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Aug 2015 · 504
rain
Anna Young Aug 2015
i felt the rain today.
the kind where the sun was streaming around me but
it was drizzling
light, wet kisses from the sky
that became more passionate and
pounded against me,
overwhelming and choking,
before abruptly it left, its vestiges
dripping down my face.
Aug 2015 · 424
stress
Anna Young Aug 2015
it feels like i am swallowing
***** of tissues and stacking them
carefully along my throat.
it feels like i can see it from the corner of my eye but i
choose to keep looking straight
ahead.
it feels like staring a brewing, frothing storm in
the eye and then closing the curtains and
looking at a painting of a bright blue
summer's day.
it feels like ghostly touches that slip their pinkies through
mine and promise to never let
go.
it feels like i am the biggest russian doll and
all the ones inside me are shaking violently,
cracking at my walls,
clawing at the veneer,
peeling at the paint,
yet i am standing perfectly
still with a painted smile that tells
all my lies.
it feels like it is the ship and i am the bottle and a
gust of wind is ready to carry it
away and knock my over until i am
shattered,
scattered.
it feels like i am a shell and it is slowly
eating away at me, but only i can see my
cracks and fissures.
i've found my poems are too long because i tend to ramble and throw together all the random metaphors i can think of. i should edit my work, but im not really here to churn out good work.

a poem due to the imminent SATs
Aug 2015 · 367
august - first impressions
Anna Young Aug 2015
you are frenzy and anxiety,
regret and desperateness.
I ache for July's leisure and
freedom as you take my hand, dragging me into
pools of begrudging acceptance of my
inevitable fate.
august you are the day that is never supposed to
come,
the distant "someday" that I have only pretended to be
interested in meeting.
you are the eternal setting sun,
the closing month of summer that
paints the sky oranges and pinks and reds with the
blood of the dying season.
august you are the warrior that charges into
fall, the goodbye that comes too soon, the future that I
must face.
We may only be strangers, dear August, but I wish we never had
met.
school is starting soon, responsibility is coming.
Aug 2015 · 522
three years
Anna Young Aug 2015
It's been three years.
I'm fifteen, I'm Anna, I'm going to be a junior in high school.
I'm into makeup now and my hair's a bit longer.
I have better friends.
I'm happier, now,
In a sense.

In the three years that have
passed, I've lost bits of my self confidence.
Bits turned into pieces, and pieces turned into
Chunks.
I am questioning my dreams and goals in
Life, I am wondering if I am enough.
I've been swimming through
Tests, trying to keep my head above
The pressure, trying to continue fighting and not
let myself be dragged below, but
I'm tired.

In these past three years, I met a
Boy who held out his hand and snatched it
Away before I could grab it,
Leaving me to realize how
Lonely I am.

In the past three years,
I've realized my parents aren't
Happy.
I've realized me and my parents are strangers that
Live under the same roof and share the
Same blood.

In the past three years,
I've abandoned my words for
Endless episodes of TV, the internet, schoolwork,
Fear.
I'm scared to write again, I'm afraid my words won't
Accept me back.
But I'm trying, and this is my
Beginning.
this is a very discursive poem with no real sense nor purpose to it. I realized I hadn't written in three years, so here I am with an update.
Anna Young Jul 2013
Tangent

No, no, please, don’t touch me-
Oh your hands are so
Gentle.
Don’t make me miss you
Make me love you
Make me care for you.
No, no, please, don’t reach for my hand-
Oh your touch is so real.
I would rather stand in front of a
Train and let its wheels
Imprint themselves on my body
Instead
Of you on my heart.
We meet at this one point in
Time
Our lives intersecting.
I will continue on straight while you
Curve away with your life in your
Hands as well as my love.
No, no, please, don’t let go-
Oh the air is so cold.
Can you stop time?
No, reverse it.
Make it rewind, let the tape whir and whip
As I pull away and you withdraw
Your steady gaze
And are pushed back
Back
Back.
Make it so I never have to know, so I will
Never think about you now.
I really would rather to never
Have loved but
You make it so hard.
No, no, where are you going? Please, don’t walk away-
Oh the silence is so lonely.
No, no, please don’t turn your back, but don’t turn around-
Oh your footsteps break my heart
As life carries you away, clutching you in its
Current.
No, no, please, don’t disappear-
Oh the isolation is so painful,
Unlike your touch and your words.
No, no, please, let me hold onto your memory-
Oh the emptiness is so comforting.
Jun 2012 · 581
Girl on the Bridge
Anna Young Jun 2012
You see that bridge that stretches over the highway?
You remember that feeling, that rush when we stood on it
Together, hands locked tight, fingers caressing each
Others knuckles softly?
Our toes laughed at the roaring air, ready to soar
Away with it, flying into the air like a bird.
Your hair was like a golden hurricane, whipping
Around your pale, nervous face feverishly.
Your hand was starting to shake,
And your breath came out in tiny, delicate
Gasps that were stolen by the wind around
Us.
The cars rushed beneath us, like the gnashing teeth
Of some beast, a machine. The people with their
Busy lives never glanced up to
See two teenage girls wavering on the edge of
Life and death.
They would notice when our brains were on their
Windshield, and your beautiful storm of hair hung
Damp and limp, stained with scarlet and tears.

I stared at you silently, and it hurt me to
See you cry. I wanted to lean over and
Kiss your tears away,
Balancing precariously on the edge of the bridge,
Your uncertain and pained breath on my cheeks.
We stared as the cars raced by, each one a separate
Life speeding away; a drunken man whose wife couldn’t
Take him, a young college girl who was on the road to
Success, and the middle aged woman who fretted
Over her marriage. Each a life that we couldn’t touch
No matter how hard we tried, or how far we
Reached.
Your foot slipped at that moment, and
Your breath caught as you yelped a little,
A scream dying in your throat
As you realized you were still safe, your hand
Gripping mine tightly, a promise to
Never let go, to fall and burn together.
I looked at you again, my chin held high and
My eyes burning brightly, and I stared
Into your glittering eyes,
Those green eyes that looked like the
Morning grass with when it cried with
The sparkling dew of the rising sun,
And you looked back at me, fearful and
Reluctant.
I could hear your heart beating, slamming against
Your chest, the blood pouring through your
Veins like sand slipping through fingers, thick and
Fast. You turned away, and your hand loosened,
Fingers reaching for mine before
Slowly falling away.
You leaned forward over the edge and I let
My hand drop to my side.
Fall, fall, fall.
Your mouth gaped open,
And yet no voice pierced through the loud
And noisy highway, the screaming of
Cars and people not stopping to take notice of the
World they shoved through.
You closed your eyes as the first person looked up and
Stared.
The wind slowed and the air thickened, and
I felt your hand in mine
Once more.
I'm horrible at this kind of thing. It would have been mediocre as prose, but I knew it would be beautiful as poetry, and yet... It's still more like prose.
Jun 2012 · 596
Monsters
Anna Young Jun 2012
A clinging fear of the
Creatures beneath our beds,
Lurking and waiting for a
Dangling foot, a quivering
Finger serving as bait.
We promise and swear we can
Hear them, snapping and growling from below.
But they vanish when light floods the
Room and a comforting voice
Chases them away.

They say it’s imagination,
But we all really know the truth
Of when we stopped looking
For the monsters-
We stopped looking when we realized they
Had moved somewhere closer,
We stopped searching once we stopped pretending they
Hid under our beds.
We stopped when we felt our hearts
Stir and our stomachs twist
As the monster gnawed at us from
Inside.
I'm only 12, and I welcome all constructive criticism.
Be as harsh as necessary.
Jun 2012 · 521
The Picking of a Flower
Anna Young Jun 2012
It’s me.
I remember
That day,
That day when I
Saw the shock on your
Face when you saw
That your love was
Gone.
I held her in my
Hands and heart,
Her innocence, her
Truth.

When you went
Back inside-
To grieve, probably-
I put her back
Deep among the roses,
And left my footprints
Behind.
Any constructive criticism is always welcomed.
And I'm only 12 so no surprise it's a load of crap.
Jun 2012 · 1.6k
Piano Suicide
Anna Young Jun 2012
The keys moved deliberately,
Signing its goodbye in a final
Soaring chord.
Pulling the heartstrings that
Resonated deep inside,
Shivering at the slightest touch.
It closes its eyes and gives a last sigh,
Reminiscing of when Beethoven and Mozart
Brought it to life, giving it meaning to sing.
The stars trembled as each broken note
Joined the skies.  
The pedal pumps furiously, gasping
For air, a voice, a last
Word to the world.
The universe listens to the last struggling
Breaths, the dry sobs that put the
Melancholy rhythm of rain,
To the dying heart of an old creature that has lived
Too long.
Silence.
I'm only 12, but be as harsh and explicit as you find necessary, I don't mind. I just really need constructive criticism to build upon my work. Thank you.

— The End —