#poetic process

[marcosoropoet]

Barrelling Up Steep Infinity

(Illustration for poem)

Generative iteration

Marcos Oro

[crayonurchin]

First art of the new year is all about re-structuring your internal monologue.

In my early 20s I was working full time in London with many social commitments and a variety of hustles and side projects.

In my later mid 20s I cater to many sensory and social drain needs I have and indulge in special interests while respecting my lower energy reserves and celebrating my different way of processing the world.

Did I get more autistic? Nah. I got less fake.

-

[Art description: Three panels showing figures on a black background. Long descriptions follow.

1. A drawing of OP as a person with hip-length hair and a dress standing sadly with her hands clapsed together in front of her. She is coloured a muted rainbow gradient. Behind her, two pairs of nondescript figures chat while smiling. White text says, ‘I’m getting more and more autistic the older I get.’ 2. OP’s colours are brighter, and her expression looks happier. Crayon-like scribbles have crossed out the text from the previous panel. 3. OP’s colours are vibrant, and she balances on one leg and throws her arms out as she dances. The text above has changed to say, ‘I’m becoming more and more myself the older I get.’ \End descriptions]

[phoenxwright]

Taking a much needed rest with a new friend

[asthe-crow-flies]

lost in the cosmos is NOT long enough i need like an hour straight of raphaella graphically describing brian’s death in song form

[im-a-literal-wreck]

Absolutely insane that Mike told Will TO HIS FACE that he was focusing too much on El and it made him feel like he lost Will.

Like if you break that down what he said essentially translates to “I was prioritizing my girlfriend over you and I regret it. I won’t let it happen again.”

My guy, that is the kind of thing you think but probably shouldnt say out loud.

[spookythesillyfella]

four unrecoverable hours down the drain ....

★ song : "Gehenna" – Nightcord at 25:00 cover

[tracesofdevotion]

me when i come up with an idea: wow, this could be the next big thing. i'm a genius.

me while writing: i've wasted my life on this garbage. burn it.

[notoriouslynoone]

Alright so, William's fate-

I've been thinking about this ever since I finished his route. (In the most diluted explanation possible) He's supposed to die due to his self-righteousness, right?

Both him and Kate are so utterly and completely prepared for their fate. Kate wants to sacrifice herself; William wants so feel the pain of watching her die-

But what if THAT'S the kicker?

What if it's about him-

His self-righteousness...

Dude, what if William's destruction comes only after years of loving devotion, birthdays, holidays, vacations, births, misdirections…

Children ask so many questions, don't they?

“Where's daddy? Where's he going? Can I come too?...Why? Why does he have to work so late?”

Oh god, please no-

“Daddy…what's that?” 

“I-its paint sweetie…Go back to bed.”

Poor girl didn't even have time to ask why he would be covered in it before her little legs were out the door. Kate tried to soothe him, but fell under the weight of his justice. A child…just a poor sweet, innocent, child, born into a house of sin. Perhaps if it were a son-No, the difference wouldn't be so great…She's just so young…

He finally did it, 

He killed the wrong person.

The right people are after him now. 

Very organized…how strange,

They even found Kate.

It was a ruse, of course, just another trap. They could handle it.

Still, he could feel the poison seeping through his veins as he crept up the tower to meet them.

(Harrison is so lovely with children, he really stepped up when Uncle Liam disappeared. He volunteered to watch the little chicklet emedantly.)

By the time Kate and everyone else got there-

It was dead silent. 

Save for the light echo of footsteps.

William stands tall in the face of the enemy. They have some exchange about their plan, talk about righteousness, justice, all the usual jazz while things go haywire. Kate gets dragged up to face him, they threaten to kill her, she struggles-

A gun goes off.

William falls to the ground.

Kate-

No, not Kate-

He fades away before he can even see the rest of Crown coming to save the day-

There's only Kate, an elbow to her face-

My Robin-

I have too save my Robin…

[worldwidewandress]

the artist

The artist is an explorer. A wanderer through the unknown. A discoverer of the inner world.

We traverse the globe to dive deeper inside. Our innate curiosity is the engine and our adventures spike the process within.

“Traveling - leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.”

Art is a journey of a curious soul, wandering through unbeaten paths, fearlessly embracing the flow, while finding beauty in ordinary and meaning in the unknown.

The creative process is a journey into the unbeaten path - an act of perpetual discovery. Imagine it as going for a midnight walk in a dark forest with a flashlight and no map. You can't see the end from the beginning. Each turn reveals a new mystery, a new surprise.

"If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine - it's lethal." - Paulo Coelho

At times, you may feel lost or afraid. That's okay. Getting lost is part of the process. Let yourself wander. Wandering leads to wondering. And wondering leads to revelation.

“Not all those who wander are lost.”

All art is a work in progress. Just like you. You don't have to have it all figured out. The path is revealed as you stumble forward one step at a time.

"It's hard to get lost if you don't know where you're going." - Jim Jarmusch

Art has no right or wrong answers, no predetermined path. Just like life itself, we're all making it up as we go: trying, failing, experimenting, and learning lessons along the way. The deeper we explore, the more we discover.

If you keep doing the same thing over and over again, you'll keep getting the same results. If you want to reach a new destination, you must be willing to sail off into the unknown and lose sight of the shore.

"In my writing I am acting as a map maker, an explorer of psychic areas, a cosmonaut of inner space. And I see no point in exploring areas that have already been thoroughly surveyed." - William S. Burroughs

An artist doesn't need a map. It's the detours and missteps that lead to the most profound discoveries. To make art is to wander without destination, letting the work lead you to where it wants to go.

The greatest enemy of creativity is an environment dominated by rigid rules and strict schedules - where the path is set and determined. True artistic expression requires freedom - space to flow with your thoughts and emotions as they come and go, to explore and express without constraint.

Art is a journey of a brave spirit, fearlessly diving into the depths of their psyche and emotions to discover insights through feeling and intuition, then process and transmute trauma, stuck emotions, and life experiences through creative expression.

We create to express, not to impress. A true artist does not seek approval; what he truly aims is to share his gift - a selfless act of deliberate freedom. Artistic work is the alchemy of the soul, immortalizing the beauty of the artist's inner world while inspiring others to connect with their own.

“The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.” - Pablo Picasso

[sourcitrusjuice]

this feeling,

this inconsolable feeling

drags across my heart

digs into the flesh of my clavicle

i am left with blood on my hands

that is nothing but my own.

like a caged bird my lungs flutter in my chest,

it becomes a dartboard

with a human nail piercing through my breast.

it's an agonizing sensation

that i can do nothing to aid

but scratch and dig and pierce,

trying to keep myself sane.

[mizzyislost]

something something how horribly tragic both the broken vessel and lost kin fight feel something something idk man this is hard

[marcosoropoet]

barrelling up steep infinity

1.

barrelling up

steep infinity,

pitched a

tent in secret:

parallel ~

twilight imagined.

liminal

inwardly baroque:

neo-vivid tapestries &

molten gold filigree

uttering ~

mysterious elegant

electric charge igniting

vast lucent

galaxies

of

thought & beingness,

inner-vastness:

reflection

unraveling extrinsic time ~

sleep has bled into the. fragile waking moment:

a vast pool of light ~

2.

delicate momentum

of vortices unfolding

blue sunlit flowers swirl,

bending under soft pulls

of wind

a burning blurred

enigma

patina cast silvered

genre-blur:

moonlight uncloaks

culminations of broken

glass, indistinct geometry

of sharp russet,

splintered puce:

and shattered vermilion

eyes instinctually explore

these fragments strewn

in first light ~

3.

towering architectural reflections shimmer in

a bowl of flower petal water:

crisp old inky paper's

intimations slowly

being folded

sleepy yearning for

origami of time &

frozen flux:

a pixilated bonsai:

tossed copper aluminum

spaceships hidden behind deconstructed elevators in

keen swaths of,

radiant & beautiful,

burnt orange rust ~

4.

consuming art jargon:

popcorn popped

in crimson pockets

sewn with amethyst

thread ~

5.

in beingness: detached in

buoyant caches: fields & spheres

come into being, then:

sharply focus,

they are

sought for their

dimension &

largesse:

anchoring the self to

reckon earthly semblance:

metal roofs gently

catch the

singing bowls of rain ~

6.

eager for wildflowers,

mountainous:

an uncovered blue

sky:

in crisp jagged lines &

woolly swirls:

do give away their red for purple ~

7.

warm sobbing seeks

out

blessings of

wet-face grins:

aroma & taste of cold

ocean water: where i

tore away from the surging undertow,

walking forward narrowly, legs heavy:

through

slowed starts of

brooding waves

imbued with

opulent palatial

realms

of

high noon sun,

white azure of sensory

electrodes crackling... ~

8.

coins brushed against the

bus driver's palm

he sank deeply into

a heavy veil

of blue smoke & fog:

velvet envelopes of silent

immersive

rain ~

9.

i am here now ~

10.

lulled & nestled by

a soft gifted

mauve couch:

in a

rainy grey dream:

eased

away; stayed from:

cold weariness soaked in

urgency ~

marcos oro

[vincentstoriesstuff]

Why do you write?

Since childhood, people have always asked me why I write stories, even though pictures can apparently say more than thousand words. I would never hesitate to tell them that this might be correct but with a thousand words I can evoke more than one picture, at least in my mind.

“Why do you always have to put a label on everything,“ people would ask me, but it‘s not about labels, but how they change over time: Love to Hatred, Friendship to Betrayal or Uncertainty to Trust; That‘s what I‘m interested by as a writer.

I want to understand what I feel and think about when I perceive reality and why do I feel and think like this.

A lot of people argue that writing is utter nonsense, because how could you describe something with a man-made word that has no objective meaning, how could I even dare to exclaim that feelings could fit into words?

They don’t - I‘m fully aware that my “tree” is not your “tree” and the word “love” doesn’t resemble the feeling of actual love in the slightest, but what does that even mean in the first place.

Society often thinks that only artists that paint or make music could give feelings and consciousness a face by creating nonverbal masterpieces people look at and say: “The artist must have felt such deep emotion, I can relate to that!”

But still, just because it looks impressive, doesn’t mean the artist thought a lot about it or you can feel exactly what the artist felt. It’s only impressive, because you can interpret a lot into it, like into cards a magician doesn't show you.

An author wants to be more descriptive, we want to give detailed instructions on exactly what an emotion like our love feels like so that other people can understand it the way we want them to.

We are honest about the thoughts we have, are not afraid to share them and explore their meaning with our readers.

Here’s where I distinguish between poets and storytellers; A storyteller wants to give you detailed information on how thoughts, emotions, observations and actions happen and influence each other, thus you can construct an own picture of the reality they want to give you, but a poet will search relentlessly, to the point of madness, in the usage of language and stylistic devices for similarities and connections to find a reliable description for thoughts and feelings that everybody willing to become just as mad as they’re understands.

They love their own feelings so much that they’re twisting reality to the point of no return.

I write, because reality was never my home, but my own head and view of life were, my emotions seemed greater and worth sacrificing my sense of reasoning.

Why do you write?

[whogivesmestrengthhh]

Today, a friend said something to me that made me sad but hopeful.

That the last time you left, it really broke me apart. But this time, I’m really healing from it all.

It’s been painful and it’s hard, but I’m healing what was broken. What was broken back then, and broken again wasn’t like the first time.

I’m proud of myself for the growth of how I’ve been processing my pain, but that does not mean the depth of my wounds have not been the deepest they’ve ever been.

With you, I think for the first time with anyone. I really started to let my guard down, let you break through my walls and unveils my masks. I really started to trust you, I really wanted to try. I gave my everything into what I hoped would be a lifetime together. I pushed myself past limits I didn’t know I had or could and challenged myself in ways I never dreamed. I gave my undying devotion, maybe even past the point I should have. Because I believed in us. I wanted so bad for it to be you and me. Even against all signs and all actions showing me maybe it shouldn’t be. I really have no regrets for all the work and effort and love I outpoured into us and into myself. I want to hold true to all the goodness it brought out of me, and the testimony to my willingness to keep trying.

I’m grappling with the pain that despite all the efforts and all the trust, we so devotionally tried to built back between us, was shattered in a single moment. That everything in the aftermath was just thrusting the knife deeper inside. Ripping apart any last shred of hope between us. And even though I have to keep reminding myself that shreds and shattered pieces can never be whole again, I know my heart will heal. It may be battered and bruised with slashes and holes, but it will find new hope again. When I can fully let go of the grief of what I hoped would be, and I release myself from your grasp of good memories and the drowning of bad ones. I will come to a better place of clarity and peace.

For now, I go through the process of the waves of emotions, from relief, to freedom, to despair, to reminiscing, to confusion, to anger, to hope, to sorrow, to all the waves of ups and downs to come. That I know will bring me closer to deeper understanding and stronger growth, with a soft and open kept heart.

[helpallthenamesaretaken]

Enjoy this random poem I wrote in school!

They'll stand between night and day,

And wish for a home where their heart'll stay

And I shall say:

We were born travellers, born to roam;

No town or city my whole heart'll hold.

No land my feet will belong,

As long as they move along,

Past the fires in many a warm hearth:

In this one land that we call Earth.

[oscyrich]

Tears as a doorway to before Time.

And so it seems to me,

that in the beginning 

in the time before Time,

amidst the unspeakable emptiness,

it was through his tears 

The Lord bought forth the firmament 

and the landscapes and the creatures 

great and small,

it was crying, speechless unbearable crying,

crying that puts an aching hard stone in the throat,

that, for the lonely Lord,

fertilised the cosmos 

and populated it with Life. 

In all the stories of creation

this one is only obvious

to anybody who has tasted 

The Devil’s salt of darkness. 

To truly cry means to feel 

what The Lord felt the moment before creation. 

• Welcome to The Oscy Rich Lounge •