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YWP: How students craft their lives

Age 14, East Thetford
Published: 12/2/2019 4:56:18 PM
Modified: 12/2/2019 4:56:13 PM

Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit that engages students to write, helps them improve and connects them with authentic audiences in newspapers, before live audiences and online. YWP also publishes an annual anthology and The Voice, a digital magazine featuring YWP’s best writing and images. More info: youngwritersproject.org or contact YWP at sreid@youngwritersproject.org or 802-324-9538.

This week’s prompt: general writing.

The life we live

By Porter Burkins

Age 14, East Thetford

The early morning sun rose from the horizon, passing over the crashing waves as they settled onto the cold morning sand. Only a few birds filled the skies as the clouds spread like a painting. The gentle breeze picked up across the sand, dust flying up onto the beach and coating the high grass up-shore.

My hand slid across the sand, stretching far to wake my body. A chill crawled down my spine as a gust of cool morning air touched my bare back, slightly coating it with packed sand. The glare of the sun’s rays peeked through the waves, igniting the world around me as a smile spread across my face and the familiar smell of salt touched my nose. The lines of sun coated the ground in long strips, traveling on past the dunes to the west farther than the human eye could see. The sun-kissed sky gleamed like a swirl of colors, ones from a dream come true. For a second, all I could do was stare.

I touched the cold lead to the page, hearing the familiar creak of the pencil sliding into place as the sky illuminated the paper. Cold spirals of wire bound the book, coated in morning sand and weeds — a courtesy of the sand lords. Stroke after stroke, the lead formed lines, then pictures of love, patience, kindness, fear, death. All slowly wrapped themselves into one story upon page after flipping page. Silence filled the world as the puzzle fit together through each picture made.

The sun-kissed sky turned slowly to a deep blue, then to shades of dark purple. Nothing mattered in those moments, with the wind whipping my hair and the gentle starlight starting to shine with the light, bright hue of a soul drifting …

Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/node/30007

What happens in my mind

By Marina Sprague

Age 17, Chelsea

I figure myself out

through rhyme and verse,

oftentimes feeling

like it’s one big curse.

When expressing myself so plainly,

it’s perfect sense to me —

but then I realize after,

no one sees exactly what I see.

So here I go again

in trying to write my mind,

hoping you can decipher

the meaning I leave behind.

Is a poet a poet

if the world doesn’t understand

the words she strings together

with broken and bruised hands?

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