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: -- 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.


Apr 23

The Voice - April 2018

Enjoy this beautiful new issue of The Voice! What do you think? Your comments matter!

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

Apr 01


The cover of the old piano spatters a cloud of dust into the old theater air
as it creaks on its hinges and settles loudly atop the black and white antique.
A shuffle of papers, the screech of the stool across the aged wooden floor,
as the young man sits down and prepares to create 
the canvas for the girl to paint upon with her voice. 
He lifts a single finger, places it on a low note.
The deep vibrato echoes through the empty space of the abandoned hall,
Apr 01

Canoe Trip Portage

step after the step
I can only think about moving forward
the oppressive weight of a wooden canoe
pushing down on my back
threatening to make me fall
a constant reminder of my goal
and my purpose
I must reach the end, so I can release this burden
squinting ahead
the trees blur into a green veil
sweat pours of my neck
dripping into my eyes
mosquitoes crawl on my flesh
too tired to swat them
Mar 30


How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
My pencil slipping across the paper,
my fingers staining the blue lines.
Words echoing into oblivion,
thoughts tumbling away.

How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
Forgetting what I've said,
remembering what I was trying to say.
Looking at other's bits and trying to see
where their's line up with mine--even a little.

How many half-finished pieces
I've written.
Mar 30
Mozzerelli's picture

poem #2

i sat there in the garden
the air was sweet and gentle
wrapping itself around me
with its warmth
each inhale
took me away into some type of paradise
each exhale
brought me back to earth .

i could feel the dry dirt
on the soles of my feet
a thin layer scattered over the brick
beneath me

the sunshine kissed the top of my head
my face, each freckle on the curves of my cheek bones
Mar 30

Good Music

Mar 29


You're not charming.
Your laugh is throaty
and fades into silence if you laugh too hard.
Your hair sticks up in crazy cowlicks
and refuses to stay down.
Your words are sloppy
and you always backtrack to explain.

And that's okay.
Because my fondest memories
are you and I,
side by side,
us laughing so hard
we fall silent
and shake.
I remember the light
and your hair,
forming a golden halo
Mar 26

Why I marched

On Saturday March 24,
I marched in Montpelier 
with at least a thousand other people.

I marched.

I marched for 
the little boy 
deep in innercity Chicago
surrounded by guns
knowing someday
its inevitable 
that he's gonna get shot 
for the color of his skin.

I marched for 
my sister,
nine years old and 
she is the most happy
and playful 
person i know,
Mar 26


My father stores photos online.
He has them in folders,
labelled neatly by the year and the month,
and sometimes a title.
More often than not, it's just
plain, but fitting.

The memories are miscellaneous,
scattered like pine needles
from sawed off trees,
decorated in shiny bulbs.
They're fleeting,
darting off into the horizon line
like our dogs with a dropped leash.
Mar 24

What I Remember

I remember
six years ago
sitting at the dinner table
staring wide eyed at my parents
who were telling me that today,
20 kids my age
had been shot and killed.
At school.
And I remember
walking into school the next day,
glancing at the classroom door every so often
in half hearted anticipation
of a man bursting in with a gun.
I was in second grade.

I remember
three years ago
Mar 21

Why I March

I know that
hunting is a way of life,
but semi-automatic weapons
are made with the intentions to hunt humans.
They spray bullets without a second thought,
and kill.
That killing machine,
hulking and deadly,
is worthless in a game of sport,
but makes all the difference in a battlefield.
In a school of screaming children,
fearing for their lives in the corners of locked rooms.

How many more of us must scream
bloody murder
Mar 20
Kittykatruff's picture


The water drips



the        w          i           n
             d          o          w
             p          a           ne,

Mar 18
Kiran's picture

The Youth Are Mobilizing

This commentary was aired on Vermont Public Radio.

Historically young people haven’t had the best reputation: Teens have often been characterized as too busy texting and tweeting to be aware of or to engage in current events.

However, despite this stereotype, youth have been organizing, most recently around gun reform.
Mar 18


I haven't spoken Chinese in three months.
I left the restaurant
so using it hasn't been an immediate need.

I try to say hello
and ask if they have eaten
whenever I go in
but my tongue is too thick
and too slow
to properly enunciate.
I've forgotten the intricate rise and fall in tones
and the phonetics.
I couldn't write it if I tried.
Pinyin is over accented in my head
and characters aren't making sense.
Mar 18


Puebla is chocolate dipped, syrupy
as I spoon it out of the close knit towns surrounding Mexico City.
I just want to gulp it down,
suck the marrow from the cattle that get leaner every year.

It smells good, being home.
Or being in a place that was once home.
I can’t help but hold my breath,
abducting it in my lungs as if the wind here
is a different flavor then the wind there.

I thought the thing I missed most was the heat,