#just writing more poems honestly

[futilechildhooddream]

me, postponing going to sleep because I have to get the last 5 HP to defeat a habitica boss by doing tasks

[feelo-fick]

I WANT ENDLESS BLISS!!!

HALF-AWAKE, HALF-DEAD, HALF-LIFE CRISIS

ALL NATURAL POMEGRANATE PULP.

FERMENTED TO PERFECTION, SAVOUR YOUR SAVIOR.

Q: What's your favourite food? A: THE ALE THEY SERVE AT THE TAVERN!

other versions : )

[crossbackpoke-check]

Why I Am Not Coming In To Work Today [abridged], Jess Zimmerman

part one | part two

[itspileofgoodthings]

I love the rhyming on ttpd. can only think of two examples currently but I know there’s more.

[say-hi-intrepid-heroes]

.

[cashmere-caveman]

My Country: The New Age, first and last episodes & Hanif Abdurraqib, For The Dogs Who Barked At Me On The Sidewalks in Connecticut (text/audio) image descriptions in alt

[pyrriax]

[yujeong]

Memory Sieve

A poem inspired by this playlist of the same name, composed by Francis Wells (memory like a sieve = when you forget things very easily) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ All your life, you've been a traveler. Always moving, never standing still as if the thought of stopping - of reflecting - will make your heart stop beating. Whenever you catch yourself drifting, reminiscing times long gone, warm mornings of your mother sowing the summer barley, smiling to herself, your breath catches in your throat and the dizziness consumes you, as if the memory isn't supposed to be there, unnatural in its effort to take space in your head. Sometimes, I wonder. Do you recall the little house on the hill? Do you remember what you did with your cruel hands? How you touched me, worshipped me like a God and molded me into new shapes? Do you remember what you told me after? How you took it all away as if it never mattered at all? Still, the journey I took to return made me realize that the chronicles of my life were a blank page before you came along. Now, I can tell from the inside looking out that I am indeed a person or, at least, human enough to touch you, grab you by your shirt, shake you, and remind you of what we are. What we became. It seems like you forgot. Looking at you covered in blood, facing your back, your gun trembling in your hands, I know the stories they'll tell when you're gone. Stories of a monster disguised as a man, a cousin, a brother, a son, but I will not wait for that time to come. I refuse to accept it, to make peace with it. For we made a promise, in the form of a blue stick-it note. Perhaps you forgot, but I did not. Wake up. I'm hungry.

[disbarredgoose0]

Taking the Stage (Identity).

Inspired by the Wikipedia poem, Identity, by @elliotpireflyy.

[melynnwater]

last night I was scrolling through the wikipedia article that lists every unicode character

the experience was downright transcendental

every individual script was beautiful

there were so so many scripts

and almost each and every one feels or felt completely natural and normal to someone in the world

and just

so much work has been put in to accurately transcribing every one of these scripts to a digital font

and then there were the ancient scripts

there was a script that came from an undeciphered phoenician disc

and it was digitized. ready to be used to write down a sentence.

we don't even know what it means, but it's there.

as if to say

"hey, if you ever find your way here, we want to make sure you can say hello"

humanity is defined by our connections to each other

[wizardofarles]

Inheritance

I inherited my father’s mistrust

of doctors. He thinks they want to get into his

wallet. I think they want to get under my skin.

Jealously, we each guard what‘s ours—

his wallet, my skin.

And I can’t think about my father

without wringing my hands, scratching,

clawing. Because I know,

even this is not my own. The mirror

has my father’s eyes—I cringe from the familiar,

judging gaze, weighing my sins.

I wait for my punishment, staring down

at my feet that do not flee,

because even these are not my own.

In the mirror, my hands curl into fists.

I hate the mirror, because this hatred is my own.

“This is my own,” I say to the mirror,

and the mirror repeats it back to

me, wearing my father’s face.

[winesandtulips]

At the same time

It's an open book And a filled quill Yet an empty page stares

How can I even begin to word what I feel How can I even imagine to word what I feel

For its emptiness and overbrimming at the same time For its longing and knowing boundaries at the same time For its liberation and fear at the same For its anger And acceptance at the same time For its a crying heart And a strict mind at the same time For its closed throat And dried eyes at the same time For its ambition And carelessness at the same time For its regret And hopelessness at the sane time

For its hidden

And obvious at the same time

For its love and Loss at the same time

Because what if I'm stuck? In between and nowhere at the same time

[frostingtheorange]

My pen stopped working, and I was forced to substitute it for a black color pencil cause I have no spare pens...

ANYWAY, I GOT A NEW NOTEBOOK AND DREW THIS ON THE FIRST TWO EMPTY PAGES

[courfee]

Yes, I killed him. 

[silhouettecrow]

365 Days of Writing Prompts: Day 274

Adjective: Deceptive

Noun: Spiral

Definitions for those who need/want them:

Deceptive: giving an appearance or impression different from the true one, or misleading

Spiral: a spiral curve, shape, or pattern; a spiral spring; (astronomy) short for spiral galaxy; a progressive rise or fall of prices, wages, etc., each responding to an upward or downward stimulus provided by a previous one; a process of deterioration through the continuous increase or decrease of a specified feature; (American football) a pass or kick that moves smoothly through the air while spinning on its long axis

[big-greer]

Am I Even A Person?

A wise person fears death, and so tries to find the meaning of life while they can.

A brave person fears death, yet charges forth into danger despite it.

A holy person fears death, praying that their god gives them life after they have passed.

A smart person fears death, and so discovers new ways to delay it.

A lonely person fears death, Afraid no one will be their for them in the end.

A depressed person fears death, yet begs for its sweet embrace.

A fear of death seems to be in every person, no matter who they truly are

But i do not fear death, for i have shaken its hand many a times.

I have lost so many so often, so many so close to me.

More of my kin lay below the soil than stands above it.

I have tasted the pill bottle upon my lips, its medicinal release one swallow away

I have felt the knifes edge at my wrists, one quick motion and then the most colorful freedom

I have felt the cold steel of the gun upon my temple, an explosive exit from this word.

and yet here i stand, happily moving forward.

I am not a wise person, nor a particularly brave one

I am far from a holy person, nor am i an especially smart one

Im no longer a lonely person, and i am no longer a depressed one either.

Yet i cant help but sit here and wonder, a thought that gnaws upon my very being.

If i am none of these, am i even a person?