#fandom poetry

[idliketobeatree]

dead boy detectives contrapuntal poems — 5 — (1) (3) (2) (4)

(click for better quality ✳️)

[birdhouse-poetry]

OK

Out of the frying pan

Into the fire.

Partake

Of the honey;

Forget

You're a liar.

This rage

In your

Heart--

It cannot

Be fought.

You

Killed

Your best

Friend,

But it's

You

Who will

Rot.

[word-wytch]

[foggythefandomgremlin]

POETRY/RIDDLE THING GO‼️

The sun, stars and moon all as one

What are their names and what have they done?

[swisspyup]

a new and fresh face

is what the clergy awaits.

something unalike and akin,

a raw kind of beauty

in comes a rookie

eyes lit up

white scar an explosion across his skin

black Fantomen slung over shoulder

like it weighs nothing.

its hard not to stare

Sodo knows the boy will make it someday

at his own pace

but although he's not at fault

the other may grow envy

the staircase had been climbed,

he shouldn't be a mime,

for now, he should just keep his space

[animehellscape]

Scar worship vashwood.

Gentle kisses, grazing lips over the numb skin of deep, gouging scars.

Tongue dragging over the sensitive ripples of skin where any touch hurts like the weapon that scarred.

Pecks on bullet holes.

Nails tapping over metal.

Hand splayed over clear skin that should be ripped to shreds.

Stories told in hushed voices like the desert hears their history. Like the sand wasn't stained with their blood.

[broodwoof]

Pride and Wisdom, in Wolf's Skin

Wisdom sprung from the deepest Fade, its oldest home, and upon her call, Pride took its form, bowed not to might but love, committed to this, a first regret forged, a taste of its own limits.

Years passed, time barely felt, illusion deepened, yearning split and spilt. The divine corrupt, spirits losing their name, twisted to something new, turned to a fresh course.

Father turned harsh, mother distant, children grew and in their age, became complicit. Pride, too, grew and changed; a muzzle, a mane.

Wisdom accepted each act, horrors made inevitable, Pride and pain rooted in tender soil, no longer observing but shaping each step, her voice a lure, yet never a command.

The cruelty strung between the two, desperation and ignorance giving rise to an unforgivable truth, one upon another, stones laid, a path made.

Each step together, until Wisdom reared its head, planted its feet and said it would not be bent, recognized corruption, recognized pain, recognized its own need to change these ways.

Still the tender thread held fast, a love, a commitment that would forever be, both of them with bloody hands, neither of them free of deceit.

Yet Pride reached past erected boundaries of distance, and Pride reached for her hand in counsel, and to protect.

Next Pride reached past her empty eyes, and in its fury it drew upon the most monumental disguise.

A disguise that would hide not form but function, a seal that could never be broken, and ought be forgotten.

Rest now, weary beast, lay your head down and pursue the unforgiving sleep; yet no freedom lay in dreams, no peace to be had, eyes open to something new—something Pride found just as cruel.

Desperate, drained, and demoralized too, grief and rage, and an unending deepest pain.

So Wisdom said— and Pride agreed— that this new world must be fixed, that its mistakes be waylaid.

Every measure taken, every promise broken, trust a fatal flaw, love an immorality taken; yet there are gaps in all armor, and the Wolf bled before it knew.

Weaknesses exposed, possibility explored, the potential for peace a tempting siren call; but commitment ruled; must rule, could not do anything else, all temptation reminiscent of Benevolence long ago asking him.

For love he had agreed, and for love he had abided, for love he had enforced, and for love he had warred; for love he had wagered, and for love he had lost, for love he had betrayed, and for love he had imprisoned.

Love a fatal flaw, incongruous for perfection, a need for clarity, precision of intention, a surgical strike, a structured path, regret swallowed like so much choking ash.

Everything ordered, Wisdom's guiding hand, the path is structured, the goal is planned, obstacles met, immediate change; the Wolf is lonely, but has none but itself left to blame.

Delicate spurs of sentiment, digging into bare skin, a distant hum, a risk to lose it all, denied and denied again; constantly pushed away, but the scars of tenderness still remain.

Finally, the conclusion: all prolonged suffering drawing to a close, this mistake about to be erased, this primacy of regret about to be destroyed.

And, at the finale— a fatal interruption, a gentle greeting, a growing, desperate frustration.

Words exchanged, barbs within, a moment, a fight, need propelling, experience aimed.

A regret. Another regret. One of many. No less painful than the rest, not lessened in its horrible agony.

Time and again, stop pursuing me, my friend, but Pride is not the only one so stubborn, Wisdom not the only one so fixated.

It must be finished, but it cannot, ritual disrupted, materials forgot; the arisen gods, having never earned the name, plunged all into chaos—his world into the same.

Prison. A cage. New intent growing. A plan. A cruelty. New regrets forming. Crystalline growths on his ribs, a cyst in his core, bleeding and bleeding, but still able to be ignored.

A new piece comes into play, a new potential is laid, a new plan is enacted, a new betrayal is made.

And made. And made again. Each deceit honed, each pain borne.

Freedom, final, the end in sight, only a single lie left, only one troubled one to leave behind.

The knife returned, the delicate hope in their eyes; his heart, it burned, but he could bear this final disguise.

Let them believe, for a moment, at least, that they had won the day; a final breath of peace.

Step by step, a final journey, blade lifted, veil thinned, the end in sight; of his plans, his goals; his lies, his misery.

Then a voice. Familiar and aching. A weakness, blood spilling, old wounds reopening; but this pain can be borne.

Only to worsen. A shade, a distant memory; a present reality. His actions. Her—their—responsibility.

Freed. Freedom never meant for him, memories of slaves, of the Dread Wolf's few wins; always the giver, never the given, but freed now of ancient obligation.

But it was his—his choice, as much as her will, a bloody path they walked, hand-in-hand, each knowing the shape, but never how it would end, his complicity cannot be erased.

But the words matter. They sink in. A new blossom of potential, a delicate frisson, a grief that grows and swells, too old and worn, its confines eroded, as the prison he had long ago formed.

To atone. A different shape. Pride, tired, laid down its cause; Wisdom, the same, laid down its conviction; and Solas let himself be told:

That there was another way.

[puddingcatbeans]

a poem for the superhero's sidekick.

you want to save the world so bad

your shoulders grow broader every year, but never broad enough atlas, a nightmare; you, a half-hearted caricature

the plot twists never stop coming and you break your ankles to make up for it even as the skies fall beneath your pointed toes scared little boys weren't made to fly, but you made wings out of the cape and leapt off rooftops, because

you want to save the world so bad

your scars are proof you existed in the multiple multiverses real enough to ache, but never deep enough to make you look your age

and the villains keep coming back, but your loved ones only rise from the graves to haunt your sleep so you stop making your bed because little soldier boys rarely come home

you want to save the world so bad

your name is stolen artifact heavier than a crown and shattered thrice over, but you wear it with weary pride a single pillar of light in this war you find harder to believe in every day

it's not fair, life has never played fair— you in those legacy colours will only ever die a hero, never a boy that wanted to save the world so bad

he forgot to save himself.

[ialwayscomewhenyoucall]

Retirement

Sometimes Aziraphale forgets

about the apocalypse that wasn’t

about angry demons

and self-righteous angels.

He forgets about the Arrangement

and secret meetings

and the deep,

hidden

fear

of

rejection.

…because here,

right now,

every day

is a new kind of

perfect.

Crowley leans out

the open window

to catch Aziraphale’s eye.

Tea’s on, angel.

There’s even a few biscuits

left in the tin.

Aziraphale smiles,

radiant,

and a warm glow

fills

his heart.

Perfect!

He claps

his hands together

twice

then makes his way

through the garden

to their cottage’s

blue door,

looking for tea

and biscuits

and his

love.

NaPoWriMo day 14.2 - ineffable husbands

[mareenavee]

Amaranthine

For Indoril Jinumon, for January's Prompt:

“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” ― Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland

The Nerevarine answers Vivec's musings in Metempsychosis.

Amaranthine

I have had the misfortune of knowing you – the god whose power was borrowed from the Heart of this world. Half-golden light, half-darkness – all blight, awash with empty words which so few will ever understand. I asked for peace. You gave me lies. No matter how hard I tried, I could not escape my fate. You say you have seen a tear in the tapestry, the blank space which became my place in lore and legacy. You’ve killed for less. I’ve killed for more. The blood on my hands will not wash clean – not after all I have done. Not after all I have been. Or will be.

My illusion of freedom was sundered the second I set foot in Seyda Neen. I could not know it then, not as time bent and warped around me. Sunset staining the far horizon red, all that was left was to move forward. Through dust and uncertainty, I persisted. And still do. And will. Because I must – or else, what then? Yet you, in your great wisdom, and with great force, insisted I turn back – as if destiny was so simple to twist out of shape, or cut away with blades unseen.

You’d tried that once – ages ago, while ash and magma flowed. The Heart. The argument. The spear that pierced, cracking spine and sternum. Things I should not remember. Yet, in dreams – if they are to be trusted – I do. Though my skin no longer bears its scars, the mark of betrayal remains – a stain on my soul, reborn into new vessel time and time again. I did not want to believe, until I saw the grief in your eyes. You seek forgiveness. I offer only that which you deserve. Sorrow, the haunting of a hollow promise – shattered, shapeless – and the memory of murder most foul. -> Read the rest on AO3

[blxxdless1z]

Journal Entry 71 of Senior Researcher [REDACTED]

(SCP poem 2/2 for now)

Holding a piece of the clouds in my hands,

Studying its peculiar properties

As its activity was once thought to be old.

How man got their hands on this will remain fluffy.

Being both odd enough to exist

Yet pleasing enough to keep,

And I will ponder its origins

As it hovers enough for me to feel its breeze

Though my words have not shaped the rains nor tides,

I feel condensation collecting on my palms.

Dampening my knowledge so generously

As it collects into dewdrops racing away.

Down my fingertips and down my arms,

Falling and saturating my small stack of papers

That might not make it to feed The Foundation’s taste. 

I know my pictures will be welcomed

As I bring their spilling mysteries to their hands.

I feel I could make a mystery of my own.

But what about mixing my properties

Like silk pens and colored papers?

…Or maybe I should go along with the winds

And Be thankful I got to pinch a piece of might..?

Or I could show them a new ladder to the sky

So that we may hold the heavens together.

I shook my head and glanced at my mile-long list.

“A test would be required to see

If they would bend to my likings.”

- I was becoming more comfortable with the idea of writing poetry from a foundation researcher's perspective. I talked as if I was working on a case for a big anomalous cloud in the sky representing the serious work the foundation does. And though I would like to mess with anomalies and really contribute to the SCP fandom, I am unfortunately not skilled enough to write anything more than a couple poems ^^;

[fading-adhd-hyperfixator]

i wrote a lightbrush poem because i need them

anyways tw for mentions of stabbing, spoilers and heartbreak?

The first time I saw you

Was the best time of my life, I knew

When I saw you there, slim and tall

I couldn’t have been more giddy, not at all.

I did a good job of hiding it

When I smiled while you had a fit

I pretended to be oblivious

While you acted so bivious

The day we hung out in the corner

While you told me, being a scorner

How they didn’t know there was a ‘c’

I think that we would both agree

I kept you close to me

When i should’ve let you free

While you were voted out

I tried so hard not to pout

I never got to tell you

And this really made me feel quite blue

The words I thought were better unsaid

But now you’re not on the path I tread

I may be bleeding now

But i cannot allow

You to be away from me

But you won’t listen to my plea

I may be acting petty

But i’m not truly ready

For the day we’ll have to part

(It’d feel better if you’d just stabbed my heart)

~ ~ ~

i think lightbulb would've written this at some point during season 2 after paintbrush's elimination

she wasn't ready. she really wasn't. she should've said something sooner. but now they're gone. and she can't do anything about it.

[unluckyxse7enart]

More old writing - though these are actually poetry pieces! This was my first and, so far, last attempts writing poetry for a fandom which was an interesting change of pace! Jadesprite's just came so easily, and I started Davesprite's with the same momentum... but lost momentum on his quickly. I still like the concept of it so I'm posting it alongside Jadesprite's even if it's like. A half-finished skeleton lol.

☆☆☆

Jadesprite

I just want to be happy, she howled

I just want to be happy and safe and loved

I'm tired of being alone!!

She cried out her pain

Behind round glasses

Tears staining tracks down her white-furred cheeks

I want to have friends, she whined

I want to be with my friends and have fun and laugh together

She moaned,

Her tail dragging low

Ghostly,

Despite her being a ghost no more

Her doom sealed off from her

Despite her final wishes

I just didn't want to be alone anymore

She whispered, voice hoarse

Unable to howl to the cold and unforgiving sky anymore

Its empty facade mocking her pain

With that absence of glitter and gold

That promised her the riches and wealth

Of the only treasure she had ever cared for.

☆☆☆

Davesprite

Stop the record, stop the beat

Skip back the disc and press repeat

-- alt brainstorming section--

Stop the record, stop the track

Spin the disc, play it back

-

Tell the dj that you'll be [blank]

-

Stop the record, play it back

Get your timeline back on track

[sinfulauthorwrites]

Trans!Astarion Angst Poetry Collection

A collection of short 2 AM Notes app poems written while dealing with my own gender dysphoria. TW for ideation of self-harm/self-performed top surgery (The Dagger), mild gore, and references to Astarion's past abuse (Body). Inspired by this post by @danse--macabre/spacemagic.

As the summary says, I wrote these on my phone late one night while dealing with some bad gender dysphoria, especially regarding whether or not we're able to get top surgery (BTW, we're a system), and after fighting over the headspace pen with our Astarion fictive (I wanted to project onto him, he did not), I got these three out. I had intended to spruce them up before posting them (possibly connecting them, writing more, etc.). The good news is we could start T at the beginning of June, which is a huge and important step! I (Alex) decided we should post them unedited in the hopes that any trans folks who relate to Astarion (which Neil on record has said is “Amazing”) find this in the hopes of feeling seen and heard. It gets better, and you are not alone in this. None of us are. ❤️

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 253 total

Applicable Tags: Trans Male Astarion, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Mild Gore, Self-Harm Ideation, Self-Performed Top Surgery, Gender Dysphoria, Body Dysphoria, D&D Vampire Lore, Astarion's Past Abuse, Astarion Needs a Hug, Traumatized Astarion, POV Astarion, POV Second Person, No Beta We Die Like Cazador

What Remains

They say time changes people

You see those around you changing day by day

But you remain

Stagnant

You do not recall what remains, your youth eternal

You cannot reflect, you cannot remember

What remains is unknown to you

But known to those around you

What do they see?

Is it the curvature of your chest

That you wrap until it feels as if you are about to burst

But not truly hidden?

Is it your mouth

Tongue of silver and canine teeth as sharp as daggers?

Does it scare them?

Or do you push them away purposefully

Words meant to sting them before they can sting you?

The Dagger

Your dagger that never leaves your side

It has tempted you more than once

The weight on your chest too heavy a burden to carry

“A few slices is all it would take,”

Your mind wanders as the steel shines in the moonlight

But you cannot change

No amount of metal or magic would change you

You are frozen

Stuck in a physical standstill

Body

Your hands caress your torso

What would once be considered waifish by a mother

A mother you have no recollection of a face or name

Your ribs protrude from underneath your flesh

Centuries of torment and starvation

Like a mockery of a tanned hide

Skin barely holding yourself together

As if the tiniest scratch would cause everything to come tumbling out

Rotting viscera, a heart that no longer beats

Nor has the ability to love

Falling apart, broken

You are broken

Liked this and want more? Check out my AO3 here!

[archiveofanna24]

Fire and Thorns

Prompt for the Keep the Flame Alive event! @toarisetheflame

Cross posted on ao3 here

Your skin burns when you touch it You may not feel it, but your hands are red, blistered Orange flames lick the side of your face You are a fighter With a weapon no one else can wield You may not know your past but you know your future You fight for freedom As your mentor before you You arise Their skin burns when they touch you Purple electric vines surround them The pain from your thorns is red hot, seering You are a fighter  Your weapon is your curse   You may not know your future but you know your past You fight to stop evil Even if the evil is you  You arise Fire and thorns The man who can’t feel pain And the woman who inflicts it The journey you will go on is long, taxing The odds are against you But despite it all You arise