#shittywriting

[shittywritting-222]

Evan's sarcastic words and irreverent laughter resonated in the darkness, punctuating their world's ominous quiet. Despite his best efforts to adopt a neutral demeanour, he couldn't deny the pull of his humour. They didn't talk about their lives, and they didn't know anything about each other, nor their ages, nor their complete names, and not even their occupations. That was the best part: when he was in his company, Barty could be an entirely different person.

[secretcoffeecloud]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Mary Macdonald/Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Regulus Black/James Potter, Sirius Black/Mary Macdonald Characters: Mary Macdonald (Harry Potter), James Potter, Lily Evans, Dorcas Meadowes, Remus Lupin, Sirus Black, Pandora Lovegood, Regulus Black, Marlene McKinnon, Peter Pettigrew Summary:

A year ago, the last of her friends died. The death of Remus John Lupin struck Mary as a sign to do only one thing: forget. She sets up a plan, she will live the memories one more year, she will celebrate their birthdays one more year. And then, she would live her life in peace.

[oraangepeeel]

Did I just start writing a musical based on OL1 despite the fact that I’m a mediocre lyricist, can’t write music for shit, only play the ukulele, and have a crippling fear of sharing anything I work on? Did I start by writing a sad song about MC and Baxter?

Yes. Yes, I did.

[lettmetellyouaboutmyboat]

He brings me coffee in bed

On Saturday mornings

With just the right amount of creamer in it,

And the aroma lingers in the air

Like a promise to do the same thing again next weekend.

He listens when I sing,

And chimes right in with his own smooth baritone,

Even though I am half tone deaf.

He knows how to rub my back

Right where it hurts the most—

Like he can read the pain in the lines of my body,

Like my limbs speak a language only he can understand.

He knows how to bring laughter from deep within me,

Even when I’ve had a horrible day

And laughing is the last thing I feel like doing.

He pulls it from me

Like a clown drawing handkerchief’s from a bottomless bag,

Until there are tears running down my face

Like small salty rivers.

He knows how to quell my shaking

When I feel like my earth is quaking

And crumbling all around me.

His strong arms hold me together

When I feel like I’m falling apart.

He sees me as I am,

I wear no mask, build no facades before him,

He sees my naked soul bared before him

With his clear blue eyes—

Vulnerable, soft, timid, and loving.

There is no pretending with him,

He knows my very soul.

Together we are a piece of cloth,

Woven together seamlessly,

Threads intertwined like our

Fingers laced together

Palm to palm.

We are held together tightly,

Each making the other stronger

And more complete.

[jessica--white]

the spiral of toilet water

I read this article about bulimia once. Poor people, it really makes you sick, doesn’t it?

The lazy anorexic, the nom and vom, the supposed ‘eating disorder’.

It’s bulimia my friends, the eating disorder nobody wants to have. Anorexia on the other hand… jeez she’s in high demand from unhappy women, second only to love.

Bulimia and its stigmatized association has almost a comedic theme to it. I know I’m adding this comedic aspect to the whole situation; it’s a coping mechanism! I swear!

Humour me though, it’s not like you can say your eating disorder is about ‘control’ when that is exactly what you’re lacking.

As I write this, I feel as if everybody will understand what I’m trying to say. In reality, barely anybody will. Rather than an eye-opening piece of writing that will make the reader feel and recount back to thatrough time in their life, I’m just going to get a bit of awkwardness, and the rare sympathetic thought. Anyways, for those who don’t understand bulimia, so virtually everybody (including myself); binging and purging is mandatory, whether it is via exercise, vomiting or laxatives. I, personally, don’t have experience with laxatives. That shit’s not for me.

On a more serious note, it’s a compulsion where extremities of control are present.

Whatever serious note I just added to that was probably in one ear & out the other, or in a bulimics case, in one hole, out the same 20 minutes later. I guess it also could be out the other if you’re into that laxative thing… like I said before, not my cup of alpine tea.

This isn’t supposed to be some year 7 research assignment where the basics are stated, but here I am googling bulimia like I haven’t had first-hand experience for the past 6 years. I’m often introduced to this girl, Bulimia is her name, Mia for short. She is usually accompanied by a cliché dictionary definition. “Bulimia is an emotional disorder characterized by a distorted body image and an obsessive desire to lose weight, in which bouts of extreme overeating are followed by fasting or self-induced vomiting or purging.” But, I’m a cliché kinda gal, so I dig that for her. I’m the stereotype of an eating disorder. Female. Teenager. Divorced parents. Unhealthy upbringing. You know, all the cool stuff. Mia is thin sometimes, but on other days she resembles a heifer. Sometimes, she is determined, other times she seems dull and lost. It’s as if she needs to make up her mind, does she want to be thin, or massive? She definitelydoesn’t mind when she’s shovelling food down her throat, but, must do when it’s coming back up in the toilet bowl. Literal money down the drain…

This was how I saw her when she was drowning me. She was a person that I didn’t want to disappoint. Was she my mother, who wanted me to excel in sports rather than academics? Was she my father, who didn’t want a ‘fat’ daughter? Or was she my school, who thrived off appearances? To this day, I’m still unsure who it was that influenced the personification of ‘Mia’, but they weren’t kind.

If bulimia had a positive, you could say its lack of ability to be romanticized. For some reason, I don’t think that idealizing the vomit smell on her breath and marks on her knuckles compares to protruding hip bones and pale, delicate skin.

Clearly, none of those things should be romanticized, but this world is a sick place, I could add another pun here, but after a while of joking about bulimia, it gets a bit sad. Talk of mental illness or trauma induces this ‘sad’, awkward and uncomfortable reaction from folks on the receiving end of the speech. So, how are we able to stop the shame? As much as I preach to ‘stop the stigma’, I’m realizing what a hard task it’ll be. I could start the mission for destigmatization of mental illness with this terrible piece of writing; but the humour won’t be funny to an audience. Well, it may be funny… but then there is a sense of mockery! Mocking us bulimics?! I mean, fair, but still. If there was another tactic to destigmatize mental illness; It would be to talk about it. Again, people on the receiving end of this ‘mission’ can’t exactly say or do anything if they haven’t had first-hand experience! Agreement or ‘understanding’ without known background diminishes the purpose, hence why that approach won’t work. If you’re in to romanticize the perfect outlook for this ‘mission’ a little more, lack of agreement comes hand in hand with a lack of concern. The ideal lose-lose situation!

So, is it more funding we need? More publication? Less association? More talk? Less categorization? More, or Less?

Or, is it a magic skinny pill?

Mia tells me it’s probably the last option.

[theplatformofplantsandwriti-blog]

fake by Me

I see you

In the corner of the room, headphones in, bags under your eyes trying to be anywhere but in that seat

I hear you

Your laugh should be full and loud but it has been cut down and turned to a simple chuckle.

I smell you

Your negative energy with positivity sprayed over it like terrible smelling perfume

I taste you

The bitterness  lying on your tough as no one asks if you're okay

They see her

But I see you

[crowembodiment]

Psychic Payback

You have your preconceptions of me

I am the freak you see

You have me figured out, without a shadow of a doubt

On the certainty route

A friend like you is not a friend!

A friend like you to me is dead!

You see, I like to get in your head

And mess with it while you’re snug in bed

Till you’re reading between the lines

Interpreting all the signs

And reading the tablets of your heart

Like a book you’ve yet to start

Seeing the you you’ve yet to see

Based on your preconceptions of me

[frownyalfred]

Damian: Your driving was TERRIBLE, Drake. It was so unsafe.

Tim: But did you die??

Jason:

Dick:

Damian:

Alfred:

Bruce:

The Justice League:

Jason: *inhaling*

Tim: I'm--

Jason: RUDE

[celestepaige-blog]

Love our love

You are like the first breath of fresh air in the morning, when I wake outside in the warm summer;

You are the one who reminds me I’m flying, when I feel like I’m falling;

On occasion I am quite the mess, somehow you love me anyway;

We’ve fallen apart more than once, somehow I know that this has been the time we will never let each other go;

Storms will come and go, we may stray but never far;

I wait for the day I wake up to this all being a dream because it seems to good to be true, you have my heart- you’ve had it from the start.

[tears-and-turmoil]

His Friend

Tell me that you love me Tell me not to go

They’re out on the Great Lawn again, lying back on the grass and staring up at the sky. Draco’s laughing at a shape he’s seen in the clouds, tracing the outline of it with his wand for his friend to see. A dragon, with light bursting out of its mouth like flame, wings stretched across the expanse of blue sky. He reaches up and draws a tiny lightning bolt into the creature’s forehead. Up in the sky, the cloud-dragon has one too.

He doesn’t seem to realise he’s stopped laughing.

-----------------------------------------

He’s in the common room, settled deep in a cushion-filled armchair. One leg rests over the other, and there’s a book in his lap. He stares at it incomprehensively, the thick red ribbon of a bookmark cutting through the middle of the text. His legs are warm but numb in the light of the fire. Giving up, he takes the book off his lap and tries to move his legs, wincing as painful prickling starts up his feet and through to his thighs. Not as bad as Crucio, but pain is pain, and- now it’s gone. He tucks the book under his arm and heads up the stairs to his bedroom, his companion trailing quietly behind.

-----------------------------------------

And he’s crying, tears running down his face as he tosses and turns in bed. With a gasp, he bolts up, mind still halfway in the nightmare that he can’t shake. He turns to his side, eyes frantically searching – there. There. He’s there.

Cold, clammy hands trail a path across bedsheets to rest against a dark shape on the covers. Muted green eyes look up, and he’s sobbing again, crawling forward over the covers to face him, eyes running over messy black hair and a tentative smile. He chokes back another sob, drops fully onto the mattress to stare at him.

He closes his eyes.

-----------------------------------------

They’re across the hall, two dining tables over, watching him as he folds his toast into a triangle and bites down on it with a smile. Rubs his fingers over bruised-purple eyes, sips his tea after blowing the steam away. He seems happy. Content.

Of course he would. He’s a Malfoy.

-----------------------------------------

He’s in an abandoned Potions classroom, dumping ingredients down onto the table. Pensieve shavings, mermaid tears and tens of other substances are spread across a single desk. He sets his cauldron in the middle, lights a fire, and gets to work. When he gets to the stag sweat, he grimaces. Harry wouldn’t have – doesn’t, he reminds himself, Harry doesn’t, like this part of the potion, but it has to be done. Two drops, and three clockwise stirs, then he caps the vial and drops it on the desk.

He sets a Stasis Charm on the bubbling mixture and looks back at the table. A jar full of a strange black substance is slipped on the surface from his pocket, and he uses tweezers to extract a single piece of the black from the container. He scowls up at the shape that’s sitting across from him, content and swinging their legs on the stool as they watch him work.

‘Why couldn’t you have had straight hair, Potter? I mean-’ his eyes widen, and he almost drops the tweezers.

‘Why don’t you? Merlin, it’s annoying, trying to pick a single one from here. And of course, it didn’t have to just be curly, you have no idea how to use conditioner, do you, so cutting it was even more of a job than it would have been.’

He continues grumbling as he tries to pick up a single piece from the jar. With a triumphant ah-ha! he finally has one on the end of the tools. Smiling, he spells the jar shut and lets go of the Stasis on the cauldron, dropping the tiny piece in. He turns back to the figure.

‘Still can’t brew a single potion without help, can you?’ He rounds the table, perches on the stool next to the figure, smiling as it leans towards him, resting its weight along his arm.

‘It’s alright. I’ll teach you.’

-----------------------------------------

He never speaks when he’s around other students. Well, not to Harry, anyways. Potter trails after him, by his side. Quiet. Unnoticed.

When they’re alone, though, they sit next to each other, Draco making shapes in the air with his wand or reading out loud to the figure cuddled next to him on the sofa. He tucks white-blond hair behind his ears, banters out loud to the boy with the green eyes.

His Potter. His friend.

-----------------------------------------

May 31st. He’s lying back on his bed, staring up at the charmed canopy of stars.

‘Draco, Potter. How many times do I have to – are you that blind, Scarhead? No, Eltanin’s that one. That one, Potter. Yes, there it is. Now, here…’

He traces patterns only he can see, pointing at the ceiling as he describes the constellations to his companion. His friend. Laughs, again, and jabs at the same star as he tries to explain – yes, Potter, this one – which is which.

And hours later, he falls asleep, a smile on his face.

-----------------------------------------

But the dream comes again.

He’s there, again, the forest a hundred metres away. Harry, right in front of him, cupping a face that’s dripping with tears.  

‘It’ll be alright, Draco. I’ll be fine.’

The smile is reassuring, but the eyes flicker with guilt, with worry, with apprehension of what’s to come. Draco shakes his head.

‘Don’t go.’

Harry grins at him, a quick flash of a smile that makes him want to grab the bastard and shake him, Apparate them somewhere far, far away, where they can stay, and keep this budding friendship that he’d wanted for so long. Keep Harry safe.

‘Hey, I escaped death once before, right? I’ll just do it again.’

He rolls his eyes, pulls the hands off his cheeks.

‘That’s not how it works, Scarhead, and you know it.’

‘Oh, it’s Scarhead now, is it?’

He gives a watery, tiny smile.

‘Always was.’

Flash forward now, like his brain can’t stand to remember what happened next, but somehow time slows as the giant form of Hagrid steps out of the trees, tears rolling down his cheeks in miniature waterfalls, cradling a fragile-looking shape in his hands.

A fragile shape that was once strong, a fragile shape that had once held on their shoulders the expectations and hopes of a whole world. A fragile shape that had, mere minutes ago, held their fingers against Draco’s cheeks, promising that he’d be fine.

Voldemort was dead. But so was Harry Potter.

 And when he wakes, he looks to the side and sees no-one. Clammy fingers scrabble at the bedside table, finding a glass vial and uncapping it, downing half. He opens his eyes, and looks to the side again, and there is Harry, in all his Gryffindor glory, tie askew and glasses balanced precariously on his nose. Messy hair sticks up from his forehead, and he’s smiling at Draco, the same grin he’d had before he’d left. And come back, Draco tells himself, capping the vial and dropping it to the table again. And come back, because he was here, and how else would he be here if he wasn’t alive? He shuffles up next to him, so that their shoulders almost touch – but they can’t, he reminds himself, they can’t. He smiles at muted green eyes, at messy hair, at the fingers that reach up to push Potter’s glasses back up his face like they used – like they always do.

His Potter. His friend.

[shittywritting-222]

A year ago, the last of her friends died. The death of Remus John Lupin struck Mary as a sign to do only one thing: forget. She sets up a plan, she will live the memories one more year, she will celebrate their birthdays one more year. And then, she would live her life in peace.

[the-restless-pen]

Why does it hurt so fucking much that you’ve moved on? You haven’t been mine for so long …

[obscureman]

WITHERED

Plucked two flowers

from the plant, we both grew,

here you go the flawless one

Let me keep the withered one for myself.

Maybe this flower would attain the void

which I failed to.

Withered flower

dry and scorched

without water

maybe kept it for the other.

Flawed lover

I know

I couldn't love you enough

how could I be perfect

when all the love I have 

has already been sold in parts.

I ain't withering away 

petal by petal

for no reason.

Still counting on you

even though I see you 

leaving away slowly 

someday when you depart peacefully

you would see all of it I didn't take.

[lettmetellyouaboutmyboat]

Spaces You Occupy

The question that gnaws relentlessly

at the corners of my mind is, “Where are you now?”

My brain, unable to comprehend a world without you in it, tries to construct spaces for your soul to occupy.

As I drive to work, my eyes are drawn to the dawn,

to the thin line between the golden horizon and the darkness still covering the earth.

I search for the curve of your smile in rays of light in that incomprehensible space.

I gaze up at the stars at night and I find myself thinking how very like diamonds they are.

How they glitter and shine against the black velvet of space

like your favorite diamond necklace on your black dress.

It makes sense that you’d be a cosmic diamond.

There is a bird that we hear, sometimes, in our back yard at night.

It’s shrill caw is like the sound of hyenas,

Just like your laugh when you find something supremely funny.

I told my husband that the bird is my mom now.

He laughed, but I meant it.

You have existed in this universe since before I was born.

A world without you in it is like the silence after a record finishes playing.

Naturally, I’ll put on another record

And continue searching for the spaces that you occupy now.

[herfeels]

I was never a good writer but today I want to write something down. Hey, I want to see you smiling daily with that radiant look and gloomy eyes. Hey, you know what ? You are priceless, your love is unconditional and your soul is purified! Today, will be gone as past will take over the precious moments and tomorrow is going to bring some awesome moments. You make me smile like an idiot, blush like a kid and let me be the best version of myself. I never wanted to write again because of being a "not so good" writer. You make my days go crazy in a second, you know the things that make me smile and most importantly you know how to show off all the love through actions. Darling, I love you with all my soul for not just today but for the tomorrow too.

[hamatis]

Synphony of a goodbye

I just want you to know

that your echoes doesn't makes me numb,

no more.

I have already forgotten the damage.

Your water lilies doesn't stands.

No more.

Years of trying,

yet I'm tired.

My soul calls you back.

I said no more.

I've buried you in satin,

given your memory to the sun

to see wich one shines brighter.

The sky has been crying,

but since that day

I've been sunbathing.

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(i write in english although it is not my native language 'cause i can and i want to be cool)

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