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.


Sep 20

The Voice - Fall 2018

Young Writers Project proudly presents The Voice! 
Aug 16

The Voice - August 2018

Special Summer of Stories issue! Enjoy!

Jul 17

The Voice - July 2018

Jun 04

The Voice - June 2018

A TRIBUTE to MGMC (& all about Voices for Change!)

Apr 23

The Voice - April/May 2018

Enjoy this beautiful issue of The Voice! 

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

Jan 08


After we buried
my grandma
in the soft, easy soil
and threw white flowers
over her
glossy coffin, 
I joined my brother
in his car. 
He drove and drove
and the road was
devoured by gasoline
and wheels. 
I thought of 
Newton's First Law. 
An object in motion
stays in motion
until an outside force
disrupts it. 
Maybe life is the object
and death is the 
outside force. 
My brother snapped the silence. 
"Dang, I'm hungry,"
he said. 
I briefly exited
a rabbit hole
of thoughts
deep down in my brain. 
I somehow managed 
to piece together
a sentence. 
"We have dino nuggets 
at home."
For the first time
in hours, our somber
expressions lifted
and flew away
like Peter Pan. 
My brother grinned
and said, "Heck yeah!
Let's get some dino nuggets."
The absurdity 
of the situation

Jan 05
sophie.d's picture

Green New Deal

Green New Deal!
They shout from the corner of Pelosi's office
Wearing sneakers, high heels
Making appeals
With light skin, dark skin
Only akin
By the youth that fills
Their eyes with fire
And magnifies their voice. 

We are Sunrise! 
The children scream.
The future now dreams
Of a land where the grass stays green
Where equality streams
Down the mountainsides
And rejuvenates our land. 
Green New Deal now!
They shout on campaign stages
In town hall forums
And on the Senate floor. 

For the first time in history
Our environmental worries,
Our unwavering passion, 
Our calls for action
Have poured into Washington.
It is the day
Of climate reckoning. 

And so we shout
Green New Deal!
And so we shout
The future is here.
And so we shout
For justice. 
Jan 03


If I was a poem 
I would be ...

A slam poetry punch 
that cuts across people's skin
and digs into their souls. 

I would be written on the pages 
of a worn notebook, 
used so much that 
it's almost falling apart. 

I would be written by someone 
forced silent, 
spilling their heart onto their empty 

If I was a poem, 
I would burn bright like a flame, 
lighting a fire in people's minds,
getting rid of that 
ugly, ugly, dark. 

If I was a poem, 
the handwriting would be messy, 
sprawling across the page 
in anger and grief and joy. 

I wish I was a poem,
I wish I was simply the result 
of a thought that
turned into so much more.

I wish I was the outpouring of a heart, 
the torrential rains of emotion bringing 
me into life just to rip the 
cloth that was restricting people from speaking. 
Jan 02


If I fell into my writing
The world would swirl around me 
And words would come together and build their meaning.
Deep oceans would open up and mountains would grow tall and brush the sky.
Rivers would rush toward the horizon.
Clouds would float lazily through the sky,
The background to a spectacular sunrise.
Creatures that no one has dreamed of would pop into existence.
The stars would twinkle brightly and anything you wished for would come true.
I would be immersed in a world of senses that no one else could ever find.
Everything would be so familiar
Like a stuffed animal that you loved and you discover it in a box in your attic.
I would smile and escape the burning world behind me.
The people in this world will stop living 
And start existing.
But when the history books are written, 
We will be remembered.
Because us writers?
We lived.
Oh, how we lived.
Jan 01
Maisie N's picture

Slow Dance

You watch your life fly by through a window.
I stare at it emptily through a screen,
Preferring to watch rather than participate
In a life I have never felt, only seen.
Years pass and we grow up.
Things change, friends leave.
We say goodbye and then hello.
One thousand, two thousand nineteen.

You better slow down,
Dance steady for a while
Because life is too short.
To fight time is futile.
Waltzes last longer
When held close with a smile.
So dance like a lover
Rather than a child.

Take a breath, you're doing fine.
Place your hands on my waist
And I will keep time.
You'll get better with age
Like a fine, red wine.
Just let the music swell
And know you are alive.

One more step toward me
And we'll be right in line.
So come a little closer
Put your lips on mine.
Nothing feels so perfect
Right here at midnight
Dec 29
Fiona Ella's picture

Live Reading

I made all these characters, 
wrote their words, 
choreographed their actions, 
molded their cores, 
and set them loose on the page. 
I forced them to face their demons, 
twisted them into situations they'd never have imagined
and let them take up residence in my head. 
They live there now, 
whispering to me their outlook on life, 
offering me refuge when I can't handle the real world, 
waiting to be let back into life. 
I live all of their lives 
just a little bit
as I'm living mine,
and they frequently live mine with me. 
But today, 
gathered around a coffee table,
they became something more. 
Not with actors, 
or people from the right country,
or right age group, 
but with my friends and family, 
they stepped off the page and spoke directly. 
Not to me,
not in the safety of my head, 
Dec 28

See me

There's a little piece of me
tucked into every book,
a little piece of worn soul
snuggled safely into the words,

A little piece of me that wept
when the characters in my mind dies,
a little bit that laughed at their snark,
a little bit that was frustrated at their inability
to be real.

There's a little piece of me
displayed in every movie,
a little piece of believer
splashed across the screen.

A little piece of me that
fell in love with the pain in their eyes
a little bit that rooted for them as they fought
a little bit understood the villain, cheered him on
a little bit that wished they were here
a little bit that broke when
the ending credits rolled on.

There's a little piece of me
woven into every poem,
a little piece of open heart
hidden in the verses.

A little piece of me that
cries when i'm hurt and down
Dec 27
poem 0 comments challenge: Snow
Olivia White's picture

Winter Came

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,
Dec 27
poem 1 comment challenge: Lost
iski23's picture

Hope Gone Lost

My eyes yearn for that picture of earth
For a starlit field of wild berries
Or the moon casting shadows on the woods I know too well
White birches dancing with fireflies
My little blue house resting in the roaming hills

I look around and see a source of light
Wait, it's not light I see, but something strange and foreign
It's wondrous and curious
Not quite a globe but not square either
It brings to me a sensation, a feeling of hope gone lost
For even the heavens don't quite know what it is
The universe doesn't have a clear conscience about it
It comes from within us
Dec 26


There's a stretch of train tracks
Outside Philadelphia
Where the trees are painted pink
The most beautiful that it gets out there
Among the graffiti
The garbage 
The tires
The broken lawn chairs as thickly spread as how I like the butter spread on toast
Among all that
All the spray paint
The plastic bags and all the rust
The trees
The dead
Scrawny trees
Are painted pink
Hot pink

Out there
There are at least thirteen pieces of litter
For every person you see
As you flash past
On the other side of the windows
Of a train

Out there
That's where the broken windows are
Glass that cries out to you over the dirt
Jagged and cracked
And yet crying tears of chipping paint
The boarded up windows shedding their coating of color
Of any color
That isn't grey

Empty-seeming houses
Pass by