#poetry to make you mad

[shitty-proendo-blackout-posts]

sexualize being a system. do it.

[utilitycaster]

honestly re this post I think it's worth also drawing the connection that people who do this with characters also frequently act like criticizing the work overall is automatically bashing and in general wish they lived in a world where you could praise something without opening it up to criticism, and you cannot. There is nothing that can only be praised and not criticized. You can refute the criticism but you cannot claim the mere act of criticism itself is invalid without invalidating praise.

[ghostpajamas]

poems ive written about sam over the last couple months

december 1, 8, 13 - january 26, 30

[yourlocalbadgerscales]

Some villains are all your unspoken sins personified.

The sins you didn’t commit out of fear and better knowing, the sins you regret thinking about,

the sins that scare you.

The late night thoughts you fear, the fits of rage you’ve learnt to contain.

The words you never speak out loud, the things you could be but actively chose not to become.

You fear that part of you, and you’re aware.

That villain is you, what you could have been. You fear that thought… you’re frightened, but also curious. What does that say about you? Does it mean anything? Is that yet another part of you that should be feared, the curiosity?

The genuine interest, the questioning? The wonder?

You tell yourself you never want to find out what kind of person you could be, but is that true? Is it fear or excitement keeping you up at night? The voices in the back of your head when that one person did you wrong… are they truthful, are they right, are they wrong, are they even there?

Is this you? The madness hidden within, is that more you than the person you are now? Is it somebody else whispering these things to you, telling you to do things?

Does it matter? The real question is, are you going to answer?

Are you going to do it? Or is it safer to pretend that part of you never existed and never will?

The villains… are they to fear? To blame? Take a look at yourself, and answer honestly: the things you did and the things you never did, what do they make you?

And now, the villain… an active choice or a scream for help? Would you do the same they did? No, would you? If there was no control?

What do you know about the madness within and the thoughts before and behind the actions? What do you know about the motive and the great scheme of it all?

Who knows what you’re capable of?

Who knows if you’re the right person to come with such statements, blaming others… who are you to blame them? Who are you to blame?

Who knows? How would they know? Don’t let them find out. Take that as you will.

[mildlyramified]

Mathematics is taught very rigidly. When I'm independently working and studying math, it feels like art - like I'm making something and it tickles the creative side of my brain. In class it feels like the structured STEM course I initially signed up for.

It's a world of rules and structures people have carefully built over the millennium and you can add to it (if you can) or just walk around and observe and learn.

Analogously, learning mathematics, especially higher mathematics and even more so Algebra and Category Theory also feels like learning a new language. Working with it feels like writing poetry. Mathematics literature has a lot of the characteristic features of literature. There are many rules, but if you can break them, you are a mad genius!

I was talking to a professor and he told me about realising that he could read mathematics, granted it's not the same as picking up a story book, but there is this entire new world out there when you start reading mathematics. He also pulled up the linguistics definition of a language and said that perhaps mathematics is the only language with no exceptions in class once.

[watermelonolemretaw]

i stand here

in a cozy shack by the gates of heaven

and something feels wrong

when i whispered the void's name

it was not what i was

it was a dark reflection

the space between fragments of my soul

an embodiment of every voice

insisting that he would leave me

but now

the angel's heavenly vision

has aligned us

the void is everything i am

i have merged with the voices

and in his glorious judgement

i have become the insistence

that i do not deserve heaven

i assume that the angel never meant to harm me

in all fairness

my words were murky and vague

and i do appreciate what the void has become

but clinging to it

feels wrong

now that i have risen to his side

i know the angel can hear me

perhaps he will listen

and we can work as one

to quell the voices forever

or

perhaps this was a sign

perhaps his alignment

of myself to the void

was an echo

of the void's words

perhaps i don't deserve heaven

perhaps i am not good enough for the angel

and perhaps he has come to realize that

[raiiny-bay]

made the rest of kel's apocalypse crew :-)

[amalgamationink]

NAPOWRIMO25 #12: THE OPENING OF THE MOUTH

[stratostella]

my opinions on translation : i wish the average person who gets into smth translated/localized could have tl theory beamed into their head . bcause i know it'd be ridiculous of me to expect everyone to understand and i don't want everyone to HAVE to spend that time but man. if it were inherent,

[justalittlelogophile]

Found

I found you

I finally found you

The ocean to my mountain

The brilliant star in my sky I’ll be the bird

If you are but the wings that help me fly

Through the elements of space and the eternitys

In you, I have finally found me

~Po

Dedicated to my L'appel du Vide

@secretthoughtsofashootingstar

Picture Credit to moo_ode on Tik Tok

[shitty-proendo-blackout-posts]

[newtness532]

i think you need to ask how much of a story can you change before it stops being the same story

[decaflondonfog]

the reason why jackie/shauna is so bloody compelling is that it’s built on the same foundations of unwavering love and devotion as every other homoerotic teenage friendship

shauna’s entire existence is wrapped in jackie’s like:

i want you. i want what you have. i want you. i don’t know who i am without you. i want you. i wish my life was more like yours. i want you. your hair is so pretty— can i touch it? i want you. i don’t let anyone else dictate what i do but i have shaped myself entirely around you. i want you. why can’t i be more like you? i want you. i wish i was you. i want you. i wish we were one person. i want you. i don’t want you to be happy unless i’m the reason why. i want you. why can’t we share everything? i want you. i don’t know where you end and i begin. i want you. i’m not supposed to. i want you. you’re my best friend. i want you. i know you never will. i want you. i’ll never admit that the you in my head is better than the real you. i want you. i don’t want to share you. i want you. i will have you in every way i can. i want you. it’s my fault. i want you. it should have been me. i want you. i will have you. i want you. i can’t let go. i want you. i will sink my teeth into your skin. i want you. you will always be a part of me. i want you. i must be the one to have the first bite. i want you. i love you. i want you. i love you. i want you. i love you.

[vanillatwistgirl]

The Muse

A mystical, magical painting hangs on the gallery wall—its brushstrokes alive with unseen energy, the kind that whispers forgotten dreams and unspoken confessions.

Lisa stands still, enraptured. Her soul drinks in the masterpiece, eyes shining with something close to devotion.

Beside her, Lucas leans lazily against the wall, flicking his Rubik’s cube with absentminded fingers, his face unreadable.

Lisa exhales in awe. “Being her muse is the same as redemption, you know. I’d risk my life to be her muse.”

Lucas scoffs, twisting the cube effortlessly. “You’re over-exaggerating, Lisa.” He doesn’t even glance at the painting. “I don’t see anything special—”

A soft voice cuts through his words like a blade through silk.

“Is that so?”

Lucas freezes.

A delicate tap on his shoulder sends a current through his spine.

He turns—and there she is.

Raveena. The artist.

There is a decent distance between them, yet somehow, it’s not enough.

She studies him, her gaze both knowing and piercing, before taking a single step closer.

“If you were my muse,” she murmurs, voice laced with something intimate, something dangerous, “I would paint your soul naked with my hands…”

Lucas swallows hard, suddenly forgetting how to breathe.

“I would write all the unspoken words and desires you’ve ever had on paper…”

Another step.

His fingers tighten around the Rubik’s cube.

“And I would whisper them,”—her breath ghosts over his skin, lips inches from his ear—“while making love to you.”

The cube slips from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull clatter.

Raveena smiles.

And just like that, she walks away.

[im-an-anthusiast]

Grasp Of Gold

Eyes drawn to a gleaming, golden glow

It spreads with a pace not at all slow

From my fingers to all that I grasp

Spreads gold, eliciting a sweet gasp

All that I touch, it turns into gold

All that I touch, it betters tenfold

All that I touch, they love to behold

All that I touch, with my grasp of gold

Everything, so much better like this

Turned gold, filling anyone with bliss

Turned gold at a graze, at a mention

Why would that not be my intention?

Must be made use of, before it’s gone

Gold – they say – such a precious metal

Weight so crushing, far more than a tonne

Snapping my neck, with each new medal

All that I touch, it’s good, I’ve been told

All that I touch, like in tales of old

All that I touch, its fate, long foretold

All that I touch, with my grasp of gold

Gleaming hands trailing all in their reach

Drenching all things in a golden bleach

Shining fingers rammed deep in my core

So that I may be what you adore

Will you hold dear, all that I will hold?

In spite of? Because of? I can’t tell

Will you cherish, all that I turn gold?

Is there an end to this lustrous well?

All that I touch, is it what I’m told?

All that I touch, is it what it’s called?

All that I touch, will it rust, when old?

All that I touch, with my grasp of gold

Hands around my neck, glistening gold

Hot flesh and blood turn overly cold

A golden statue, for you to see

Isn’t that what you want me to be?

And if the gold ever goes matted?

Will you still be there, for me to hold?

Or has what I am never mattered?

Am I naught, without my grasp of gold?

All that I touch, has to be turned gold

All that I touch, must better tenfold

All that I touch, they have to behold

All that I touch, with this grasp of gold

Eyes drawn to a dreaded, golden glow

It spreads with a pace that feels too slow

From my fingers to all that I grasp

Spreads gold, eliciting that sick gasp

[syringavulgaris]

Idea Vilariño (tr. Jesse Lee Kercheval)