#as the old poem goes

[arctic-hands]

BRATTY BABBY BOY

We gave him his liquid painkiller and his anti-nausea pill, and then after we were sure he swallowed it we gave him his high-cal Churu which he happily went to town on and finished pretty quickly. So job well done, right?

Well a minute later I hear him pawing at the hardwood, which I know means he's trying to hide something (like the fact he threw up, for instance), and I just knew that clever little fucker spat out the pill AND HE DID. HE CHEEKED THE PILL AND PLAYED THE LONG CON

[haillily]

the price was high (was it worth it?)

[icelogged]

dust by o.o mim

felt ink pen, used teabag and a bic lighter on a yellow sticky note. found image blended digitally.

[slime-crafters]

Honestly love when video games use it/its for the player character

[simmyfrobby]

RYAN HARTMAN HAPPY HUNGRY BEAST A FATAL BLOW

[bowbow-the-clown]

… LOST SQUID …

.. WITH A POEM FROM A FRIEND ..

~^∆^~^∆^~^∆^~^∆^~

The Squid Is Lost In Unfamiliar Waters,And Not So Deep Depths,Even The Squid Can't Seem To ReachThe Shallow Surface, Where The Sun Reflects.

It Swims And It Squirms,It Searches And It Yearns,But The Way To The Top,Is Like A Never-ending Hop.

It's Tentacles, They Reach And They Feel,But All They Touch Is The Cold And The Chill,It's Ink, It Flows, But It Can't Escape,The Darkness That Surrounds It, And It's Fate.The Squid Is Lost, And It's All Alone,In The Vast Ocean, On It's Own,It Longs For The Light And The Warmth,But For Now, It's Stuck In This Storm.

But Still It Persists, And It Fights,It's Determination, It's Will, It's Might,For One Day, It Knows It Will See,The Shallow Surface, And Be Set Free.

~^∆^~^∆^~^∆^~^∆^~

[loveofentropy]

a person who promises to stay in your hardest times that ends up leaving is a person that you learn your biggest lessons from.

[doctorweebmd]

I"M ENTERING SICKO MODE

[quietwingsinthesky]

making mass effect OCs that are such fail loser idiots i love them

[leejeann]

I'm going through the poems i wrote in high school (there are like 80 of them) and I feel so detached from who I was as a teen that it feels so weird lol. Like I almost keep having to remind myself that oh yeah these are my words.

There are a handful of love poems, most feel forced and cliche because I a Normal Person/Poet would understand and write about romantic love and therefore I HAD to write love poems too right?

(teenage me not knowing she's ace or aro-spec, rip)

A couple of the love poems aren't as bad given they were written by a 15 year old, just very somber, but it is a little funny reading poems about a boy I thought I had a crush on with the hindsight relating it to the girl I definitely actually had a crush on the whole time without realizing. 2012-me is like:

For now you're a wish And I'm trying to make you a memory It's not working no matter how many times I tell myself it is They say if you tell yourself it's the truth enough You'll believe it

I wake up from a dream of you, I decide to watch a little of the show on TV. Then I try to fall back to a new dream. I'm laying in bed, I toss and turn, Trying to sleep. Nothing works however, My mind begins to wander, To a new place each second. Then it stops back at you. Then the thoughts grow like a vine, Spreading to every corner of my mind, Until I'm consumed by them. /// After these thoughts I'm wide awake. And anxious for the next time I see you. And the time after, and so on.

(these are just excerpts, not the full poems)

and 2024-me is sitting here like oof babe give it a couple more years and that's gonna hit so different for you

Lowkey making me miss my high school friends though. I got into writing poetry in 8th grade and a couple of them got into it as well. Throughout high school we'd share our poetry with each other and talk about it or critique it and it was just a much less solitary hobby for me than it is now

[abluehappyface]

Thinking about how so much of my younger sister and cousins' lives are going to revolve around all of us that came before them, but in a positive way.

[secondpersonpoetry]

"You're the Top", Ellen Bass

[kachowden]

Thinking about a deeply romantic man. Possibly a bit old fashioned in the ways of love. The type to sweep you off your feet to dance in the rain, the type to buy you flowers, just because. Maybe even to thank you simply for being beside him. The type who stares out into starry skies and thinks of your smile, cushioning it amongst the glowing lights. The type who watches couples pass him by and yearns to be by your side once more, even if it had only been mere hours.

The type who writes poems and songs about the way your hands fit against his. Who sings your bodies praises, every inch of it enchanting him more than the last, seeping into his fingers that strum the chords of an unknown melody. Who kisses whatever causes you insecurity, because his heart aches to think you don’t see yourself in the radiant light that he does. That you aren’t breathless with every glance at a mirror- like he is everytime your eyes meet.

Oh and is he ever so breathless. The way you sigh. The way you glance around at the world. Even the way you may duck your head after finding something you did to be silly or embarrassing, he adores it all. There is not a moment that goes by where he, all of him, is not encompassed by your every moment.

Perhaps there had been a time where love had felt nonsensical. Illusionary, to him. Perhaps there had been a time where he scoffed at the notion of such a thing, and sneered at the couples that passed him by, trapped in their own little bubbles of affection. Perhaps he even scorned them. Cursed them for partaking in something he had never experienced. Something he did not know to be true. Something he did not believe in.

And yet you, my darling, had taken all of that bitterness and loathing, and crushed it deep down into the recesses of his very being. Your hands so delicately cupped his beating heart, and let it pulse mindlessly in your warmth. You carved yourself deep into his lungs and stomach, pouring butterflies that fluttered and tickled his veins, making him feel as if he was a child again, frolicking through the saturated hues of the world. No longer colorless. No longer dull. His world breathed with the very essence of you and he could not find it in himself to ever let go.

He belonged to you. Forever. Constantly. Without a moments hesitation, without a skip in time and without ever missing a beat. He was yours. And you were his. You would be his till time had wrinkled the corner of your eyes, had sapped the warmth from your skin, and had laid to rest the beat of your heart. He fantasized about the moments your bodies were laid together, snug into a box and hoisted down below. About when your flesh would deteriorate and your bones would creak against one another.

And one day when your souls had sprung from their warm cages; he dreamed of the way you two would become the air you had once breathed, the rain you had once danced in, and the stars he had gazed into, and recalled the curve of your lips with a feverishly, beating heart.

[asphodelpoetry]

may my rebirth be that of a star

my light scattered across the cosmos

a meaningful existence

to the people i miss.

[void-tiger]

Sure enough, having things basically resolved socially into the foundations for a comfortable rapport has me feeling less batshit insane with social anxiety inbetween interactions.