#is this even poetry at this point?

[straysplitend]

love my dad

who is my dad

but not my father.

[welcometogrouchland]

I understand that literature nerd Jason Todd is kind of overblown in fanon compared to it's actual presence in canon (a few issues during his pre (and post?)crisis Robin tenure that highlight it) BUT consider that I think it's hilarious if the unhinged gun toting criminal has strong opinions on poetry

[the-crooked-library]

okay so I gotta say, I don’t believe the whole “vampires cannot make good art” thing. I just don’t buy it. Like, call me biased, but as a writer, I don’t think you could talk the way they do and not be good at least at writing. There’s no way.

(you are a challenge every sunset, Saint Louis)

(I had powers now, and decades of rage to process - and so it was both random and unfortunate the man picked that night to dabble in fuckery) (I mean are you kidding me, that line is MUSIC)

(THE NAME! The name, unuttered in our home for twenty-three years - said over and over, until it was pounding in my head like a hammer!)

As such: what I personally think is actually happening is something far more mundane. Picture this - you've just been turned. Vampirism has enhanced everything about you, so your senses are like 10 times more distracting, you're stronger, faster, you're murdering nightly, you're most likely born out of some sort of trauma, and on top of that you've got years to compound whatever issues you already had - which, surprise surprise, are also somehow more intense now, whodathunk, mainly because your senses/murder/immortality are fucking with them BIG. Seriously, think about it: how much would vampire senses exacerbate symptoms of ADHD or autism? Would the species change, the nocturnal lifestyle, the mind gift contribute to dissociation, psychosis, schizophrenia? Would the killings and the loss of community be a factor in the way your depression might develop - or religious scrupulosity? OCD?

It's not that vampires cannot make good art. It's just that it becomes supremely difficult to do so, especially given that they cannot take human medication/finding a nocturnal therapist would be a bitch even if you're modern/Louiiss mon cher what eez a coping mechanisme y'know. I am convinced with 100000% certainty that, given enough time and dedication a vampire could absolutely make good art again* - though, in all fairness, very few of the ones we know possess the patience. Mind gifts/vampire speed + strength/inherited riches tend to destroy that sort of skill real fast; still, though, it's not a curse. It's symptoms disease.

* It is also possible, just as it is for humans, to develop all sorts of technical skills and still lack the “eye” for art (cough Marius cough) - but in that case, maybe try music?.. start writing? Get into ASMR? you’ve got an eternity to fuck around. Do whatever.

[wishfulsketching]

I finished F.e.a.r. It took me only three session (I was also streaming it on discord for my friends). I love the gameplay, I love the lore. It's a bitch to try and get to work on modern computers tho. Absolute ass

Paxton Fettel, you psychic cannibal super soldier, you will always be famous

And I think the OST is super good mood music if you're drawing/writing anything moody or action...y? or anything like that

one of my faves:

(I checked, my first screenshots were from 2015. Oh how the time flies)

[louisdulacblog]

𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘷𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦, 𝘐 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘖𝘧 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘔𝘺 𝘋𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘚𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘈𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘴 | Maggie Smith

Interview with the Vampire AMC

[3liza]

Exits to freeways twisted like knots on the fingers Jewels cleaving skin between breasts Your Cadillac breathes four hundred horses over blue lines You are going to Reseda to make love to a model from Ohio Whose real name you don't know You spin like the Cadillac was overturning down a cliff on television And the radio is on and the radioman is speaking And the radioman says women were a curse So men built Paramount studios And men built Columbia studios and men built Los Angeles It is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles It is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles And the radioman says it is a beautiful night out there And the radioman says rock and roll lives And the radioman says it is a beautiful night out there in Los Angeles You live in Los Angeles and you are going to Reseda We are all in some way or another going to Reseda someday to die And the radioman laughs because the radioman fucks a model too Gone savage for teenagers with automatic weapons and boundless love Gone savage for teenagers who are aesthetically pleasing In other words fly, Los Angeles beckons It is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles It is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles I am going to Los Angeles to build a screenplay about Lovers who murder each other I am going to Los Angeles to see my own name on a screen Five feet long and luminous As the radioman says it is 5 a.m. and the sun has charred The other side of the world and come back to us And painted the smoke over our heads an imperial violet It is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles It is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles It is 5 a.m. and you are listening to Los Angeles And you are listening to Los Angeles You are listening You are listening You are listening To Los Angeles

[authenticity2025]

and at some point I thought to myself: ‘no person deserves this,’ and I realized that includes even me. Unknown

[tojisun]

from a textile art by heavensghost; a reply to this

(01, 02)

[shitty-proendo-blackout-posts]

my disorder is quirky

my disorder is fun

[fearandhatred]

the devil entered me at 3am last night and i came up with this so here have a post-s2 crowley pov poem. pls be nice to me i don't even write poetry i have no idea what's going on

anyway i imagine this being read like an analog horror video

[utilitycaster]

honestly re this post I think it's worth also drawing the connection that people who do this with characters also frequently act like criticizing the work overall is automatically bashing and in general wish they lived in a world where you could praise something without opening it up to criticism, and you cannot. There is nothing that can only be praised and not criticized. You can refute the criticism but you cannot claim the mere act of criticism itself is invalid without invalidating praise.

[magpie-trove]

the thing I don’t like about a lot of women’s history is. They seem to have forgotten the women.

[the-haven-keepers-collective]

My first attempt at writing that's vaguely like poetry: from a dragon

I am not what you think.

I walk around, awkward limbs and flighty mannerisms, and you think I’m strange. You have no idea how strange you would think I am if you only saw what was underneath.

Underneath, I am a creature of the ocean. Something that could never pass as human, and no longer wants to. Saltwater rushes through my veins in secret, silent to everyone but me. To me, it’s a roaring sound of the waves that I have never seen except for within my soul. It yearns to dissolve into the ocean like it could long ago, but for now those days are over and I am hidden underneath skin and muscle.

Underneath, there are wings; fins; antlers. They ache to tear from my back, through my skull. Nonetheless, they stay hidden for me, safe in the silence. Protected like I protected my kin in a lifetime so close to the surface and yet unreachable. Wrapped in a form that no longer coils around them like a serpent, but keeps them hidden from predators well enough I suppose.

I suppose.

I accept my form reluctantly and do what I can to make it mine. I shape it to feel better when I discover my gender, and when I can’t shape it to fit my true self I cover it in things that feel a little more like home. A little more draconic. A little more like the ocean that I never have seen, but feel homesick for anyway.

I do find joy in being in this body, at least. Out there, there are others. Angels working minimum wage, dragons sitting on a park bench, wolves buying groceries. We hide, but we do so to be free. We walk through crowds, and no one notices our scales and fur and feathers. But we do. We see each other, even if from miles away, and we see what’s underneath.

And underneath, none of us are what you think.

(Tags for side commentary/context)

[sylenth-l]

Did someone order a horrendously down bad poem from Felwinter's pov? No? Yes you did :))) I think you may need to sit down for this one

(also I am currently reading The Tale of Genji, which has many a beautiful love poem in it—and I couldn't resist adding a line from my favourite in here <3)

the softened edge

Snow drives down and settles, soft

On the sharp mountain stone

But remember, when sent on a knife-wind

these jaunty, fluttering flakes

may cut you to the bone.

One ought to see:

how these melting flurries die

how they wax and wane

how they will return to the sea

and the bitter winter sky.

I'll now put aside my pen, love.

Ah, how boundless, how clear is the air

that surrounds us at the top of the world?

All that drifts through it are whisps of cloud and birds.

I put aside my pen to share, and make sense of,

Your burning boundlessness of mind

The clearness of your eye,

Because I cannot capture you in rhythmic verse alone.

Your soul abounds. It spreads its wings and soars.

Each feather of that bird must be but a multitude of thoughts in your clever head

Each cry from that beak a mere whisper from your eternal mouth

And those whisps of vapour, surely, that must be me.

I cannot put aside my pen until I have you written in the stars, love.

I sit, I watch you,

Holding my book for cover,

And you do not notice, engrossed in your mind as you are.

I keep my pen in my hand, distraction,

twilight glinting off its metal nib through the window

And you hold your own, filled with twilight ink,

your fingers stained with it,

your own book smudged with it.

I hold my book as cover for my brazen eyes

and yet I see you there, reclining:

The fullness of your shoulders, the slope of your back,

you lay in the bed, the thinker, perfect.

The heart-stained sheets around your waist.

The orange pillow behind you, sagging slowly.

All I can see is the burnished sun setting beyond the snow-capped peaks.

There is not enough oxygen up here for me.

I cannot set aside my pen until the star charts show your form in constellation, but I am running out of ink.

I used it all to paint the fathomless depths of your eyes.

And while I was distracted you came close

and tried to warn of danger

But, perhaps, I think you are the true danger:

your hands are near.

Your fingers sink into fur

do you think it is snow?

Or do you somehow seek warmth?

You are so rash. You are the sun-bird.

I have little warmth to give, yet you persist,

and you are more dangerous than a snow bridge.

You are here, and proud of it, and I cannot set aside my pen.

We have spoken much. Recited ancient history,

performed ancient literature.

I should not know poetry.

And yet, I see a verse, and I am struck, when you are gone—

how I wish to see the little boat she of Ise rows

as you fly beyond the mountains without me.

I cannot bear not knowing when I shall see you again.

But back you paddle,

radiant, rising,

and I should not know poetry.

But you have given me a pen.

But, I suppose

the most human thing of all

is the attempt to write the knowledge

of seeing another's soul.

Aaaaaahh you actually did it!!! Yes, it was my order and I... indeed need to sit down... or better lay down actually...

Thank you so much for sharing, that's beautiful! 😭💙 Maybe there's something wrong with me, but to me it doesn't sound down or sad, quite heartfelt, wholesome and full of love actually?? (says the person found curled on the floor in the pool of tears)

[britneyshakespeare]

literary theses are so hard to come up with when i choose to write about things i really truly love with that emotional, subjective part of me that is the true professor in my heart... like i know how to analyze texts... but can't i instead just tell you about all the beautiful, magical parts instead?

[baifengxis]

ANCIENT LOVE POETRY EPISODE 20 | EPISODE 49