s decoration, a connection is made with those who share in the task. For me, memories are framed in crimped pastry edges. This week, I chose pieces that spoke to family, given or chosen, and how our connections to them are a part of us just as the autumn wind flavors an apple.

As usual, the following is an intro to the YWP Newsletter for new readers. Feel free to skip ahead if you're a regular.

Welcome to the YWP Newsletter, curated and created by a team of Community Leaders, who, along with many others, Recommend work for Publication, Create Challenges, give feedback, and do some writing of our own! This Newsletter is a highlight of our favorite work from each week, creative, insightful, entertaining...we aim for variety to reflect and engage that of the many writers, artists, photographers and musicians of YWP. We, as the editors, hope to give these creators a wider audience, provide our busy members a taste of each week's pieces, and share some of the pieces we particularly loved with you. Please become a returning reader: Check out the other Newsletters, and share the link with others who may enjoy it.

This issue features the creations of: Abriatis, Basketball15, CecyRavenclawFireheart, colly-wobbles, Graceful, LadyMidnight, Love to Write, Nightheart, Quella, Rubber Soul, and ViolaLover9

YWP HAPPENINGS:

Next SoundCheck - December 13th, Thank you to everyone who participated in the Climate Open Mic, photos and video coming soon!

Winter Tales - December 12 - 16, Main Street Landing Black Box Theatre, Burlington, Vt - get tickets here!

Poetry Experience - Teen writing and performance workshops with Rajnii Eddins, this Saturday Decemeber 1st at the Fletcher Free Library, 1-3pm 

Check out YWP Events 2018-19 for more information on these and other reoccuring events


 

Perfectly Imperfect Friend

By Graceful

Take me awake into the wind
Hold my hand tight and
Do not leave me behind.
Let’s run away into the fields and
Climb together to the tops of trees.
Let’s go to the loneliest street and make it full of hope,
We live without worries.
Let’s peer into the expected puddles and
And splash them into the unexpected.
We will have each other's backs,
So don’t worry if you branch breaks
I will be there for you to lean on.
Though I am not perfect I will try to be,
I will be
Your perfectly imperfect friend.

( Photo Credit: Abriatis )
Fragments 2

By angelaweasley

Fragments are all I have left of him.
Faded photographs in porcelain blue boxes shoved under my bed,
saved voicemails,
a letter in bright blue ink.

He left before I could articulate I needed him,
toddler hands grasping his shirt at the airport.
I waited-
seven hours and thirty-eight minutes.

I replayed the few memories of him over and over:
A thunderstorm in Puebla, the rain pelting the roof,
the way the lightning,
stabbing at intervals,
arched across the sky.

His laugh, rippling across the living room.

A birthday party, three candles on a sagging cake.

My awe visiting the ruins at Cacaxtla,
how he sat me on his shoulders so I could see,
stacked rock that used to be homes,
desperate etchings on the walls
spelling out a story I had yet to read.

These home movies flickered against my eyelids
before I fell asleep,
before I blew the candles out every year,
before Father’s Day.

Something changed while I was revisiting my most treasured memory:
an afternoon riding the carousel,
waving every time I passed my parents.
I loved the reassurance,
the motion,
the vertigo of seeing them both at the next turn.

But details began to change.
Was he wearing green or blue?
What flavor of ice cream was in his hand?
Chocolate or strawberry?  

I no longer knew if it was my father that resided in my memories,
or a crude copy.
I didn’t understand why he was blurring and shifting.
I was losing the truth of him, bit by bit.

I began to wonder if it was better not to remember.

Now, trying to sleep,
I struggle to silence his bedtime story about Popocatepetl
he’d tell as I looked at the actual volcano through our window.

Now, blowing out my eighteen candles,
I try not to taste the coconut frosting he wiped from my hands on my third birthday.

On Father’s Day I try to erase the gnawing feeling in my chest.
What was I to him?
Mi reina, mi corazón, mi vida.

Remembering him, I began losing him;
trying not to remember him,
I lost him anyway.

Trying not to forget him terrified me as much as forgetting him.
So, I did what I always do when I’m scared: I wrote.

Stanza by stanza,
I stored him where I could never forget him.
Tucked into words,
rhymes,
torn corners of paper,
post-its,
backs of old homeworks shoved into the smallest pocket of my backpack.

My words became like the photographs I kept of you,
the ones that you are a blur in.
I can see the movement,

How you left after the flash.

( Photo Credit: Love to write )
My Inner Self 

By Basketball15

I am from needle and thread,

From extra pieces of cloth and the running stitch.

I’m from sliding down the stairs like a penguin,

“Thumping” the whole way down!

I’m from flour-covered clothes, sneaking cookie dough,

and the aroma of cinnamon.

I’m from hearing, “I love you,” “Clean up your mess,” and “Don’t touch that!”

I am from cleaning the mud from under my nails,

From running around with wings,

hoping one day I would be able to fly!

I am from suitcases, the constant whirring of engines,

and soaring above the clouds for so long that time vanishes.

I’m from the city of red brick houses with brown shingles and eggshell fences.

The city of Afrikaans and Zulu,

where the Atlantic and Indian Ocean hold hands.

I am from the country of spices, zooming around in auto rickshaws,

and punjabi-style dresses, that glisten in the light!

I’m from the Taj Mahal, Moses Mabhida Stadium, and Table Mountain.

I’m from zigzagging across the ice,

From falling onto my knees and learning how to get back up.

I am from hiding behind the couch and doors, giggling when I was found!

I’m from running outside to taste the first snowflakes of the year,

Jumping into snow piles and getting hit by snowballs.

I am from بسمله هير رحمن نير رحيم  (In the name of God, the most merciful, the most kind),

and from memorizing verses from the book of Allah.

I’m from eating cake and celebrating my sister’s birthday on All Hallow’s Eve.

No costumes, ringing bells, and comparing who has the most candy.

I am from hugs and kisses, being tucked into bed, and hearing the words, “Sweet dreams.”

I am from the miles separating my family,

counting down the days till I return!

( Photo Credit: CecyRavenclawFireheart )

Tiny Writes

No one on here
Has hate in their heart.
No one is unkind.
People are genuine
And respect others.
Everyday
I am so thankful for being able to express myself and being encouraged.
Picked up of the ground and brought back into the light.
I am thankful for each and everyone of you for being kind loving caring brave individuals and never being afraid to be who you are. - 
LadyMidnight

In the car on our way to New York for Thanksgiving my family passed gg on the highway.
That was a very strange coincidence. - 
Rubber Soul

Only the days that you are without them, do you realize how important friends are. - colly-wobbles


with every new user,
another soul added to this beloved home
it gets merrier, more words spoken                                      
more art created                                                                        
more lives brightened                                                  
and so, YWP, and all your users,                           
I thank you                                                                               
for giving me a home
for giving me a family
for giving me a pen and paper
for encouraging me to be the b
est I can be. ​
-
Abriatis
 

fingers swirling on the keys
she sketches her corner of the universe
with the touch of her sister's hand
on her hair.
-
ViolaLover9

these words are more my blood than anything that ever flowed through my veins - Nightheart 

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