#something like poetry?

[druid-for-hire]

[image id: a four-page comic. it is titled "immortality” after the poem by clare harner (more popularly known as “do not stand at my grave and weep”). the first page shows paleontologists digging up fossils at a dig. it reads, “do not stand at my grave and weep. i am not there. i do not sleep.” page two features several prehistoric creatures living in the wild. not featured but notable, each have modern descendants: horses, cetaceans, horsetail plants, and crocodilians. it reads, “i am a thousand winds that blow. i am the diamond glints on snow. i am the sunlight on ripened grain. i am the gentle autumn rain.” the third page shows archaeopteryx in the treetops and the skies, then a modern museum-goer reading the placard on a fossil display. it reads, “when you awaken in the morning’s hush, i am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight. i am the soft stars that shine at night. do not stand at my grave and cry.” the fourth page shows a chicken in a field. it reads, “i am not there. i did not die” / end id]

a comic i made in about 15 hours for my school’s comic anthology. the theme was “evolution”

[apollogivesmevisions]

theres this game i played recently -- didnt finish it yet -- called 'Umurangi Generation'. Not to spoil anything but it had a very strong message for me, simply put. amongst other things, it had this weird feeling that I couldn't quite name when I first played it. Recently though, with... many things happening in the world and a few in my personal life as well, I think I got ahold of it a bit better

It feels like there's no real reason to keep going. Why study, or grow, or work for a better life, if I'll end up under tyrannical capitalism, in a corrupt world that's slowly drowning, with death threats for me specifically, as a {insert minority}?

Umurangi Generation isn't depressive, and it has its own message and things to say, so I won't talk in its place because I probably wouldn't be able to put it into words without misunderstanding it. If you have a few hours of free time though, it's free on itch.io i think. It's maori too, and is just. beautiful. you can take pictures of your friends in it

For a while I was in that weird, drowning like feeling, where you feel the air leaving your body, but feel so alien to yourself that there's no more drive to even struggle in the waters. metaphorically

last week though, a friend that I rarely talk to invited me to this music hall thing--never had seen one before, had no idea what to expect. what i discovered was an incredibly powerful, funny, and full of life group of queer artists. i felt a bit ashamed to have even been so depressive, and even worse, pessimistic about myself and the world

there was this actor, who did a monologue. He had a shirt with "PD" written on it (that means something like faggot, in french). he said it was the first time he was turning 31. well, he thought at least. because surely, he must've been 31 before, and even more, but there had been so much people to erase anything that would've kept track of how old he was, it felt like he only started all over again. and he said yeah, it was normal there was more of him, of us, now, because we kept living, and we were going to keep living.

(to be clear--thats a queer metaphor for the numerous times in history where we've been killed, erased, etc)

it kind of stuck with me. my friend told me i was crying when he said those things. i don't remember doing so

Recently it's felt like I can't even sleep enough to rest my eyes and cry

But his words stuck with me, because, yeah. I'm still here, and we're still here, and there's so much that's been lost, but we know what we saved. It's all been burned before and we're still here.

And I don't know. i don't know where I'll be in five years or more, i know I'll still have suicidal thoughts, at least for a while, and I don't know what'll happen with the world, the people that are drowning and those that are being murdered, and the rest of the world that seems so uncaring.

But like, I know there's still people now. There's still people to tell the stories of so many that are dead, and there's still openly queer folk dancing and giving joy to other people in music halls, and there's still things to fight for, and be proud of. because it's not done, it's not finished, and there's still so much to fight for

I don't know

There was also this artist (named THÉA on music platforms, she's great) who sang some stuff which really moved me. one of her songs is named "Ennui" (Boredom) and it says "We don't have any goal, or real place, no big war, or great depression. Our big war is spiritual. Our great depression, it's our lives."

(im pretty sure thats a quote from somewhere else. unsure though)

And yeah, it feels like there's nothing more to believe in. And THÉA isn't a depressive artist to listen to, listen to the lyrics in "Juste Amis" (Just friends)

But there's this weird dread i see in people, i guess born after 2000, and in myself, that engulfs you whole and yet feels so alien. Umurangi Generation talked about it. in its end game credits is written "Dedicated to Umurangi Generation. The last generation that has to see the world die."

Often now, it feels like that. Born too late, in a dying world that can't stop nervously convulsing like a dead fish.

I don't know. If there was nothing else, I wouldn't be here. I know there's still love in this world, and it'll still keep going when I'm gone, and the clouds can make me cry because of how the sun bounces off of them, and I have friends that are lovely, and there's passionate and powerful people who are alive, now, and are doing something, and i collect poetry about lesbians and about the beauty of gendered languages and about queer people in my phone

and yet, I can't finish this on a happy or hopeful note. I don't know how to. I wish I could, but when I try to summon my passion, it's full of rage rather than love. But I want to love this world. I want to believe I can have a life in it. I want to believe I can make a change and help people

i don't know

[riddlerosehearts]

i really need everyone but especially anyone who romanced gale with a bard tav to know about this interaction from early access that larian took from us

[trulyfuly]

[chappelroans]

missing someone bad for you

trista mateer / trista mateer / sue zhao / u.k / u.k / clementine von radics / trista mateer

[welcometogrouchland]

ANOTHER SKETCH DUMP! Featuring more of me playing with lineless art. Batman reborn era trio (dick, damian and steph) I miss you...when will you return from war. Also featuring Steph designs bc I've seen ppl dissatisfied w/ her current look, some good mom Talia, and Jason Todd poetry club. Duke is confused not that Jason would start a poetry club but that he'd have such mid poetry opinions. (ID in Alt)

[teddybeartoji]

it's not often you get to see a sleepy suguru.

it's not like he's not tired – he's fucking exhausted; the dreams just don't seem to like him all that much. but he's usually toughing it out, trying to seem as composed and put-together as possible. the dark skin underneath his eyes betray him, though.

so you don't really know why today is different. is he just more tired? have all of the sleepless hours caught up with him? or is it just you; could it be that your body is the most comfortable place to rest his heavy head? or is it your perfume that's soothing him to sleep?

or is it the fingers in his hair?

he doesn't really let others play with his hair too ofter either. satoru and shoko had been the only exceptions but that was before you came along. satoru uses his hair as a stim, something to play with when he's bored. suguru has taught him manners though – a few slaps against satoru's fingers and chest to remind him to be more careful. and shoko is just more likely to brush a strand from his eyes or help him tie them up in a half-assed bun whenever his own hands are full with whatever.

you like playing with hair, always have and always will. it's relaxing and it's fun and it's calming and you love it. when you first met suguru, his hair was the second thing you noticed about him (his keen purple eyes being the first). an irresistible itch burned in your fingertips everytime you saw him, everytime he wore his hair down. it just looked so pretty and soft.

he takes very good care of his hair, you know that much. specific shampoos and conditioners, masks and all – he's all in. and nobody bats an eye. not that they should but satoru definitely gets made fun of because of his stupidly expensive collection of figurines and shoko gets teased for her silly mug shelf – and yet, neither of them ever comment on the bottles and tubs of fancy products that lay on his bathroom counter.

his hair also smells good. the compliment always hangs on the tip of your tongue but stays hidden in fear of coming off too weird. too creepy. but he doesn smell good. even with closed eyes and ears and you'd find him in a crowd. you wonder whether he knows that.

as you grew closer and closer, the now scorching itch only doubled in need. you never did gather the strenght to outwardly ask him – if you could play with his hair? if you could caress it? comb through it? it was an accident.

a simple gloomy friday afternoon: you're both lazing on your couch, staring at the screen. it's funny – you find yourself muffling your already quiet bursts of laughter, suguru alongside you. he's sitting close by, closer than usual. you don't ask him about it.

he asked to come over; something-something about being sick of his own apartment. you understand that, so you tell him that your home is his home (you'd tell him that even if you didn't understand). you hear the faint smile when he thanks you over the phone.

even when he looks like he hasn't slept in months – he looks good. you can tell he's overexaggerating his smile a bit but don't say anything about it, rewarding him with a grin of your own. his eyes flick to your lips and how they curve and he thinks about how warm it feels to look at you. maybe he's not exaggerating anymore.

your arms open wide, inviting him into you and he obliges, as always. he smells good. as always.

his hands lock behind your back and your behind his neck. your hearts meet and they greet each other with a fastened beat, eager to be in sync – to feel each other again.

he pulls back and the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. he's not doing it anymore and you're happy to relieve him even if it's for mere moments.

he's wearing a sweather and his hair is down. he has lip gloss on; you try to think whether he's more of a mint guy or more of a shea guy. it remains a mystery.

and now you're on the couch with two cups of warm tea waiting for you on the small table. he smells good. he's so close. he snickers at the screen and you can't take your eyes off of him. it's the same small crinkle of the eyes and the faintest pink tint on his cheeks.

you know he knows that you're looking at him. you've been told to have a staring problem and he's just an observant guy. it's a terrible match. or a perfect one.

he doesn't say anything though; instead he leans his head back and little to the side against the headrest (he's even closer now) and you find yourself shifting an inch aswell. perhaps magnets are involved? the iron in your blood pulling you together?

no, that can't be. you'd have to be polar opposites for that to work. warm-blooded and cold-blooded? would that work? you're getting too poetic and he's looking at you now.

it's an accident. it slips out on its own. you smell good. caught off guard by your own comment, you're about to apologize when a hand on your thigh almost makes you suffocate on the words stuck in your throat.

he laughs and it feels so good. he thanks you. he means it, you see it in his tired eyes. he likes the way you blush.

turning his focus back to the tv, you try to collect yourself. a deep breath in and a deep one out and a deep one in and a de—

a weight on your shoulder. he smells so good. he's so close. you peek down, curious as to whether this is a dream or not. but suguru's head is in fact laid on your body, sinking a bit more into you by the second. a deep breath in and a deep one out.

seeking for a more comfortable position, you snuggle closer to him. it's hard to focus but you're making it your sole mission to make him feel safe. your arm curls around his body, his shoulder, and rests right by a flock of his hair.

his cheek is now smushed against the top of your chest and the weight of love doesn't seem as bad as everyone keeps telling you. his hand finds a place around your waist; loosely – as if he's the one who's afraid to scare you off. silly.

his breath against you feels right and the butterflies in your stomach refuse to calm down. so you do what you always do when you get nervous – completely on their own, your fingers caress his hair. just smoothing over it at first but before you know it, they're combing through a strand and twirling the ends between themselves.

you wanna apologize, again, but the soft little grunt that emits from the man keeps you from doing so.

don't stop.

+ this is for @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat just bc it feels right

[cassiopoet]

The Stag

“The stag does not fear

death

he knows only

that his antlers are great

and the herd is many

he knows rest and he

knows

power

but most of all

he knows

peace.”

A/N: been thinking and drawing about deer a lot recently. specifically stags. idk they’re just so ethereal to me. where’s my moot who loves deer imagery come get your food ♡︎

EDIT: SORRY IF YOU DON’T LIKE TO BE @ BUT I JUST THOUGHT YOU’D LIKE THIS @cozybirch

credit: poem and drawing are by me (@cassiopoet)

[lionetta]

meadow soprano and shiv roy parallels

[whaliiwatching]

city smokers

prompt: cigarette

[andstuffsketches]

a selection of robins

[azuremist]

“Deep Cuts: Society and Queer Horror” (the Somerton video that Hbomberguy showed a literal color-coded graph on the plagiarism therein) suddenly and inexplicably being absent is a beating heart under the floorboards.

[blueish-bird]

In the narrow hours of the night I will wake to a downpour; through the window see your trashcans shining. I will swaddle myself in your warmest jacket, put on my big rain boots. I will brave this storm for you.

And when I am cold and wet and beyond porch light's reach, trashcans in tow, I will watch the world past your driveway. I will love the way dark turns form to silhouette, how the sound of my steps drown beneath the rain's big hush. I will want to leave you and your trashcans. To wander the earth as all lost things do.

[andoutofharm]

the way patrick talks about the way pete thinks is so beautiful

[niftukkun]

far travelled messenger

are you not curious to what you carry?

like clipping a canary's feathers,

low down do these random gods fall

[reallybadblackoutpoems]

the chemistry and technology of edible oils and fats and their high fat products (1989) - g. hoffmann

"mole interest"