Writer's Club

These are the writings of the talented, aspiring writers in our club. Benjamin Franklin once said: "Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." Mobile Links

[visual-poetry]

»phases of the ampersand moon« by gary barwin (+)

[on tumblr]

[visual-poetry]

»arizona’s dream« by lourdes villagomez

(time lapse of ants foraging sugar and ham)

watch the full video here

[studentwritersclub]

This is the fabulous writing blog of the aspiring novelist, Robyn @robyn1513 please feel free to read and comment

She also has a blog dedicated to University of Florida sports www.gatorcrazy15.blogspot.com

[studentwritersclub]

this knot for a heart rattles still, shaking loose the threads which held together the last of lovers' notes i kept in my chest.

i will not worry, much.

[studentwritersclub]

Pills

[DISCLAIMER: this is not towards anyone actually diagnosed with these illnesses, this is more personal] The greenish white pill enters their mouth and closes the door with an icy river. They are left screaming forever with prescriptions piling around them. The scribble of a pen echoes around the room: Diagnosis- Depression Anxiety ADD Each note wraps around their throat making it so tight they can barely scream: "I JUST WANT TO TALK!" In these days of society pills have become the duct tape over our mouth to keep us quiet. The number of pills rise like casualties in the midst of this war fought on misunderstanding. These new, strange chemicals attack their brain, forcing them to talk less, changing their normal way of thinking. Everyday they get the question: "Did you take your meds yet?" It seems as if when they act different, people ask them that god-awful question. It seems as if shoving medicine down children's throats is more logical than talking because they just.....don't.....care..... They're oppressed not depressed. They are worried they don't anxiety..they are energetic they don't have ADD. The youth of America are being raised to be all time pill poppers and drug addicts. They are a silenced generation where their lips don't open up to release the tiniest of whispers...... Our opinions shall never see the light of day until they are etched into our tombstones.

[studentwritersclub]

who said i couldn’t?

i.Open wide, they tell me, to terrestrial finality, and I say to hell with finding light in what does not glow, to hell with the indefinite possibility that we will not be okay, let me go.

ii.I want to feel wholly, holy, to be the God that you dreamt about three nights ago,and tell me what it is that makes your eyes wander from here to absolutely nowhere,what makes you believe that we are not creatures of habit; habitually, continuously, courteously passing up the offer of life for the sake of our own inability to live,but everything and nothing at the same times equals-where are we? 

iii. i used to write rhymes, i used to write free verse,i used to pretend that the underwater noise of voices through the wall was comforting and maybe I still do.

iv. rationalize the reminiscent into files of what does it matter? who cares? and ouch then burn them in the flame of forgiveness because "i'm sorry" has only ever burned in the back of my throat.

[studentwritersclub]

Raining Poetry

My head is a cloud

My thoughts are fuzzy

I pour over my notebook

My emotions are droplets of rain

Pattering down onto my paper

I blink lightening,

hum thunder,

sigh a hurricane

The hair in my eyes is debris

When I finish,

there is a puddle of rainwater

Instead of lines of ink

My thoughts have become condensed, pure

My head is all clear skies

Light, bright, breezy

                                      -By Sommer Vandy

[studentwritersclub]

If I could Fill the Empty Sky

If I could fill an empty sky with anything I wished, I’d fill it with photographs of you and me. That way, the only blue in the sky would be the bright, bright blue of your eyes- a million pairs of polka dots that make the world look dull in contrast. And as the wind would blow, it would ruffle the photographs and you and I would dance inside the pictures just like we did the night we met. And sunlight would stream through the places in between the pictures, illuminating the world beneath our feet. And as long as we could live in our empty sky, our problems could not touch us. For when your feet are on the ground, it is near impossible to disregard the limitations of time and death and, if even for but a moment, grasp something- anything- beautiful.

- By Sommer Vandy 

[aegoodman]

sleeping next to you is not sleeping with you

im not full of pretty metaphors about nightclubs or tear-stained-glass and old photographs and thats good because youd probably say anyway

“thats dumb” and id be left trying to explain why its not dumb; 

its a metaphor.

-all i want is for you to throw your arm over me

also i like your hand on the base of my skull

-i used to think loosely related thoughts and broken sentences were poetic,

but now give me completion or a sense of,

something that doesnt sing of indifference with a thousand overtones of need and loneliness so strong as to be audible

give me something filling; im done starving myself and give me something that doesnt hurt to finish, a gasp for air in a vacuum 

give me something that wont go, please dont go, oh god dont leave me, because i need you and also i dont want to feel stupid anymore

i dont want to kick myself

i dont want to look you in the eye and wonder how youre doing

[studentwritersclub]

a line, a ray, an equation

She is the feeling of bare feet on wet concrete the murky city skyline on a HD wallpaper black lace, day old brandy classic red heels with “vintage” bruised shoulders

she is the simplified equation of humanity

It looks easy to understand but once you pick up your pencil to start solving It starts fall apart

You cannot categorize her Into a scratch on an 180 page notebook Because she is a highlighted quote in a too expensive textbook

an unbubbled scantron rubber stamps covered in thick blue ink She defines her life by how her hair curls that particular day

She is me and you and everyone who molds to the sculptors wheel of our wonderland Pouring her teacup on the already dirty floor Because their was simply not enough sugar A squared plus B squared doesn’t always equal C squared in this case

[studentwritersclub]

You liked me because I was Blue

my eyelids are held up by splintering pine logs

//hold on// but I can’t

the lilac sky painted underneath my bottom lashes with finger sized paintbrushes is growing larger

Instead of paint, it’s falling into scribbles of Harold’s purple crayon There’s not enough concealer in my makeup bag for today’s art session

One cannot dab a dollop of colored cream onto an open wound

//you really shouldn’t pick a scab//

Just like how you cannot fix a continuous motion Machine.

[studentwritersclub]

Handwriting

5 years old Fresh crayons Fresh mind The smell of plastic lunch boxes and new art supplies Haphazardly scrawling on a beige rectangle with too many lines

“Color outside the lines”

9 years old I’m the princess of my own Neverland marble print black-and-white Reading journals the gateway drug to my ultimate euphoria

“Explore your imagination”

11 years old essay induced panic learning about fear of the future but not how to handle it writing about the dangers of alcoholism Yet not grasping the reality of it

“You’ll understand when you’re older”

13 years old Blocking the world out through A pair of old cathartic headphones tight jeans and a black coat with Pockets full of untouchable secrets hiding my darkest thoughts in brightly colored notebooks

“She’s probably not ready for the real world”

15 years old Learning to drive But ignoring how to live mixing up modern day romance with the ghost of paranoia Sorting out my thoughts like how I organize my binders Spilling out of my lips like a drink poured too full

“Promise me you’ll never stop writing”

[studentwritersclub]

Green

Color prompt: Green

when I was small enough to have to reach up to the top shelf of the refrigerator

the bowls were lime

sage was the color of the grass before I had to start wearing the thicker coats. forest was the color of the leaves breathing shallowly above my head while I loitered in the backyard green was the color of my favorite “My first chapter book”

but green hasn’t always been good and bright mint was the color of the hand sanitizer in the office of my psychiatrist emerald hospital scrubs and “sign here for consent” forms sea foam was the couch in my living room where I had taken up residence sobbing about how the only thing I thought about anymore was the sentence till death do us part and how death was my only deciding factor On how I would live green, green and more green was simply the shading of my coloring book written my an all too familiar author

[studentwritersclub]

How To Confess-- How To Remember

open up like the little jewelry box your grandmother gave to you when you were only seventeen; the one he picked you up and fucked you next to, knocking it to the ground, and if you were to open your mouth in protest, think twice. open up, like you did while you sat on the roof with her and spilled your secrets as you watched the skyline fade before you, that time you saw the leaves change from green to orange to red to burgundy, then die off in a graceful manner (how cruel is the world to let this happen, how sick, how unjust) and you cried because it reminded you of yourself, but that's cliche, isn't it? open up like open-mouthed kisses that he gave you right before he told you he could never see you again, could never stand you again, and you will weep and weep and drive to the city and drink and drink and get lost in a hotel bathtub, with some guy you've never met, and the lipstick smear and the bruise in the crook of your arm says more than you will that whole night. open up like the oyster you kept as a memento of youth, the one you didn't find a pearl in and you couldn't help but feel disappointed and your grandfather looked you dead in the eye and said "that's life, kid" but you didn't know what that meant until the skinny blond girl got picked for class president instead of you, years later; that's life, kid.

[m01dyy]

alteous said: Prompt: The smell of plastic burning from your lips. 

Blessed be this land o’ mine; holy ground and wrecked cities and planes, and planes of skin. Blessed be these hands that work magic, miracles across supple body, branded with smeared blood from the lives too close for comfort- I am not sorry, even when you look at me like That.  Is it a sin to love the condemned? One so pious surely cannot stoop to be with a God cast from the Throne, but Lucifer was an angel once too and I am no different from the Lord Of Light, from those that pray to themselves rather than out loud, because They say if you tell someone your wish it won’t come true.  Power-outages and past tense lives, tell me what it’s like to love a God with a conscience and I will reward you in holy relics, novelties like the taste of forever on my tongue, searing heat on my fingertips because punishment and penalty are all I know, are everything I can give in place of love- forgive me in ways I should not be forgiven and I will be thankful. 

[studentwritersclub]

weightless

fingertips grazing the edge of soaked countertops in champagne tiled bathrooms fog stained gritty mirrors reflecting murky images of hands all over my thighs and trailing down my waist the hands tracing the curvature of my earlobes and my throat the hands whispering about god knows what my spinal cord arching to meet the entrance fee of pleasure and once you agree to the fee it finds its way through the steam curling out under the the cracks of the door frame for I am weightless I am the neon lights flickering out on the outside asphalt the goosebumps and small moans that escape my wine colored lips only to be cut off by the meet and greet of the hands weightless is what I am and until the sun glares through the unpolished windows weightless is what I will always be

[studentwritersclub]

My father locks his door, Taking with him long necked bottles. My father locks his door, He always smells funny. My father locks his door, His arm is all bloody. My father locks his door, Then hugs different ladies. My father locks his door, And forgets everybody. My father locks his door, I ask him to stop. My father locks his door, He doesn’t love me enough. My father locks his door, I can’t help but cry. My father locks his door, Someday I’ll have to say goodbye. My father locks his door.