#sometimes i think i could write poetry

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

Palindr(amatic)

this poem is backwards

here are our factors:

if my head is screwed on the wrong way —

if the stories all sound the same —

if I first adjusted my aim

would it matter

if this trouble I first circumvent

if nothing exists but what's dreamt —

if the start is the end —

you could never tell that I lack words

if this poem is backwards

~ xoxo, Love yoU (either way)

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

I don't know the geography of my hometown because I don't have one.

I know a tiny town at the end of a pipeline like the back of my hand

even though I haven't been there in years.

I could give you directions to nearly anyplace

in the city my grandparents used to live in; the town I spent much of my childhood in

but not all at once.

Three years at a time, I have to remind people; my life is divided up

into three years at a time.

Locations change.

I left the place I think of as my hometown

even though I don't have one

for three years then came back for three more and the local hairdresser's wasn't on its same corner anymore.

It stil exists, just not in the place that I knew it.

There's a town I lived in for one single odd quiet year. I could trace the path from the house I lived in to the riding stable

but I couldn't point you to the local supermarket without pausing for a minute and then,

ah, it's right around the corner there. That tiny tiny town I know without thinking was hours from the big box stores.

In the city my dad worked for three years his office was on a corner in the middle of the city,

where everything was gritty but that place felt less so.

The next street over led down to the water and there were fences

at the edge of town.

I don't know the geography of my hometown because I don't have one.

I have many, and I know little bits of geography

everywhere I go.

[true-squid]

ok but you dont fucking get it. i love you and it doesnt mean what you think. its not heteronormative and its not nuclear and it cant be described in a way that has words. there arent words for it. its not queerplatonic. its not romantic. its not platonic. its none of those things. its incomprehensive. its unwordable. its not because youre my lover or my mother or my sibling or my friend its none of those things. you dont fucking understand. we fuck and we share our feelings and we abandom the status quo and part of the point is that we dont make sense. isnt it? isnt it?

i feel alterous. thats the best word for it because there isnt one thats better and i dont think there ever will be. its not about not wanting to be romantic or sexual its about being different. its about a new fucking category, a secret third thing, yes and no, what happens when you mix everything and nothing together.

its because i see love differently. ive recontextualized it, made myself to view it in a way that is outside of the general conception of love. i want to explain it to you but i just cant. i want to but i dont know how. you need to feel it. you need to know what its like to be alien

im aromantic and im asexual

[greenand-blue]

Chris smells like the forest, woody, earthy, with all the force of an early spring monsoon. Green tea with milk and honey, dirt and sweat and the faint iron of blood from bruised knuckles and scraped knees and busted lips. The clean scent of the hand lotion he uses to desperately soothe the screaming calluses on his palms from climbing everything in sight that he swears is unscented. The quiet understanding and security of a library. Middle shelf liquor and willingly bloodying your knuckles for the ones you love. Spitting blood in the sink at 2am and praying no one sees it. The restless whispers on the wind of “let’s go”. The sharp scent of the middle of the night, right before it snows.

Chris Kratt smells like adventure.

Martin smells like the ocean; salty and sweet and inviting and dangerous all at the same time. Chocolate ice cream and vanilla lattes and a foraged meal in the middle of nowhere. He smells like the grace and patience and protectiveness that can only come with being an eldest sibling, the glue that holds everyone together. Dirt and sweat from the trail, the spray deodorant he only bought because it had a kraken on the label. Clean linen and little bits of everyone else, parts of his family rubbed off onto him from the constant hugs he offers. He smells like it’s his god given right to seize every day he’s given. He smells warm, like hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. Watching the sun set over a calm ocean, feeling safe.

Martin Kratt smells like home.

Aviva smells like lavender, fresh and wild. She smells like oil and metal and that fruity body spray she shares with Koki that the two insist on stocking up on whenever they’re in Germany. Black coffee and espresso shots and energy drinks, she smells like too much to do and not enough sleep. Gears turning and a fire burning in her belly, a desperate fight to make sure her hard work will one day pay off and her legacy will be remembered. Constantly striving to be better; a better inventor, a better friend, a better human. The same hand lotion Chris uses, but she is humble enough to admit that it smells like fresh cut grass. Pride and confidence and the skills to back them up.

Aviva Corcovado smells like innovation.

Koki smells like a wood stove, fiery and passionate. The fruity body spray she shares with Aviva, mixed with mocha lattes and the sweat of weightlifting. Hair oil and silken bonnets. The exhaust her computers spew out. Brown liquor and fried food. Hot maple syrup served at a diner with waffles and strawberry lip gloss. The scent of being unafraid to throw a punch when her family is in danger; never starting fights, but always ending them. She smells like getting the last laugh and blackmail and always having something on someone.

Koki smells like family.

Jimmy smells like freshly baked bread, warm and inviting. Hearty meals wafting from the kitchen, welcoming his loved ones inside to rest after a long day. The warmth of a wood stove. Old Spice deodorant and sickly sweet clouds of the best weed, which no one knows who he gets it from and he refuses to tell, but at least he’s willing to share. Stone washed denim and green apple shampoo and new converse sneakers and fearful curiosity. Skateboard decks and scraped knees and Neosporin and band-aids from one too many falls. He smells like talking your way out of a fight, immediately getting help when someone’s hurt. Chocolate covered kettle corn and movie nights and vanilla bean frappchinos.

Jimmy smells like togetherness.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

You are such a good writer, it actually somehow breaks my heart when a story ends. How did you get so good? Any tips or tricks for people who want to start writing also?

anonnnnnn T_T you’re so so sweet. that means the world to me !!!! i love you !!!!!!!!

honestly i . still have a Lot to learn when it comes to writing so i don’t know if i’m very qualified to give tips </3 but!!! as basic as this answer is, i really do think the only ways to improve are through reading and writing. writing is obviously vital since you won’t get anywhere without actual practice, but so is reading!!! it’s so important to observe and notice different writing styles, and to find out what kind of writing you enjoy. by reading different works, no matter what they are, (my biggest writing inspo source is a video game lol) your brain will naturally store up words and expressions and techniques :3 it’ll make writing so much easier, i promise.

also, remember that it’s more than okay to imitate, especially when you’re starting out!! no one finds their writing style immediately. it’s totally fine to latch onto your favorite authors and try writing like they do — that’s what i did too!! (thank you richard siken + hit award-winning indie rpg disco elysium 🙏) so just try to have fun with it and experiment !! i believe in you!!! <33

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

because nothing ever happens that happens outside my head

the next noteworthy event will be the day I wake up dead

the only world that exists anymore is the one inside my mind

an endless sea of dizzy so intense I might go blind

there isn't any sound because there's nothing left to hear

the only things that happen is what happens between my ears

it started going sour and now the songs have all gone silent

when I was younger I didn't know my head could be so violent

~ xoxo, Love yoU (from locked away inside)

Why is it so quiet now?

[weirdopponent]

FRUITS THAT COULD HAVE BEEN GROWING ON THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

The apple, the classic, bright red like struck skin

fits firmly in your palm.

You crush it in your teeth and between your jaws, it snaps like broken bone.

Scavengers feast on what remains, what you leave behind.

The pomegranate, cut in half, bleeds like a heart

from four chambers, from its severed veins

which it doesn't need anymore, taken from its body like this

The peach falls to the ground and no one catches it in time

and it bruises readily, tenderly

martyred for the health of the earth

The cherry grows in pairs

One holds the other which holds the other back

When you split them apart, the ladder of your ribs aches in sympathy

The apricot shines golden from its perch in the golden sun

reminding you of the guardians blinding halo, its fierce flaming swords

Is it ever blinded? The fruit is sweet on the tongue

A banana?

That's just silly.

[amalgamationink]

NAPOWRIMO24 #25: BRIEF MENTAL HEALTH QUESTIONNAIRE

[musings-of-the-void]

I hope

That when I fall from this

Pedestal

Where you placed me

You’ll be

Standing there to catch me

I hope

That I’ll be made real

In the falling

Instead of crumbling to

Dust

[britneyshakespeare]

can you believe there was a time in my life where i wanted to be a professional actress

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

made a small poem with the Safety Sign Generator. something about hands.

[ramayantika]

Yes, I won't be there around you all the time. I won't be able to wipe your tears with my fingers all the time. I don't miss you as much as you do when we are apart. I roam the world, with dreams and aspirations as huge and as wide as the sky. They tell me you haven't been a good wife forget being a good lover but it is you I want to come back home to. I will not be home for months but I will send letters, ten pages long for every month with a small love poetry that will only make sense to you. When I win the world, I am a star for them, a performer and artist in their eyes, a nomad who roams around leaving pieces of their creation everywhere but it's you I choose to come back every time every night in the warm bed that you make. It's your lips that I seek to steal a kiss from and it's your embrace that would take away all the tiredness from my limbs.

[oh-cramity-its-amity]

its so weird to read some of my old fics (do NOT do it but i'm just being hypothetical rn) and reading it. like who even was this person?? i completely was in a haze back in 2020. i literally was posting 3 chapters a day. A DAY. what in the WORLD was that shit.

anyway i remembered some STUPID sappy shit and i didnt remember if i'd put it into a fic or not BUT I FOUND IT.

She and Hope had been dating in secret for months anyway, and any attempt to go talk to Ryan only filed her disposition of displeasure upon knowing that she couldn’t tell anyone, Molly especially, it destroyed herself mentally. They couldn’t really go anywhere near the school, always having to lie to everyone about having projects together when Molly wasn’t around them. It’d consisted with 9 PM - 2 AM intervals of being able to actually see each other. Hope would sneak through her small bedroom window with a portable record player and whatever she had gotten from the vintage record store downtown, and Amy would always fall asleep around eleven because of her internal clock. She would always wake up to find a single sticky note stuck on the edge of her desk whenever she woke up to her alarm the next morning. One of them, Amy still had tucked inside of her phone case, a heavily detailed human heart, with blue and red ink sketched onto a neon pink sticky note, there was a caption that headed the small paper reading the phrase over every now and again makes her almost melt every time. “You have my heart.”

yeah idk why the fuck but i thought of this fucking idea again today and i was like "omg did i ever put that heart note thing in a fic???" yeah you fucking did.

all that to say ME AND WHO???? imagine. thats so fucking.... RAHHHH.

[lookninjas]

1836.

greeted home tonight by fireworks above the pines, the whine of bottlerockets and somewhere the yapping of a small dog deeply unhappy the borderline between one year and the next nothing more than a few hours of darkness and the same streets waiting to find you in the morning

[angelhound]

.

[mossistyping]

my mom wants to send me a package for my birthday... Pls I'll cry :-(