#look i only write poems

[fictionadventurer]

I run beneath the winter's icy skies while taking care to note the lovely scene so often it becomes a common sight and has no more enchantment for my eyes. Wrapped up within the veils of dull routine, to heaven's joy's I've given up the right. Yet when it seems my inattention bars my eyes from noting miracles unseen I stop to take a glimpse into the night and lose my breath to find the stars So bright

[heartplaces]

in regards to fermi’s paradox, by me.

i’ve never written a poem so fast, but once i started i couldn’t stop. it has everything to do with, well… everything.

the fermi paradox is about the existence of extraterrestrial life, and why we haven’t found it yet. the five hypotheses mentioned are just a drop in the bucket of everything we’ve come up with. i’ve always loved that, and i love what they say about humanity as a whole— the good, the bad, the ugly. it teaches us a lot about us.

this poem is tough. it comes from the gut more than the heart, but the love is still there. in these unstable and uncertain times, i hope you all know it’s with you, too.

[crossbackpoke-check]

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

part one | part two

[captain-lovelace]

[iris-drawing-stuff]

Sometimes I just get the most nonsensical crossover ideas.

Doki Doki Literature Club! Milgram Edition

Does this make sense? No.

Was it fun to draw? Yes!

And that's what's important!

[ravencromwell]

The poem evokes human greatness and human vulnerability. People are “godlike” in their courage and skill, but even the greatest mortals fall and clutch the dust between their bloody fingers. The beautiful word minunthadios , “short-lived,” is used of both Achilles and Hector, and applies to all of us. We die too soon, and there is no adequate recompense for the terrible, inevitable loss of life. Yet through poetry, the words, actions, and feelings of some long-ago brief lives may be remembered even three thousand years later.

--Emily Wilson's introduction to the Iliad

[ragewrites]

last poems of 2023, both holiday gifts meant for the same friend.

[austin-friars]

Also, the 'it was always you' trope is one that hits me hard, especially with it goes from friends, to enemies, to lovers: "It was always you, even when you hated me, even when you were cruel to me, even when I was cruel to you. Even when we became so viscous to one another we became unrecognizable, and you detested me! I detested you. Still, I loved you, it was always you. It was always going to be you!"

The way two people, who were so lost, so consumed by hatred, anger, jealousy, power, just hold one another when they finally understand that at the worst time in their life, they love each other, and the other is still there for them. All they can do is embrace, and cry.

And it hits more if you aren't specifically talking about younger people. Maybe middle aged, elderly people, who realize that despite the anger felt toward one another, they can spend the last years of their lives loving one another.

[wetravellight]

The passing of time is horrifying. Everything I love is disappearing or changing permanently with the tide and I'm. still. here. like a lone beech tree in a dying forest.

[hhat]

in remembrance of cicadas

The noise from the fest was blinding bright

and the crowds of strangers gave me a fright

and I saw faces that I once knew,

but they had become strangers, too.

I tried my best to remain astray,

and so, I went to the field today.

I was witness to a miracle in my respite:

Cicadas sung out their hymns to the night,

with the longing of seventeen and thirteen years

for the warm summer air, I was the first/last to hear.

It was a loud celebration of life before its end

and grief had filled me; I would never hear them again.

The air was filled with a neon-green light;

the empty field had turned a holy site

Fireflies flickered colors all vivid and blest,

unseen anywhere else, rest of nature bereft.

And as dark’s warm embrace was holding the sky

with this mundane beauty ahead, I began to cry.

And I was the only evidence to their life tonight;

Sacred, and glorious, but seemingly trite

I witnessed their only time on this earth:

they were powerful and they were free

and they weren’t the only miracle tonight:

I witnessed them witnessing me.

[thethingything]

"why do I feel so weird and awful" says man who already made a post half an hour ago that included the reasons he feels weird and awful

[broke-on-books]

😍😍😍

[ent-is-undecisive]

Bears in trees never miss.

[vividviverrid]

i learned about the devil’s hole pupfish and it made me see the world like a child again

[waywardsalt]

Everyone on Mercay knows Linebeck

For some reason, playing Animal Crossing always inspires me to write, and today it inspired me to write this... poem? This ...thing vaguely about Linebeck. It’s exactly 1000 words and I haven’t edited it since writing it. 

So... if you’re interested in reading it, then please enjoy!

~

Everyone on Mercay knows Linebeck

He’s famous and brave and confident

And he looks the part

In his pristine coat and dashing scarf

With his flamboyant movements

And charismatic words

Most people on Mercay

And all others that know of him

Don’t think to look beyond that tailored mask

And allow their attention to be drawn

To his alluring tales

Instead of what is

Right in front of them

Those more enamored by him

Can describe his face perfectly

They always recall the curve of his smile

The glint in his sharp green eyes

The way his hair falls behind his shoulders

Too captivated by each of his calculated moves

To see the way his eyes are sunken and his cheeks are hollow

How though his hair is well-taken care of

It’s at the same time unkempt and uncombed

Every time he is seen in town

And his dexterous hands

With the prominently visible tendons

And the thin fingers that look just a bit too long

With jagged fingernails that look as though

They were bitten rather than trimmed

And whenever his coat sleeve slips back

You can see for a brief moment

His rail-thin wrists

And anyone who goes out of their way to see him

Will tell you

That is all you are able to see of him

Under those immaculate clothes

And little as it is

Hands tell detailed stories

But this captain’s hands

Tell no tales with such detail

As bandaged fingers suggest little more than

Slight mishaps in repairs

Or a slip of the hand when cooking

If he allows you close enough

Close enough to

Touch his hand for just a moment

Then every time

Without fail

Those skilled and slender hands

Are just a little too cold

Despite the way they move

And their proximity to machinery

The sailor smiles in such a way

That makes you forget the temperature of his skin

And turns your attention to his face again

His gaunt face

Hidden in plain sight

With dry and cracked lips

And circles under his eyes

Dark as the deepest depths of the sea

And the way his smile is never reflected in his eyes

He tells lavish stories and details to the listeners

Faraway islands with dangerous dungeons

That they will never see

But with enough detail and imagery

That they don’t feel that they need to

He tells about the ocean

About the endless horizon

And about himself

About his adventures

And his achievements

And everything he’s seen beyond that endless horizon

But he never talks about himself

People come from around the island to hear him talk

A few coming for the stories

A few coming out of admiration

A few coming out of desire

And they hear about an accomplished, adventurous sailor

And never about the person sitting in front of them

The ones most fascinated with him know nothing about him

They have to assume that he likes the color blue based on his coat

He never allows anyone to buy him a drink

And he never tells anyone what he likes to eat

No one knows what his hobbies are

What kinds of flowers he likes

If he likes any animals

What kinds of books he likes to read

No one knows how old he is

How long he’s been sailing

The ones most attentive when the stories are told

Make the uncomfortable realization

That he never mentions another person in his stories

No family

No friends

No companions

When he speaks to someone in the tavern

He never says their name

When someone goes to touch him

He flinches away before recomposing

He never asks favors

And never makes small-talk

Whenever he wins at cards

It can be heard that his lies

Have the same cadence as the truth

Though no one knows the truth

And no one wants to admit that

He is a different person

With everyone he speaks with

The only consistency

Seems to be the brief glimpses of anger

Flaring up so sincerely in his eyes

Or bright flashes of fear

In the way he reacts

When someone asks if he is being honest

Some nights he can be found

In the corner of the tavern

Sitting silently

With nothing to eat or drink

Laying out fifty-two cards

And then sorting them with a cold

Mechanical

Methodology

Some days

After a story he struggles to tell

He leaves very early

Blinking hard and resisting the urge to cover his ears

Shying away from touches and lights and smells

He is rarely seen in the streets of the town

And sometimes any semblance of cheer and confidence

Is gone

Replaced with listless stares and lethargic movements

And once you see past his charisma

Though the pristine grooming

The perfectly tailored responses

And the too-perfect movements

You find yourself looking at something

Something

Beneath a hollow mask

Made up of tireless imagination

Of exaggeration and mimicry

Something to hide behind

A mask that leaves you wondering

Why it was crafted in the first place

And what it is hiding

Beyond hints of an emaciated body

And shallow stories and replies

This mask

Propped up by fear

And endless charisma

And just-right movements

This mask hiding something

That almost no one on Mercay

Realizes even exists

And even those who do know what exists

Cannot search any further

As even with the mask identified

You cannot see underneath it

Unless the one wearing it removes it

And so those pretty words

Distract the people of Mercay

Away from what is hiding in plain sight

Keeping them from that deeply uncanny feeling

That something is deeply wrong

With the man that they idolize

The man they know nothing about

Except that he is a sailor

Who shares his name with his ship

But people still hear his stories

And find themselves captivated

By this hollow illusion of a man

Sitting in front of them

And still people will say

Everyone on Mercay knows Linebeck.

[t4tdanvis]

travis writes poetry in latin because, well, i said so