#midnight poem learning

[wickedzeevyln]

Cans and Strings

Life went on when you smashed this old heart; the world spun, the clock ticked the seconds away, the stars and the moon are where they are. But my sight was never the same since. Whatever the pigment of joy is, the color superimposed on everything beautiful, lost its luster. Coffee cups sit on the table until they are cold, weary of waiting for conversations that bless it with taste. And they…

[ashstfu]

read literature. be present. make love. make tea. write a poem. cry. watch a sappy movie that makes you want to throw things at it. paint your nails. cook something. call your best friend. learn an instrument. wonder. take a bath. go for a walk. lie down on the grass. listen to the entirety of ur favorite album from 2016. take pics of sunsets. ponder. shamelessly dance in your room. curl up on your bed. make endless wishes to the stars twinkling in the midnight sky. think about nothing. think about everything. think about things so hard that you barely remember what happened moments ago and why you’re feeling the way you do

[emmth]

Guys like you know how to make a girl feel special. You say all the right things at the right time. You look like you actually think I'm extraordinary. And for a second there, I allow myself to believe in the illusion. Even if it's all a lie, for that one second I want to feel special.

But it's scary, isn't it? Too many "just a second"s, and suddenly I become a naive little girl.

Do you like having that power? Making me blush with just one stupid look? Do you enjoy making me addicted to you and your words. After all I longed for so long to be someone's special.

It's not real though. For you at least. It started as a joke for me too, you know? A bit of fun won't hurt anyone, will it now?

I never learn from my mistakes. For guys like you it stays that way, just some running joke. But my stupid mind always takes it too far.

And when the jokes are no longer funny for you, you move on. Live goes on. You probably don't even think about me

But me? I stay there for so long, rebuilding myself peace by peace. Promising to never fall for fairytales.

Will I ever learn?

Maybe... maybe this time, just this once, it's real for you too? Maybe I actually mean something to you? Maybe....? Maybe you won't forget about me like some toy you played too much with and got bored of?

No, I won't ever learn....

[sarasade]

Since The Dragon Prince is ending (or at least the second arc is ending) in December I'll celebrate that by listing the funniest things I've witnessed in the fandom during these years:

-The Great Aaravos Thirst of 2019.

-Knowing The Thirst™ had been even greater if Tumblr wouldn't have banned porn just a year earlier.

-Aaravos' character designer being very happy with all the thirst posting.

-The Great Virst of 2019 that was balanced out by the people who thought Viren was a total troll.

-Rayla-Claudia-Callum love triangle speculations before s3.

-"Viren actually killed everyone, including Sarai and his ex-wife", speculations during s1-3.

-Aaravos Is A Good Person and a cinnamon roll -speculations.

-Fandom calling Ethari "The Tinker" before his name was revealed and also correctly predicting him and Runaan being a couple long before it got confirmed.

-Jason Simpson (Viren's VA) being grumpy about people shipping Aaravos and Viren while Todd Erik Dellums (Aaravos's VA) egged the fans on and seemed to find the ship pretty funny.

-After the Midnight Star poem's full English translation got released some fans concluded that Elarion was a human girl Aaravos once was in love with and thus Elavos was born. You can still search the ship name on Tumblr to experience the time campsule of 2019 era of the fandom. Yes, people shipped Aaravos with a literal city and I think that's beautiful.

-The drought period of 2019-2022 hiatus where it was just a couple really weird terminally online fans posting their harmless headcanons, including a small fandom of a. ten people forming around Viren's ex-wife Lissa.

-Unhinged TDP fan theories like "Aaravos is Callum's Dad" and "Callum will learn every primal source" aka wanting TDP to be Avatar 2.0 but with elves.

-The fan response that parodied these theories including "Everyone is a Startouch elf, especially Bait"

-The Great FartGate of 2022 aka all of TDP Twitter collectively complaining about the fart jokes in s4.

-These 2024 Valentine's Day posts most likely done by the lead writer Devon Giehl.

-If you search Aaravos on Google the most frequently asked question is about his gender.

-TDP wiki gleefully listing Aaravos and Viren as Sir Sparklepuff's parents after s5.

-The fandom never letting go of the "Viren imprisoned Harrow in Pip" theory.

-Which Primal Source Are You -Quiz from 2018 foreshadowing events of the show like "where would you hide a dangerous magical object" and one of the answers being "in the bottom of the sea" possibly referring to Aaravos' pearl.

-A tweet fans thought was a mistake actually foreshadowed Aaravos being a giant.

I'll add more later if I feel like it.

edit:

ok one more: behold, one of the most popular TDP posts on Tumblr

[robinhills]

ROBINHILL HEAD CANONS🪽

god I love these cuties 🤭

ALSO BOOTHILL AND ROBIN DUET?!?! ROBINHILLIES ARE BEING FED😻

જ⁀➴

1: They go to karaoke together.

2: she gives him little love notes with lipstick kisses on it and he saves them in his hat.

3: whenever they go out together he starts flirting as if he doesn’t know her.

“ya got a boyfriend, sugar?” “You are my boyfriend.”

4: his pet names/nicknames for her: sugar, angel, sweet cheeks, peach, darlin’, Birdie.

her pet names/nicknames for him: dear, honey, love, boot, BOOTY??

5: he knows all her songs by heart , duh (he’s a fanboy you can’t tell me otherwise)

6: he teaches her how to ride a horse, and when she gets scared, he just rubs her head and distracts her with small talk. (side note: I rode a horse once, never again, scariest shit I’ve ever done.)

7: she learned how to fix machines (cause he’s a cyborg) so she can help him if he ever gets hurt.

8: when she’s on concert tours, he randomly show up in the hotel room she’s staying at to surprise her, she never is.

“Honey! I’m home!” “Dear…This is a hotel..”

9: she asks to try his whiskey every time he has some even though she never likes it, and he finds it funny, and a bit cute.

10: he likes nibbling and playing with the wings behind her ears

11: he totally waits backstage for her after her concerts with a gift.

12: she writes little poems for him.

13: she worries about him easily.

14: he wakes her up in the middle of the night for midnight margaritas, and they dance together in the kitchen.

15: he buys roses and stuffed animals for her every time he shows up late to something or misses something.

16: he wakes her up every morning by tickling her wings.

17: she makes special little songs that she only sings for him, and holds small mini concerts with just them.

18: she hates the fact he smokes and tries to get him to stop by rewarding him with sweets, but he always wants something else. “I’ll give you this bar of chocolate if you stop smoking today!”

”you know that sugary shirt ain’t ‘onna convince me”

“than what will?” “How about a smooch, sweetcheeks?”

“Oh…alright”

and of course, she gives him a little peck, before hiding his cigarettes.

19: she reads poems to him before bed.

20: he likes picking her up and spinning her around whenever she’s upset, because it always makes her laugh, and to him, her laugh is the sweetest thing in the world.

𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི

[candiedspit]

Smear Frame (1992)

The night I got home from the hospital, we had peas and squash and good chicken. Nobody spoke. The radio spoke for us; vitamin deficiencies, lights spotted across Vegas, another building demolition. The first couple of days, I stayed in my room throwing a ball against the wall, doing long division in my head. The television playing a documentary about squid brains. On the third night, mama asked what I was planning to do.

You can be a thing in the world, she told me.

We were in the kitchen, the evening light staining the windows above the sink.

You do have a choice, she continued. But you choose to suffer like an idiot. Even the rabbit knows better than to follow the wolf.

Learn something, Jane.

And she left the room. I held her words in the belly of my chest, going over them again and again. That night, I got dressed in my trench coat and went out to the middle of town. The lights were buoyant and fresh, amazing slashes, amazing range. The moon was pinned against the skies like a cop’s badge. I stepped into Lousy’s which was a bar I had been to before. I liked it because it was dark and cold. I often pretended I was in a cave or in some sort of comet, minutes away from approaching the quiet tendrils of earth.

I ordered a Shirley temple and sat at the bar watching the bartender spin and shake and serve drinks.

What’s the drink with the longest name? I asked.

A terrible, unearthed bitter and lame dirt tonic, he said.

I mused on this for a while and eventually someone spoke to me. An older woman wearing red and large earrings asked me what time it was. I shrugged.

Maybe sometime around midnight, I said.

Don’t you have a watch? She asked. What kinda man doesn’t have a watch?

The question of my masculinity continues to come under fire, I laughed.

So, what’s your problem? She asked. Why are you here at maybe sometime around midnight?

I got out of the loony bin last weekend, I said. I’m trying to map out the world again.

How long were you in there for?

Six weeks, I said.

Do they zap your brain? She asked. I had a cousin like that, always in and out of those places.

How is he doing? I asked.

On the side of the road, she said. Begging for cash, not hiding the bad time he’s having.

That’s admirable. But no, they didn’t zap my brain.

Did they strangle you with Valium?

I was never sedated, I said.

Who put you there?

My parents, I said, I was seeing the holes in the plot, could see the failing strings in the fabric of the universe, the whole picture. I stoped eating, stopped sleeping. All I did was play chess with spirits and paint my nails over and over again. I showed the woman my hands. See? They’re clean.

The woman was quiet, sipped on her drink. I continued.

It was sorta nice, I admitted, not speaking to anyone but sounding out the idea.

Being taken care of like an infant who can’t speak. You get medication in the morning and you moan about the news. Someone starts screaming. Someone stops screaming. You go into a dreamless, milky sleep. And your roommate mumbles in his sleep, sweet robotic poems. And you don’t have a pencil so you commit them to memory; a fog roars, abstain, chapel, chapel, chapel. And you disappear from the world. Headlines float around every day and you wander around the unit making funny faces to entertain yourself and someone calls you and they ask how you are and you tell them you can’t wait to go home. And then you get home and the world is indifferent.

Cheers, the woman said.

And we clinked our glasses. Around three, the woman stood up and gave me her number and shook my hand and left. I kept the slip of paper in my coat pocket. I went out to walk by the river-end, watching the rising of the waters, the night reflected on the surface, dark rivulets. A sort of vile peace.

A couple of months afterward, I found work at a fish market. Slicing trout in half and packaging swordfish into white papers. The work was mindless, bleeding work. Nobody spoke to me. I smoked cigarettes. When I got home, the house smelled of blood.

A while later on, I called the woman. I was on my way home from work. I had not spoken to another human being in ten hours. I had forgotten what my voice sounded like. I could see myself getting slower by the minute. Words died in my head like vermin. The woman answered within four rings. I explained who I was. The boy in the trench coat. It was nighttime and we spoke for a while. You were drinking a tall martini and every so often would dive into your purse to fix your lipstick.

You sound different, she said.

I feel different, I said. I feel like an aspirin. I feel like a headache that won’t resolve.

Where are you? She asked.

By the river, I said. I like seeing the water enunciate. Where are you?

She told me she was making tea for her husband.

He’s not feeling well, she said. I’m doing what people say to do; ginger and saltines and warm baths. But he’s persistent with his pain.

Some people are, I said.

The clouds are fragrant tonight, I continued.

It’s getting late. I can see my mother checking the time, fidgeting in the kitchen then checking again. It’s something I relish. Getting home late. The worry she must feel. The worst things happen in your brain. Perhaps I fell down a flight of stairs. Perhaps I cut my hand open on a knife and I’m in the hospital bleeding out beneath the fluorescent lights. She has a feeling but doesn’t want to endorse the feeling in case it becomes a truth. And when I arrive at last, the feeling subsides and instead is replaced with a mute disappointment. I am the one she loves but not the one she missed.

I began to call the woman—whose name I never bothered to ask for, I wanted to name her myself—often. When I was on my lunch break barely eating a tuna sandwich. When I was smoking cigarettes. When I was in my room reading the newspaper and playing with myself. When I was half asleep.

Once, I was naked in bed with the radio on, and there was a sullen exasperation in my stomach. I felt as though I knew when I was going to die and if I focused long enough the date would come to me, would emerge from the foggy brain matter and I would be freed. I had been thinking of death for weeks. Death was my babe, my habit. I had visions of my own death. Dying struck by a moving car and being stuck in the tire. An aneurysm so I’m alive one moment and exploding the next. Being stunned by a bullet and feeling my cells gasp in unison.

Death is an orgasm, I told the woman one night. Death is a great, wondrous love. You go into the light. You feel peace for the first time in your pathetic silly little life.

You sound twisted, the woman said. Death is what you avoid, everything you do, you do to put death out. Your bravado is not going to protect you from what will happen or what has happened.

That winter I was sleepless. I slept for thirty minutes at a time, watched the sunrise slur into my windows, made tea for my parents and gutted samurai fish and wrapped tuna and walked around town, dreaming of poisonous gas. Sometimes, I choked on my visions.

One afternoon, I felt a pop in the back of my head and walked out of work during my lunch break. And walked straight home. When my mother saw me, she placed me on the couch and pointed a flashlight in my eyes and placed a cold towel on my forehead. I mumbled for the angels.

I had been in the hospital for two weeks when I called the woman, I had been blotted out and cast into a week of sleep. I was feeling alright.

What kind of dreams have you been having? The woman asked,

I don’t dream, I told her. I stumble in and out of sleep like a newly born calf. I feel like I’m full of milk, a white calmness in my arteries, a saline stillness.

Come see me, I said. Come see my blue scrubs and bandaged fingers and dirty acne and limp, sedated gait.

I will, she said.

It was New Year’s Eve when she came. The nurses had hung up garlands and the television played the ball drop in New York City; that mirage a thousand light years away.

We were given virgin champagne and the nurses counted down with us and the woman was there, her hand on my back.

Focus on living one breath at a time, she said. Count the breaths until you forget you’re even counting.

The year turned over onto her stomach. That night, I laid down and recounted the poem again.

Chapel. Chapel. Chapel.

[myangelhaven]

These are my recommendations of HYUNJIN fics! It will be updated once in a while for new stories I have read. Hopefully the links work (lemme know if it doesn't)

Credits to the authors!! All information written is taken from the authors' post and has not been modified. Reminder that some fics are NOT for minors, so please read the key and avoid 18+ contents.

HAPPY READING!!

KEY

[❀]: fluff [𖦹]: humour [𖤓]: angst [☄]: sad [☾]:smut [⟡]:smau [✮]: my favs

˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖✮-------------HYUNJIN-------------✮˖⁺‧₊˚ ˚₊‧⁺˖

DRABBLES & SHORT FICS

ten things hwang hyunjin says when he thinks you’re asleep by @soobnny [❀]

Photobooth kisses by @neos127 [❀]

you're in the wind, i'm in the water by @astraystayyh [❀][𖤓][✮][f2l][unrequited but not]

The Kisses You Left (Marked My Soul) by @seo--changbin [❀][✮][soulmateau]

a drabble inspired by hyunjin's mole

Love potion by @ppiri-bahng [❀]

you try to slip Hyunjin a love potion thinking that he could never love you back

Waiting for us by @ppiri-bahng [𖤓][☄][happy ending][suggestive]

you’re afraid to let hyunjin love you, but he’d wait forever for you

Say yes to heaven by @astraystayyh [❀][𖤓]

seven minutes in heaven except you're heartbroken and hyunjin has a huge crush on you. angst and slightly suggestive in the end.

Say yes to me: after your seven minutes in heaven, hyunjin wants to plan out how he'll finally confess to you. except you come knocking on the door of his rented cabin unannounced. at 10:53 pm. the perfect time for love, he comes to learn.

Somebody else by @astraystayyh [𖤓][☄][ex2l][happy ending]

You and Hyunjin have broken up, guilt and blame simmering between you both. He doesn't care anymore, or so he thought. Then why does it hurt him to see you with someone else?

Untitled by @hwanghyunjinenthusiast [❀][𖤓][☾][e2l?]

Hwang Hyunjin is insufferable. You can't stand him despite the treacherous thoughts that cross your mind. Hyunjin decides to really call into question just how much you seemingly can't stand him.

Erubescent by @cle1024 [❀][𖤓][e2l]

why are my cheeks erubescent? i shouldn’t be feeling this way about you; i’m not supposed to trust you.  

Spilled tea by @quokkawritesarchive[☾][roommatesau]

Request: maybe like a hot roomate smut,? y/n and hyunjin are roomates for a while now but they barely interact and talk. one day late at night while y/n is drinking water in their shared kitchen (in just panties and a oversized shirt) hyunjin barges in for a midnight snack too (shirtless as he was sleeping) they both awkwardly bump into eachother seeing each other in such less clothing but they finally suck it up and have a good deep convo for the 1st time as roomates and they get to know a lot abt eachother. just to mention y/n is sitting on the kitchen counter while hyun is standing and the sexual tension arises mid convo. can this smut be limited to dry humping and tons of marking lolol

Honey's by @cbini [☾][sexshopowner]

Places, places! By @forlix [❀][𖤓][fwb?][idolhyunjin][suggestive] 1.3K

you’re just trying to do your job; your client has other ideas.

Straykids soulmate aus by @sweetkpopmusings [❀][soulmate au] 1.3k

each soulmate has half a quote that is important to their relationship tattooed on their body.

Pretty cute by @scxrlettwxtches [❀] 1.6k

The moment Hwang Hyunjin snatched the unofficial confession from your desk (which he was definitely not supposed to read), you knew you were royally screwed.

It's a scream, baby! by @luvyeni [❀][☾][ghostfaceau][knifeplay] 1.7k

you can’t help but tease the man in the mask, that’s until he catches you

Mistletoe by @iinnie [❀][bff2l][mutual pining] 1.8k

pushing your feelings for him aside, you’re determined to get hyunjin under the mistletoe with his crush. what you’re not aware of, though, is that he’s crushing on you, his long-time best friend.

I didn't actually love you by @amelee23 [❀][✮] 3.1k

Your friends forced you to become part of a poetry club, and when you receive a task to write a poem about sadness, you realize you accidentally write it about Hyunjin, the guy you had a crush on and tried to forget about. And he finds out.

Gleam and glitter by @jishyucks [❀][f2l][richkidau] 3.4k

You’ve quickly established that no one at this damn charity gala cares about the event’s purpose. They were just there to party. And you wanted nothing else but to leave; alternatively, in which Hyunjin saves you from your misery to see the city’s Christmas lights.

Just like you by @milkandhyunnie [𖤓][☾][exes] 3.7k

you’re trying to move on from your toxic ex boyfriend when you run into him at the club—only to find out that he has a brand new girlfriend that looks just like you

Third wheel by @cb97percent [☾☾][3some] w/ bangchan 4.1k

It would be wrong if you were attracted to one of your best friends since they are in a relationship, but you don't know what the protocol is when you have the hots for both of them.

Boy next door by @strayed-quokka [❀][𖤓][☾][✮][chf2l][brother's bff2l] 4.9k

you’d known hyunjin for most of your life, introduced as a friend of your brothers and quickly someone who cared for you. he was there as you grew up, driving you home from parties, getting you out of lectures from your parents, or checking on you when your brother couldn’t. 

so when you’d asked the favor of renting his extra room for a year whilst you adjusted living in a new city for university, your brother didn’t even blink or question it. 

maybe he should’ve. 

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄more to come!⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

☆-------Hyunjin's masterlist || skz masterlist--------☆

[forestdeath1]

Poet

@prongsfoot-microfic

January 23, 1977

James lies with his eyes closed on the dusty bed in the Shrieking Shack, his nose buried in Sirius's waist. His left hand casually rests on his friend's thigh. Sirius, leaning against the headboard, is flipping through the pages of some yellowed book, faintly illuminated by the dying light of sunset seeping through the cracks of the old windows.

"What's that you're reading?" James mumbles sleepily into his friend's shirt.

"Some muggle poetry. Lily gave it to me," Sirius responds.

"Why does Lily give you books?" James lifts his head slightly.

"Because, unlike you, I'm not a toerag. I can actually talk to her without making a fool of myself, you know?"

"Oh, shut it," James exhales, lightly hitting Sirius's book with his hand before rolling onto his back. "She likes me."

"Of course, she does," Sirius agrees, without looking up from his book. "Everyone does."

"Right," James pretends not to hear the irony in Sirius's voice. Or maybe he genuinely doesn't.

"Muggles can write beautifully, did you know?" Sirius asks a few minutes later.

"Nah," James answers lazily, yawning and stretching. Today he had to get up even earlier than usual – Stone had set a penalty training for their team for "improper conduct on the field."

"Listen to this," Sirius starts reading, sliding his left hand into James's hair.

Sirius twirls a lock of James's hair around his finger while his voice fills the room with the dramas of human lives, clothed in rhymed lines. James looks at the log ceiling, studying the patterns of darkened grooves and scratches, listening. 

Sirius has a beautiful voice. He even makes poetry sound interesting. Poetry? Since when did James care about poetry? But with Sirius, even poetry seems fascinating.

Well, it's not like he's genuinely into poetry, but he likes how Sirius reads them – like he's the hero of these stories, not just a bystander.  If any of them has a refined soul, it's definitely Sirius, though he'd never admit it. 

This boy has a knack for finding the hidden poetry in the prose of life – something James has always lacked. Sirius – a lyrical child of the night. Daunting, dark, and dangerous, but only to those who haven't yet learned to understand it, who haven't seen that he is a reflection of the most dazzling white light.

"Do you like it?" Sirius asks after a while.

"Yeah," James whispers, turning back towards Sirius and pressing his face against his side, slipping his hand under the shirt to rest it on Sirius's chest. "Write me a poem," James looks up, smiling slightly.

Sirius laughs softly and clears his throat dramatically.

"Oh, James the Magnificent, greatest of the great, brightest of the bright..." he begins theatrically, extending his hand in a caricature of a gesture.

"And who's making a fool of themselves now?" James sighs, suppressing a chuckle, and lowers his head back to Sirius's waist. Sirius flicks him on the head in response.

They lie like that for a while. James hears the rustle of turning pages and the howling of the winter wind. He feels the warmth of Sirius's body under his palm. They're always warm, both of them. Moony often jokes that they can use them instead of warming charms for their dorm.

"Actually, I found a poem here," Sirius suddenly says, "just needs a little tweaking..."

"Tell me."

Sirius pauses for a moment, then flips through the pages and stops at the right one. James raises his gaze to him, looking up – Sirius has always dubbed this particular expression as 'the deer look'.

Sirius thoughtfully shifts his gaze from the book to James, smiles with one corner of his mouth, ruffles James's hair, and, returning his grey eyes to the book, quietly says:

"He is my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I think this love will last forever: am I not wrong?"

"What did you change?"

"Just the last line. It's originally about loss. 'I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.' But I like my version better. You?"

"Me too," James lifts himself on his elbows, presses against Sirius's ear, and whispers, "I think this love will last forever," then kisses him, moving lower down his neck and deeper, sliding his hand under the shirt. "You are not wrong."

___

October 31, 1981

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Funeral Blues by W. H. Auden

[azmodeusjay]

Hello Jon,

Just as i had hoped, you are alone,

Reading my letter on the floor.

This feeling compares to none.

Now it finally has begun.

Ending the world is no small work,

But let me show you what its worth.

A peak behind the curtain is well deserved.

You may just be my tool, but this much you've earned.

As time flew by, i have remained,

With hunger for knowledge I've yet to attain.

Many alleys lost to trial.

Emotional attachment is not my style.

I have built this tower of sight

To extand the time of my prime.

It's granted me powers, overseeing it all.

I may be sat here, but i'm as free as a dove.

Jon, can't you see?

It's all for power and immortality!

Don't shame me for pursuing simple pleasures.

Many others would choose no better.

Don't fear the fate that is near.

Your words must not be unclear.

For this moment i have prayed, you'll like it here,

In this world that we've made, repeat after me:

You who watch and know and understand none.

You who's power shall block out the sun.

You who take all that's not yours by right.

You who drink the true moments of fright.

Come to us in your perfection!

Bring all that is fear with said action!

So bring forth all that crawls and chokes and blinds

And falls and twists and leaves and weaves and hides

And hunts and burns and rips and bleeds and dies!

For all the pain they're not ready for

I open the door!

It's midnight and i suddenly felt the need to write Mag 160 into a little poem. I'm not a poet, im not good at this. I never learned learned anything about how to write poems in english. (My first lanuage isn't english.)

Its bad, and im sorry

[styles-harriet]

• Despite his high-powered job, he still wakes up at 5 AM every morning to swim laps - it's his way of connecting to his past and dealing with executive stress.

• Keeps a collection of boutique receipts from his mum's shops because she writes little encouraging notes on them - has them arranged chronologically in a drawer he thinks nobody knows about

• Secretly keeps his old swimming medals in his office desk drawer and sometimes holds them when he needs to make big decisions - they remind him of the time when his mom would cheer so loudly at his meets that he'd still hear her underwater.

• Still can't fold clothes properly despite growing up around boutiques, which his mom finds endlessly amusing - she still tries to teach him every time he visits home.

• Used to think his charm and status could get him anything, but got a harsh reality check when his mom overheard him bragging about "conquests", her disappointment hit harder than any rejection ever could.

• Still has a group chat with his old swimming teammates, but often finds himself cringing and calling them out when they make disrespectful comments about women - they tease him for becoming "soft" but secretly respect how he's grown.

• Meticulously organizes his designer suits by color but his sock drawer is absolute chaos - he's convinced matching socks are overrated and calls it his "artistic expression"

• Still struggles with vulnerability in relationships because he's used to keeping people at arm's length - but he's learning that real connections require letting your guard down.

• Made a "breakup template" that he'd send to his flings after the fling had ended.

• Sometimes can't and doesn't want to express his emotions, so writes poems to express all of him on paper.

• Bantering is his love language. Would love someone who doesn't take things seriously unless needed to.

• Anonymously funds swimming lessons for underprivileged kids - he remembers how swimming gave him discipline and wants others to have that chance.

• Still automatically turns on the charm sometimes but catches himself and makes sure to have genuine interactions instead.

• Stress-bakes at midnight in his apartment - his specialty is banana bread, but he always brings the results to his hotel staff because living alone means he'd never finish it all.

• Claims he's "too busy" for serious relationships but actually spends Friday nights writing poetry in a leather-bound notebook at a tiny café where the barista knows to keep his earl grey tea coming.

• Gets unreasonably excited when guests recognize his obscure theater references but tries to play it cool with a "sophisticated" nod

• Terrible at houseplants but refuses to give up - his office and apartment are filled with resilient succulents that somehow survive his well-intentioned but chaotic care routine.

NSFW ones

• Neck kissing, with a little bit of tongue and saliva involved drives him crazy.

• Is focused on giving but loves it when his S/O takes control and shows dominance, wouldn't always let them take control tho.

• Would bring in new toys, different positions to the bedroom.

• Would try getting pegged to see how it feels but would never admit to it to his mates or in front of any one else besides his S/O ( only would get pegged if and once he trusts his partner enough).

• Edging would be the main kink, ( since he loves teasing his partner) he'd love to do to his partner but would be annoyed ( secretly liking it) when it's done to him.

Mainblog

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for possibly being a dick to my friends?

I (15, genderfluid) have had a group of friends since I was 12-13 (all about my age, mostly F but varying degrees of gender). We'd have the occasional drama, mostly started by my now-ex friend (let's call her A) (15F), but everything was pretty okay.

That was until about February, when my friend, B (15F) broke up with A. B told me that A had been saying some nasty things about me behind my back (that I'm sensitive, ugly, annoying, etc). I was hurt, because I thought A was a good friend prior to learning this. I confronted A about it (I didn't tell her that B told me), and our relationship got a bit rocky from there. I ended up blocking A for my own mental health.

Quick context break, from what I can piece together, A would call me sensitive because I would protest her and others joking about suicide.

Things started getting hairy when our mutual friend C (15M) told everyone that he didn't think I was sensitive, and that the casual joking about suicide had caused him a lot of problems. A then immediately did a 180 and tried to end the drama between us by getting B to send me messages she wanted me to hear. However, despite apparently wanting to end the drama, she did not apologize to me, and instead said, "I'm not sorry, because in my eyes you are sensitive," amongst other things.

Around this time, my then-partner, D (14NB) broke up with me, citing they weren't in the right mental state for a relationship. A week later, they started dating B.

I was feeling really hurt and lied to at this point, and I kind of cut off D until C got me and them into a group chat to talk through our problems. We made a bit of progress and talked through our feelings. I was two hours ahead of them at the time, though, so it was past midnight for me.

A slightly important part of this story is that I have a tendency to write self-indulgent poetry about my feelings. This includes one about the red flags I noticed in me and D's relationship, but ignored. To wrap up the conversation and get to sleep, I sent that poem to C and D instead of a proper explanation of some of the stuff I was mad at D about. (In retrospect, this was a very stupid idea. But I was desperate for sleep, so?)

A couple days later, C explained to me that the drama between me and A had kind of messed him up, and that for his own mental health, he would go no-contact with me for a while to work on himself (which is fine, that's respectable).

Afterwards, B seemingly got mad at me for the whole poem thing, so I asked her about it. We had what I felt like was a mature conversation, and wrapped up most of the problems she had with it (mostly that it looked like I had compared D to an unsavory public figure, which I explained was not my intention). I also sent an apology to D for insulting them and causing any problems with that poem. They said it was fine, and that they weren't that offended.

Today (just barely, in fact), B blocked me, stating that I talk too much shit and cause a lot of problems.

Tldr;

Why I might be TA: There's a very real possibility that I do talk too much shit without realizing it, especially because, in the past, I've been known to not realize when people are uncomfortable with my actions unless they directly tell me.

Why I might not be TA: I feel like, for my situation, and knowing only what I knew at the time, I made justified decisions.

[wickedzeevyln]

The Rose That Walks This Garden

I have so often wondered why the rose in the yard kept being a rose when everyone else is a dandelion,or why it would recite light when midnight is still in the land’s arms. When the spring rages,and the rain dry of its songs,when the colors are famishedof their sky,when the stars abed fail to rise,this rose is unfazed.ever flamboyant on the stage,gliding gracefully on ebony ice,this rose has a…

[cedarmoonzz]

quiet, the winter harbor

ship: mentioned kurapika x reader

warnings: none. just angst and pain and more pain.

summary: in york new, the snow is harsh and unpredictable. kurapika thinks of what once was and what can be.

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Winter is a dream and I love you, Kurapika.

His mother used to say that.

Always in the same breath, a run-on sentence that drifted on chill winds, rendering them almost poetic. Fragmented whispers intertwined, swirling like the storm outside, seeping into your clothes, your nose, your chest, and residing there forever. This ritualistic chant kept the cold at bay; that's what his mother taught him, repeating the phrase until the boy could murmur it in his sleep.

In his dreams, the syllables rose and fell like points of a star folded into a circle, endlessly repeating. Perpetually.

WinterisadreamandIlove

Learning it this way, reciting it so, turned the season gentle no matter how bitter the air bit.

Now that he is older, Kurapika has discovered that the blizzard-rhyme mantra doesn’t always work. But it helps.

He repeats the words to himself now, watching the weather unfold, years and a lifetime away from the home where he first heard the incantation. Night deepens, from sunset into a realm beyond indigo. It's dark, almost black, and when he lifts his hands to the sky, Kurapika’s fingernails merge with the bleakness. His knuckles become pale night-clouds, obscuring the few stars that dare to appear.

A poem of exhalation whispers from his mouth, unfurling from his throat, fogging the air. The freeze of winter invades within. The warmth of his breath escapes without.

It’s beginning to snow.

The first flakes arrive quietly, like early visitors hoping to go unnoticed as they settle. A few land on Kurapika’s upturned palms, and by the time he lowers his hands, they have already melted away. In York New, the snow is harsh and unpredictable, its gentleness stripped away. Without a layer to insulate yourself from it—fabric or nen, glass or glove—you destroy what you seek to touch, ruin it with your very existence. Snowflakes require time to study. They are like people.

No two alike.

At times, the quest for closeness seems as elusive as a mirage in the desert. Kurapika reminisces about the moments spent with Y/n, where the intimacy was as delicate and ephemeral as the snowflakes he yearns to capture. The closeness he sought felt akin to grasping at snow before it vanished—intense, yet fleeting. Similarly, Y/n’s presence was a paradox of familiarity and enigma, their bond a beautiful tapestry that remained vulnerable to the caprices of fate. Much like snow, their connection was governed by forces beyond their control, and though they reached for each other with heartfelt desire, instances of genuine closeness were as rare and precious as capturing a snowflake on the tip of a finger.

Kurapika was enchanted by that mystery early on, while his mother brewed hot teas to keep him safe from the flu, and his father laughed, bringing extra blankets. The windows of their ramshackle home were heavy with frost that year. His parents insulated the cracks and panes with Kurtan tapestries, leaving only a tiny slice of view for Kurapika to part the curtains and peer out at the storm.

Winter is a dream, his mother sighed, song-like, touching her slender hand to the windowpane, dwarfing his own stubby child-fingers. And I love you, Kurapika.

His father joined them, tucking the blanket around his wife’s shoulders, dropping a fold on his child’s head. The coarse weave rubbed against Kurapika’s cheek as he leaned into it. The knobbiness of his father’s knee pressed against his back, assembling his limbs on the bed where they all sat. With his arms wrapped around his family, the man bent his head to kiss Kurapika’s hair, watching the evening unravel into midnight.

His mother understood the delicate way snow fell. Kurapika could see it in her eyes. The reverence for nature’s fragility, the awareness of how easily it could be destroyed; she knew that what once existed could never be revived, only remade at best. Refrozen.

Flakes descended by the thousands, never individually noticed, buried beneath the shrouds of their companions, but Kurapika’s mother seemed intent on memorizing every single one as they fell.

Even when the boy was fighting sleep, lids heavy and head resting against his father’s chest, Kurapika’s mother was still touching the windowpane.

Understanding.

You couldn’t piece people together the way you made ice, pouring water into molds and sliding the tray into the freezer, timing the process with a watch. When snowflakes melted, you could never freeze them back into the same shape.

But you could try.

•｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

[bloomingdarkgarden]

Could Vassa Be Immortal After All?

A Firebird Theory

(WARNING: HOFAS SPOILERS BELOW)

While reading CC3 I couldn’t help but notice a plot element regarding curses that brought me back to Vassa in ACOTAR.

In HOFAS we learn Jesiba's mysterious backstory and all this talk of curses- I couldn’t help but to meditate on our favorite firebird. Jesiba unveils that she has been cursed in Chapter 38:

And also elaborates that there were unintentional consequences of the curse:

Jesiba obviously holds a strong grudge against her cursor but is able to use the curse to her advantage.

So Jesiba, similarly to Vassa, was a mortal, cursed unwillingly by an immortal male figure. The curse made her immortal in turn. This has me thinking- what if the same has happened to Vassa? More from Ch.38:

I also find the passage in ACOWAR really interesting, in which Feyre is describing her perception of Vassa the first time they meet:

‘Only a few years older than me, but ... young-feeling. Coltish. Fierce and untamed, despite her curse.’ (ACOWAR chapter 79)

Could this be because although Vassa is, let’s say, age 28- she actually stopped physically aging when she was cursed at age 20? Perhaps it's just Feyre noting that she's a spicy pepper. Who knows.

I recently went down a rabbit hole of Slavic lore and I’m so intrigued by Vaasa’s storyline in the upcoming books. Most folks are aware that SJM has taken her story directly from Slavic mythology- and there are loads of potential breadcrumbs in the fables of:

Ivan Tsarevitch in which Ivan, the youngest of several malaligned brothers, sets out on a quest to free a firebird from a dark sorcerer who also entraps other princesses (often Koschei the deathless).

Princess Vasilisa in which an archer finds a firebird’s flaming feather and gets roped into a quest to deliver a lost princess. Hello Elain’s vision regarding this exact imagery: “I saw a feather of fire land on snow and melt it.” (ACOWAR)

Swan Lake in which Princess Odette (Vassa) is cursed into a swan form by an evil lord and can only take human form between midnight and daybreak. Only a faithful vow of true love can break the spell. If her true love makes a vow to the wrong woman (Elain perhaps) the princess dies instead. Could something as powerful as a male (Lucien) breaking his mating bond to forge a destiny with Vassa be the key to breaking her curse??

Who knows.

Will Vassa be immortalized by Koschei's power touching her and chaining her to the lake? Will Lucien be the key to deliver her from her curse as Ivan was in the fables?

I don't know. But regardless of Lucien's heart, I myself am a Vassa acolyte. I'm so enraptured by the beautiful myths surrounding this lore, and am so intrigued to learn what becomes of Vassa as a heroine in her own right. Her character and story have so much magical potential!

In the words of Yakov Polonsky’s poem:

And in my dreams I see myself on a wolf's back

Riding along a forest path

To do battle with a sorcerer-tsar

In that land where a princess sits under lock and key,

Pining behind massive walls.

There gardens surround a palace all of glass;

There Firebirds sing by night

[crowleys-bentley-and-plants]

The Things You've Lost Sight Of

You learned to hate the most beautiful part of you,

And I can’t help but think

Of the way sunlight kisses your skin

Like a lover's touch, like a warmth I could never give,

Yet you still turn away, seeking shadows instead.

You learned to hide the most radiant spark,

And I can't help but mourn

The laughter that you silenced, fearing its sound,

As if joy were a stranger to be kept underground.

But oh, how it once danced in your eyes

Brighter than all the stars in midnight skies.

You learned to bury the dreams in your heart,

And I can’t help but ache

For the treasures hidden

Under layers of doubt and fear

Where they lie dormant,

Like notes trapped in a dusty old piano

For no one can know

That it’s rusted and worn

That it’s lacking the tuning that once made it sing.

But perhaps some of the keys

Remained unbroken, waiting for a touch,

A soft voice,

And the courage to make some noise.

You learned to shun the kindness you deserve,

And I can't help but grieve

The love you push aside,

As if unworthy 

Of the very essence you embody

As if happiness belongs to someone else's story.

You learned to forget the strength in your soul,

And I can’t help but see

The battles you've fought,

The scars deep as the sea

And though you may think you've lost your way

You're still standing, come what may.

You learned to deny the most beautiful part of you,

And I can't help but wonder

What could set you free,

To embrace the reflection

That I always see:

A soul made of stardust,

A heart brave and true,

If only you'd love

The most beautiful part of you.

-

ok ok ok hear me out. the messiness of this poem is actually a deliberate choice because it symbolizes that he is trying to convey their love but cant seem to find the right words to make him believe all this (hehe not saying who is who but i think you can all guess). this is an artistic choice okay😭 (it's not but shhut up)

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated💙

Read also on ao3:

hello my dudes @crowleys-hips @bearthewhipsandscornsoftime @fearandhatred @ghostsparrow @eybefioro @seven-stars-in-his-palm @ficreader500 @foolishlovers @sabotage-on-mercury @crowleys-curl @crowleybrekkers @goodomensafterdark @notagoodlad @lickthecowhappy @goodoldfashionednightingale @spookyllamatree @wanderer-main @ineffabildaddy @wibbly-wobbly-blog @marika-misc @captainblou @weasleywrinkles @chaoticgayomens @amagnificentobsession @thebookshoparoundthecorner @quintessentiallychemical

[the-golden-comet]

✨Writeblr Interview✨

Thank you for tagging me @nczaversnick , @phynewrites , @mrbexwrites , and @foyle-writes-things ! Appreciate the heck out of y’all 💛✨

Short stories, novels, or poems?

Novels for sure, to read and to write! ✨

What genre do you prefer reading?

Same ones as I write—BL Romantasies, high fantasies, low fantasies, adult fiction, Slice of Life, Enemies to Lovers, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Angst/Fluff/Smut 💫✨

Are you a planner or a write as I go kind of person?

Little of column A, little of column B. I think a healthy balance between the two makes for some great planned (and unplanned) adventures! 💛✨

What music do you listen to while writing?

So funny thing….I don’t listen to music when I write. But, my favorite writing white noise is gameplay of Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Dead by Daylight, or Friday the 13th without commentary, played at a very low volume. Something about a revving chainsaw sparks my motivation to write (or maybe it’s fear? 🤔)

Favorite books/movies?

Anything Disney +mutuals’s stories ✨

Any current WIPs?

So far finishing up YWIMC before I move on to something big….👀✨I have a lot of stories on the back-burner and am focusing on one at a time 💛

If someone were to make a cartoon out of you what would your standard outfit be?

Very comfortable gray-knit turtleneck or hoodie, comfy pants, stylin’ shoes, and my bag of holding (numerous things. Backpack I carry around that has all my daily necessities ✨)

Create a character description of yourself:

Okay picture Link from The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword. Got it? Okay. Make him gay. Give him some cartilage piercings. Maybe a few eye bags due to the insomnia. There you go. ✨

Oh also make him chaotic good. Because the world needs more kindness, and I will give the world more kindness. The world does not have a choice in the matter. 🌏💫✨

Do you like incorporating actual people you know into your writing?

Considering what I write? Absolutely not.

Are you kill happy with your characters?

Depends on the character and the narrative. I like happy endings, but sometimes a character must die. 🤷‍♂️

Coffee or Tea while writing?

While I write? Water. While I wake up? Coffee. While I get ready for bed? Tea.

Slow or fast writer?

Fast writer, slow motivator. Once I get on a groove I can usually go on 5-6 hour writing binges at a time. I just have to get there first with all of my projects….🫠✨

Where/who/what do you draw inspiration from?

Myself mainly, and my friends and mutuals secondly. I’ve been writing for myself since I started making fanfictions as a teenager, so I’ll never NOT make stories for myself. Gaining a supportive community on writeblr has given me an extra boost of motivation, because now I feel like I’m writing for myself AND for my friends and mutuals ✨

If you were in a fantasy world, what would you be?

The person that somehow finds themself in harrowing situations only to stumble my way out of the problem through sheer coincidence and bullshit. Or a bard. Probably a bard. Maybe both of these things 🤔✨

Most fav book cliche:

Two dumb idiots (/positive) go on an epic quest and learn about each other in the meanwhile. (See: The Emperor’s New Groove)

Least favorite cliche:

One-trick pony characters that lack depth, or exist just to check off a box.

Favorite scene to write?

Anything involving the two main protags.

Reason for writing?

My own personal enjoyment, and to share my crazy mind with the world for entertainment and create joy and inspiration to a community of genius minds (You. I’m talking about you. Yeah, YOU. Keep writing, keep inspiring, and keep on keeping on) 💖✨

Thank you again! I’m going to tag (no pressure): @tragedycoded , @wyked-ao3 , @gioiaalbanoart , @sableglass , @words-after-midnight , @saturnine-saturneight , @marlowethelibrarian , @davycoquette , @lychhiker-writes , @glasshouses-and-stones , @aintgonnatakethis , @honeybewrites , @drchenquill , @theink-stainedfolk , @the-letterbox-archives , @ominous-feychild , @mysticstarlightduck , @finickyfelix , @autism-purgatory , @moltenwrites , @rivenantiqnerd , @thecomfywriter , @somethingclevermahogony , @authorcoledipalo , @houseplantblank , +open tag ✨