#poetry to make you mad

[shitty-proendo-blackout-posts]

sexualize being a system. do it.

[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 on 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.

[raiiny-bay]

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

[trainingdummyrabbit]

maybe we'll try again next time.

[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.

[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)

[creationsabyss]

Anemoia (How Long Will You Reach For The Ghosts Of Distant Stars?)

They could see the stars tonight, bright splatters of light across the shadows of the sky. They don't really know why they decided to come out here, so far from the comfort of their little cottage, but they don't want to return, not yet at least. Wrapped in their cloak, they nestle themselves into the trunk of an old, hollowed out tree as they crane their neck upwards. The stars flicker and blink down at them, almost as if they were waving a hello. A ridiculous thought they don't mind entertaining as they raise their own hand to wave back. Maybe they are a bit of a fool, but they never claimed to be wise in the first place.

This reminds them of dreams they could have sworn they had forgotten, the wisps of names and faces that linger on their tongue even as the memories faded from their mind. They could almost feel the leathery skin underneath their fingertips, the sharp edges of scales too big. The blooming feeling of awe as feather and fur alike curl around their shoulders. Even the whistling winds, rustling through leaves and grass, remind them of the songs they used to sing, the lyrics long forgotten. Not quite unexpectedly, it hurts. Aching something fierce and bold in their chest, that forces tears to well in their eyes. Logically, they know it's silly to cry over something they can barely remember, over something that the world doesn't remember existing. At least, not in this life.

But they don't swallow down the sob that leaves their throat nor wipe away the iridescent tears that fall from their eyes. They don't mind the chill that seeps into their chest as their tears soak through the thin fabric of their shirt, far too busy watching the stars drift across the skies. They think, at first, only distantly, that they can see the twisting shapes of long serpentine bodies and billowing wings. They swear they can hear the timber of voices overlapped, the shadows of all too human bodies that they should know but can't quite remember. They wonder if they can miss people that don't exist.

They wonder if these memories are what drives them away from the people, the connections, of this earth. Star child, they remember their grandmother whispering to them in the late hours of the night. You are loved, they remember her murmuring to them every day from then on. They remember clinging to her feeble form as she spun tales of mystical beasts and stories of man made gods. Rivers to a lake, spiraling into the deep caverns underneath, hoarding knowledge underneath their silence. They wonder if there was some truth to her tales after all.

Star child, that name, title they suppose, has haunted them throughout their entire life. They wonder if it is why they can taste lightning on their tongue even when the skies are clear, if it is why they can feel the brittle-snap of thunder between their teeth. They wonder if it is why frost cradles their skin even when hearth-warm fire curls in their chest, the duality often leaving them sick and bedridden. Wildfires spark to life, just shy of burning and charring the vulnerable flesh of their heart. That coil around their ribcage and rumble as though the earth was quaking under a cat's quiet purr. All the while, ice forms at the base of their throat, encircling their arms like sharp shackles. They don't mind the chill, even when it hurts to speak. They welcome the frost and the cold, wrapping themselves in snow to stave off the constant heat.

They suppose it is, just like the winds that push for them to wander the world. A wanderlust unseen in their family, where others root themselves into the soil, they take to the skies. Following where the breeze and the gales blow them, the peaks of snow-capped mountains and the depths of oceans. Their body is not meant for travel, frail from the war that wages inside them. But it's not as if they could stop. They ache for the road, to chase after the stars as if they could someday reach up to pluck them from the skies. Their only real companion over the years, the feel of coiled bodies in the palm of their hand and the sound of an echoing roar in their ears.

Sometimes, they still expect a tail to curl itself around their legs even though the creature that tail is connected to only resides in their dreams. They still turn and expect to see the divine tipped claws of monsters, to have to tip their head back to speak to looming shadows of those they should know and still somewhat do, even if they haven't met them yet. Their disappointment when all that greets them is silence and emptiness is often crushing and immeasurable, inconsolable grief that drapes across their shoulders like a dark veil. Those days, they spend their time inside, away from the sun and the stars, away from the gaze of the people that stare and stare. They spend those days painting and writing, over and over, trying to capture the faces and forms of their companions they so desperately want to remember.

But it never looks quite right. Something is always wrong, always off. Failure is a bitter thing to swallow, it tastes of bile and blood and tainted honor. It is the shattering of pride, the sting of human hubris that leads them to bury their half written journals and messily sketched paintings. It is what forces them to grip the few pieces of their memories close, cradling their dreams like the most precious of treasures. Long fluttering scarves and cloaks, flowing fabrics that hide the invisible pouches of chiming bells and glimmering scales. Though they carry little on their journey, they can't help but feel an anchor's weight on their shoulders, Atlas heavy. A worthwhile price for the imaginary companions that drive away the loneliness, even if they do still want to feel the steady heartbeat underneath their hands.

Star child, they muse to themselves, it grows more fitting by the year. Stardust in their veins and the world at their fingertips, it is only a matter of time before they will be cradled in the careful coils of their once lost companions, one way or another.

@n0tamused

[dollhousemary]

“commercial tricks” — an anna poem for today’s “home” prompt!

taglist below (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!)

@spnpoetryrenaissance @aturnoftheearth @friendshapedcas @pinoruno @gracekisses @soupernatural @evenupsidedownbeautifulsomehow @magdaclaire @cinderellarhea @horrorgay @heartshapedcas @breo-rose @raytoroinmybackpack @gilmorenatural @leafblogger @supersapphical @notreallyaroad

[shitty-proendo-blackout-posts]

[add1ctedt0you]

It's amusing how mdzs is about depressed fucked up men who throw shades at others without sitting for a moment to think about their problems lol. They are all so unreliable

[hecksupremechips]

I always heard people say that Layla should’ve gotten with Warren Peace instead of Will in sky high but guys come on it’s 2023 we all all know she and warren were just bearding for each other I’m sick of pretending they weren’t

[bedforddanes75]

people who always post "like this." and put full stops at the end of their sentences to make it Deep or Sad i hope you know im out to get you

[magnetictapedatastorage]

[its-not-rainingg]

Citrine, I'm sorry

My throat works, swallowing the pill. A little capsule to take it away from me. It was never mine to hold. And I didn't think I'd cry this quickly. My face becomes wet and cold and reddened from my hands rubbing against it. It's a quiet kind of crying. Cathartic. Waiting on the train, on the seat at night, going no where and every where at once. Going home. To a house. A beautiful, old house. It's a shame it's so cold, you'd think the walls would hold the heat in better.

You asked me how I wanted it and I say hard and cold and metallic because that's how I like it, to cut though. To cut through and leave my own marks on my body. My body. Mine.

There's a point where you become almost catatonic. So full of this gnawing loneliness. And all you can really do is exist in it.

I think I must be bleeding because my head is reeling far too fast for me to be sober. I wish I were sober. I wish you were here. I wanted to kiss you so badly. I wanted to tear you apart. If I could tear out my heart and hold it in front of me, right in front of both of us, would you take a bite?

My citrine, my muse, my angel above me. I loved you. And I'm sorry I loved you. You didn't deserve that.