#poet?

[sorinethemastermind]

 Sorvus Week 2024 | Prompt: Poet / Musician (No Warnings Apply)

 Soren had always believed that practice made perfect. (Hey, that was actually pretty good. Somebody should make that a saying or something.)

 It was that belief that had pushed him to become the best Crownguard he could be; spending long hours drilling and working out, practicing with his blade until the thing was like an extension of his arm.

 And it was that level of dedication that he intended to apply to his poetry.

 He had the time now, anyway. Since Clauds had left there was... a lot less to do. He'd never realized how much time they spent together. How lost he felt without her. But sitting there, on her bench in the courtyard under the three they'd climbed as children, it felt a little more like she was there. And he felt a little more found.

 So he went and sat there almost everyday after the council meetings had wrapped up, and he brought his journal and a pen, and he tried to write. Most days he didn't get very much done, his mind a whirling torrent of thoughts too vast and too loud to condense into verse. But sometimes he'd get a sentence or two down, little scraps  that he would cross out and discard the next day.

 Soren didn't mind. Skills required patience. Which, sure, he didn't have a lot of. But he was getting better. Patience was a skill too. You just had to practice.

 Soren's favorite days, and the ones that he got the most writing done, were the ones where faint music would drift down from the window above him. Sometimes it would be haunting and somber, other times lively and joyous. The window was too high for Soren to see through, so he could never catch a glimpse of who was playing, no matter how hard he tried.

 The one time he'd climbed the tree - or should he say, attempted to climb the tree - to peek inside had ended horribly. Namely, the branch he'd been holding had cracked and he'd landed hard on the cobbles below. Since then Soren had accepted that some mysteries were best left unsolved. Something told him that practice wasn't going to make him any lighter, or the tree's branches any stronger.

 He'd tried to invite Corvus out a few times to listen, tempting him out to their courtyard with vague requests for help so as not to spoil the surprise. But the musician never played on the days he brought Corvus. It was sort of like they were playing only for him. Soren knew that was silly, but he still thought it sometimes.

 It was on these days, with the mystery musician playing, that Soren wrote his best work. Even if it was only a few sentences, something about the notes floating on the breeze around him made the poet in him wake up; easing the process of putting pen to paper.

 It was on one of those days that Soren wrote his first full poem. He smiled down at the piece of paper, covered in scribblings and places where his pen had scratched through the paper. It wasn't perfect, and he was sure he'd gotten something wrong. Counting syllables was very different from counting crunches.

 But that was what made it beautiful, wasn't it? The mistakes and the flaws, the effort that had gone into it. Because this one had been different; he hadn't forced it from the tip of his pen, instead it felt like it had flown (he would have to remember that line for later).

 Carefully tearing the page from his journal, Soren folded it into a paper eagle and stepped back into the courtyard, closing one eye as he peered up at the window above. The music had stopped, and he took careful aim. The wings of the paper spread out as it soared up and inside, just barely landing on the windowsill. 

 There was a pause as Soren waited, and then a hand took it, carrying it the rest of the way inside. He hurried away before the musician could peer outside and spot him, feeling suddenly embarrassed. 

 Later, when the days had bled into weeks, which had in turn become months and years. When he had all but forgotten his message, Soren stumbled upon his poem again.

 He had written more since then, but none like that one. None that had felt so true. So sure.

 Sometimes I hear you, whispers on the wind

 Singing with your strings of times that never been

 I can't hear your voice, but I see your soul Are you alone? Are you weary, are you cold?

 Perhaps we were friends, someday, long ago And that is why I hear the echoes of your soul

 Perhaps we were lovers, lost and then found Like the roots of this tree, twining through the ground

 Perhaps, just like me, you long to be free That single seed of truth, grown into a weed

 And maybe, some day, you and I shall meet You'll see my soul, as I hear yours so sweet

 Then, my whisper on the wind, you'll hear my song As I have heard yours, all these days long

 Soren stared at it hanging on the wall above him, where it lived tacked to the wall above Corvus' bed. How had he not noticed it until now?

 He shifted in the other man's arms, leaning closer against him. He didn't say that it was his. He didn't need to. 

 Corvus knew.

[stranger-walks-by]

This is it, the urge to scream words that stay stuck in my throat has defeated me, I have succumbed to the urge to let my pitiful words known to the void, maybe even wandering souls similiat to myself from the void as well. Slave for validation I suppose. Search for being seen. Craving to be heard. Even if my words echo back to me, or if its swallowed whole by the void itself, its better. its still better than having it inside and consuming me whole. If my writing amuses you slightly, I am glad. I find great joy in entertaining people, it helps that my life is pure comedy at its best at all times. So yes, I hope it'll be a pleasant stay here, dear reader. I hope you get back with your much needed entertainment. Stay safe and take care all. I may be nothing but a mere stranger but human beings can be nice, I can't help wishing well upon those of them. so I wish well upon you too.

[two-bees-poetry]

[sleeplessv0id]

what doesn't kill you makes you weird at intimacy

[charbroiledchicken]

"you're the writer, you control how the story goes" no not really. i wrote the first sentence and then my characters said "WE WILL TAKE IT FROM HERE" and promptly swerved into an electrical fence.

[maramontwrites]

It's such an amazing feeling when someone picks up on something in your writing that you 100% intended but didn't think people would notice. Like, YES!! My writing properly conveyed the thing it was supposed to!!! You are so awesome for noticing that!!! I am so awesome for writing that!!! I feel so good about my story now!!!!

[oldwinesoul]

[strokeofserenity]

[sunsbleeding]

[nondelphic]

“you’re a writer, can you explain your process?” yes. first, i panic. then i procrastinate. then, in a fit of productivity at 3 a.m., i create chaos.

[ptimepoet]

- Clementine Von Radics

[dangerouslyfurrydragon]

Date someone who naturally brings out your inner child, makes you laugh, never stops flirting with you, and loves you a little extra on the days you don't feel so loveable.

[deadpoet-skull]

from The New York Times

[two-bees-poetry]

twenty years across the sea

[katarinazurar]

“you’re a writer, right?”

me, staring at the one sentence i’ve managed to add in the last hour and the 12 open tabs on the specifics of shoes in 1845 Ireland: In theory.