Sep 09
wellsific's picture

In Actuality, Not Reality

Editor's Note: Wells Mundell-Wood has been writing for Young Writers Project since she was 9, in 4th grade. This is one of the pieces she wrote when she was in 5th grade. She performed it at the Brattleboro Literary Festival, and it was published in YWP's Anthology 6.

Posted 12/04/2013
Some might say you really did leave us;
lost in the fulgurating flames,
ashes burnt to a crisp soaked with teardrops. 
Others might say you're still there,
but only breached in small fractions like 
your good ol' pumpkin pie. 
Your deathbed didn't bother me much. 
Because in actuality
but not necessarily reality 
you're still right there in front of me, 
greeting me in the TV room with 
that crooked smile that always seems to light up the sky. 
With your
beautiful, round dimples 
greeting me everytime 
you utter the words,
Audio download:
Jan 12

Graveyard Games by Erin Lashway

If I was a child I would run away,

Back to the graveyard of games.

And the windswept crevices of my broken mind

Would whisper light prints of the day.

The mountain would silence my footfall,

And the snow would conceal my tracks.

The free horse would leap when I patted his cheek

And I would ride away on his back.


If I was a child I’d pack up my things

If only to run from myself.

And the death toll would shrink,

To the forest I’d slink,
Sep 10

Looking through the Eyes of Asperger's

This was written and recorded by a 7th grader at Brattleboro Area Middle School as the conclusion of his 'This I believe' assignment in 2011. All work was done in a digital classroom. Many students learned, for the first time, how this student, who they'd known for years, was different. This piece ended up in YWP's Anthology that year and the student read his piece to a packed, rivetted audience.  
Aug 20

First Night

On Dec 31, 2009, seven very cold poets donned silly hats and performed a group slam in City Hall Park in Burlington. Our prompt was "What will the world be like in 100 years?" We wrote frantically for a month, developed characters, incorporated 6-word stories from other users, shot drafts back and forth, and memorized our parts in time for First Night. The seven of us-- Nick, Bridget, Baily, Anna, Sossina (Sauce), Georgia, and Liz-- each adopted the voice of a different character, such as the Ditz, the Salesman, the Artist...
Aug 19


by Scott Mechler


Aug 19

Nonsuch and Noway

by Sossina Gutema

Touching you was not supposed to
erupt blue
nor spin heat into sky dew- light
the air with smokey residue.
Touching you was not supposed to
draw me
struggling to breathe, into your
every stolen moment and see
with every stolen glance
a future chartered by the nuance of your
tone or the influx of your rhyme
skating over ice left from distances crossed
with the complexity of time and space
ceasing to be
and between us only sky and sea
and rain painting grounds the colours
Aug 19


by Sossina Gutema

A poem, for me, begins with a line.
And from there, for me, it grows
from a word to a phrase to rhyme;
from a seed to a stem to a rose.

And from there, for me, it grows
& when you inhale, you breathe
from a seed to a stem to a rose
a million years of history.

& when you inhale, you breathe
Aug 19

There Are Butterflies

by Sossina Gutema

There are butterflies
brushing the tips of
they catch whisper winds and swing
into the heavenless
skies. Can you see the
gold left over by the monday sunshine?
Can't you taste it in
the crevasses of Tuesday

I can.

There are line breaks
on my hands today. I've drawn them
with a tempered pen and
smudged them dry with my
swirl-touch fingertips.
Do you know the secrets left behind
in the weather-worn pockets
of blooming apple
Aug 19


by Sossina Gutema

He is only lungs and toes
with finger tips and
dangling arms. He is only
Aug 19


by Luke Jewell

You don’t write poetry for the people you take for granted, the people you love by default; it doesn’t even occur to you until it’s already too late (until it’s too late & their DNA has already been transcribed, their personalities etched & their breath stopped, until it’s too late, already too late) for them to ever hear your words.

[Note: This was written three days after the unexpected death of the writer's father, Steven Edwin Jewell, 44.]
Aug 19

Monsoon Season

by Basundhara Mukherjee
Aug 19

Hall of Fame

YWP's Hall of Fame is officially up and running! Looking for inspiration? Want something good to read? Wanna take a trip down memory lane? The Hall of Fame tag is an archive of some of the best pieces by Writers to Read through the years. It'll be regularly updated with new old pieces, selected for being daring, innovative, or just plain good. Hall of Fame is the anti writers block. Check it out at the tag below.
Hall of Fame
Aug 19


by Luke Jewell

he’s got a soul like wayward traintracks
ticking along at the speed of light —
I know where he’s going
but he doesn’t

he doesn’t care
he’s out of the gate again
sneakers pounding on dirt
cement grass rubber
heels slopping in his shoes
(he always goes
a size too big

thinks it makes him
look older
than he feels)
carries around a baseball glove
he can just slip his fingers into
says it’s for
old times’ sake
but I know he just means
Aug 18


by Braeden Hughes

This moment is perfect, living as it does
with unfettered bones
but splintered skin. 
The grasses are metallic: hissing, rippling
in the singing storm overhead. 
The bark of the thin-wanded trees
gapes open and life froths forth,
white and tender. Here
are my hands
I offer them to you and your silver-whip blades.
Paint them clean in the rain,
darkness has been staining my knuckles 
and it won't come off. 
My vertebrae filled with lead, slowly, 
Aug 18


by Braeden Hughes

What hope do you put in love?
in pavement-dank shadows, the hidden boxes
grout laced.
the children play with chalked fingers-
they are birds
biting at the toes of passerby.
oak eyed and bitter palmed-
they are dandelion housewives
who scratch at the fringes of dead factories.
gathering in supernova thumbprints
the walls bloom
with their saccharine heartbeats.
maroon twilight
and they are soft and wilted,
apricot eyelids painting
the vaulted ceilings of their minds.
Aug 18


Aug 18

Strange Loving

by Basundhara Mukherjee

I saw her silhouette from across
a dilapidated barn
with decrepit wooden panels
in the corner of the city,
over time, 
became a diner
with cracked-leather bar stools
and a lingering coffee aroma.
When she turned,
she carried between her fore
and middle finger
an unlit cigarette,
yet never lit it 
within the hours 
I watched her.
She was young,
with signs of aging that 
delineated her 
and a weariness in her
hazelnut eyes.
Aug 18


by Avni Nahar

At the beginning of September I spent 10 days in Italy.  Haven't quite adjusted to being back...
Aug 14


by Liz Spier

There's just one more, chance you can take,
before we come back to this:
I'm just not sure how long I can break,
myself away from your kiss.
It's just too hard,
It's just too long,
I'm sorry, I won't be alone.
It's just too hard
I'm just too strong and
Baby, this place, it's not your home.

Cause you ran away, to el-dorado
Aug 14


by Misha Kydd