express yourself

Content published in The Crow on

YWP is proud to have been part of since its inception, providing this community's artists a unique international audience. Our "magazine" on medium, can be reached by going to Go give some love to your fellow writers -- signing up for an account is easy AND the more comments, the more exposure the piece will get!

Content is chosen by YWP staff, mentors and Community Leaders of If you are interested in participating in the selection process, please contact Susan Reid

YWP generally pairs up each post with a photo that has been submitted elsewhere, but we love having authors accompany their own stories with their art. At the moment, doesn't handle audio, but they have indicated they may in the future. We'll let you know. (However, we still love audio on your posts!)


Oct 12


through the lens i saw you
shudder in the cold.
i captured your paths detaching
frost from blades of grass,
scrunching your eyes with a
passing over your face.
glasses fogging up,
like smoke through dense
december air,,

i wonder why you always look happier on film.
Sep 29
whatever's picture

the daily ritual

Mom. Give me space. You’re sUFFOCATING ME. I’m not allowed to go places with my friends anymore because, yes, I’ve made some questionable choices in the past, but I’m a teenager! All teenagers are a little irresponsible! Let me live woman! If you continue to try to “protect me” I’m going to go to college and go absolutely crazy! I know, I know, it’s because you want me to be safe, you care about me, blaahh blaahh blaaaahhh.
Sep 24
Fiona Ella's picture

rock cycle

i discreetly wrote this in science class, constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was prowling around, ready to pounce on me for being off-task, which is why it's so short. if anyone was wondering. 

weathering doesn't happen quckly, 
you can't wear a mountain down to a speck in a day. 
it takes a long long time, 
centuries of raindrops streaking the surface, 
centuries of gusty winds whipping at a raw nose, 
Sep 18

Today, It Snowed Milkweed

I crouched in the field
just below the grass line ; 
the scratchy strands itching my bare feet 
and then,
I saw it.

The stalk 
was just out of arms reach
and slowing to the end of its life;
brown pods sprouted off the top
creating the effect of a miniture corn stalk.

I pulled one from the dying stem 
and cradled it gently in my palm.
Then, without pause 
I dug my fingertips
into the heart ot the pod,
Aug 27
Icarus Blackmore's picture

End of Summer Poem

Gold stains the green leaves,
The summer sun whispers goodbye,
As the birds sing their farewells,
And shadows creep over the yard

They beckon forth the days of cold.
Their shapes sinister and strange,
They are reminders of short evenings,
And the mountains of school work I am to face.

I long for summer’s empty warmth,
The unkeepable promise of never ending days,
Only accentuated by the starry night,
Aug 01
Mackenzie 101's picture

The Laughing Man

I walk down the street.
It’s evening,
The sun is still out,
The grass is glowing,
And my face is probably burning.
I slip on my sunglasses and see
The world through a different lense,
As I turn the corner I almost run over two girls.
They both have ice cream in their hands,
They both have pigtails,
They both are living life to the fullest,
And they’re both laughing.
As I continue walking,
Jul 20


Jul 20

seen in roanoke

today i saw three children
they were not much younger than i am
sixteen, or maybe seventeen years old
sleeping under an old concrete bridge

their shoes lay hapharzardly next to them
the soles of their tired feet grimy and bare
i thought of how hard, how unforgiving 
the stone must feel beneath their heads

then i walked
in clean shoes and socks
into an art musuem 
so sit leisurely and look at paintings
Jul 18
poem 2 comments challenge: Dream

Painting Poppies

I had a dream the other night,
And you were in it.
We were painting the night sky.
I know,
It sounds crazy.
I mean,
Who could get a big enough ladder to reach up there?
It was weird.
We could just sort of...
Reach it,
Without standing on anything,
Not even our tippy toes.
But the weirdest thing was,
We weren't painting stars,
Instead we painted poppies.
And instead of planets,
Jun 23
poem 3 comments challenge: Cliche
mythicalquill's picture

An Ax to Grind with Cliches

Okay, let’s dive into this headfirst.
Here’s a word to the wise:
Leave cliches out of your writing; they’re the worst.
Don’t let them pull the wool over your eyes.

I hate to burst your bubble,
But I think I got here in the nick of time.
You’re up to your ears in trouble
Your cliches are a dozen a dime.

Every time I see one,
It sends a shiver down my spine.
They’re always the same, been there, that’s done,
Jun 02

That Song Sounds Like Blueberries

Could you play that one song?
You know the one I’m talking about.
You know,
The one we blared from the car stereo,
With all the windows rolled down so all could hear.
The song we would play picking blueberries;
In that all natural,
Weed choked,
Berry farm.
I want to be reminded of the times
I would pick four flats to your two.
I want to remember the day
Where I traversed the fields,
To see where you were,
May 29


Every now and then
I look at old photographs.
Sometimes, I see

She is centered in the photos,
with a black bob, dark brown eyes,
and gangly frame.
She smiles with teeth exposed
and laughs with mouth wide.

Her eyes gleam
like sunlight on a rushing river
moments before the surface shatters
into thousands of diamonds.
Looking at Her,
I feel something
and I smile because of
Apr 18
Fiona Ella's picture

Apocalypses Arrive Quietly

Apocalypses don't come smashing down from the heavens, 
destryoing civilization in one easy wave of fire
and sending everybody into a frantic scramble to survive twisted political ideals 
and stay alive. 
They don't steamroll over people's lives, 
destroying political and social concepts all at once. 
They don't dry the Earth up all in one giant cloud of dusty red smoke, 
leaving us on a Martian desert land full of prehistoric beasts. 

Apr 16

A Mother's Love

She loves like water
Beneath our feet
Above our heads
Coursing through our bodies.
Ever present.

(Photo credit: Bailey Tetrault, Essex Junction, VT)
Audio download:
A Mother's Love
Apr 13
Maisie N's picture

Modern Artistry

What do you say to yourself in the mirror
On the days when you no longer feel like trying?
What do you say to your best friend's tears
When you wake up to the sound of them crying?
What do you say to your mom and dad
When they ask if you're feeling okay?
Do you tell them the truth?
Or do you lie to stay out of their way?

You're the kind of person who drives too fast
Cursing red lights for slowing you down
Apr 05


she dances her way out of everything/soaring/arms curled cruelly around her head.
passe/develope/grande jete/and she's off/i was a fool to think she could keep her eyes away from the mirror.
she glances/face glistening at her reflection/punctuating every tondu with a gaze.
i tell her to be happy and she laughs/her feet bleeding as she jumps again.
'i am happy' she replies/casting a longing look at the stage.

she turns until she is sick/her legs whipping/spinning as she reaches the corner.
she heaves breathless gasps/chin to collarbone/face to the light.
one combination mastered/she grins at herself/prodding a loose bun/once severe.
'don't you want to live?'/ i ask her one day in the night.
'no'/ she says/'i want to dance.'
Audio download:
Happy Ballerina.m4a
Mar 22

We Don't Care

European tragedies call for changing profile pictures to the colors of a flag.
We rally together in times of need and support each other with pixels.
We color our faces to match the flag of those who have fallen.
There are vigils.  Candles.  Prayers muttered on knees and clenched hands.
We tell our loved ones how much we love them.
How thankful we are for them.

Middle eastern tragedies call for silence.
We blame Islam.

Audio download:
We Don't Care
Mar 20

Last Dumb Love Poem

A head full of butterscotch dreams keeps me from the lull of sleep.
I’d rather not dream than see these mirages of a love that will never be,
with love itself being the reason that they daze and confuse me.

Oh how love burns.
It burns deeper than the fires of the most cavernous hell.
Deeper than the thought of nothing past the stars,
no heartbeats,
no bloodstreams,
no one to tell you how much they need you with them.
Mar 04

Solitude in Chaos.

Solitude in Chaos.
Film photograph from a fall Burlington, VT Farmer's Market. The two seem lost in their own worlds, yet connected in the same ways.
Feb 20


I think I’m in love
but I don’t know what it feels like.

Does it feel like a boat rocking in waves that roar
threatening to throw me overboard
and to drown me in your affection?

Or is love an inamorata whose beauty deprives the world of light
because all of it is lost in her eyes.

Her breath holds the warmth of a million suns
as she softly whispers into my ear.
“I want you to be the happiest man alive,