Young Writers Project is an independent nonprofit based in Burlington that engages middle and high school students from anywhere in the world to write, to express themselves with confidence and clarity and to connect with authentic audiences. YWP facilitates publication of student writing in this newspaper; through YWP’s website, youngwritersproject.org and monthly digital magazine, The Voice; before live audiences; and with other media partners, including vtdigger.org and vpr.net. YWP is supported by this newspaper and foundations, businesses and individuals who recognize the power and value of writing.
This week’s prompts: General writing about weather, feeling invisible and growing up.
The Wind Blew
Today the wind blew.
It blew with such force
That the ball that I threw
Flew
In the other direction.
Invisible
One day you’re there,
The next you’re not.
Nobody notices a difference.
This is how you spend your life;
Invisible, like the morning mist.
Invisible to all others but a few,
A few scattered individuals,
Those few who are invisible too.
You are one, and I am one too.
There are more of us.
More than we realize.
We can only rely on one another,
But there are sometimes a few
Others, people who see past
What most cannot see past.
They can see past our differences.
They can see exactly who we are,
No matter how strange we seem.
They see us, we see each other.
If we stick together, maybe,
Maybe, just maybe, there is a chance,
A chance that we might finally,
With true hope and effort,
Be seen, seen by all.
What’s Easier?
It’s easier to say,
“It’s not my fault; something got in my way.”
It’s easier to shout,
“I didn’t mean to; I was out.”
It’s easier to lie
That it wasn’t I
Who got a low grade on her quiz.
“It was my brain!”
It’s easier to not admit
That it was I who had a crying fit.
It’s easier to say . . .
“No . . . I’m okay.”
Pixie Hollow
Pixie Hollow:
I stand there
In wonder at a place
Where three girls played.
I can see us:
Laughing, digging the soil,
Building fairy houses,
Brushing the hair out of our dusty faces.
I can see it right before my eyes.
Then I blink. All that’s left
Is a desiccated, empty hollow of sticks and dust
Where three girls made who they are.