S'okay! Just spreads more poetry around (even the bitter ones ) 

Meanwhile, remind me not to piss you off!

Dahling in the house!

Write something for us, love. If'n ye feel inspired

The Late January Thaw

The great cycles of the season measure passing by the calendar. Carefully calculated by the sun and the growing of things. The eternal cycle of winter's sleep and summer's renewal.

So, too, are there but smaller cycles within.

Late January brings a thaw in all but the bitterest of winters.

The corpse of January snow lies withering upon the ground to be gone in the coming days, or else only in running rivulets of the road-away-ish along the highway sides, or else in the great piles of the parking lots. Blackened by salt and slowly shrinking away like fallen giants after battle with the Aesir. 

'Tis not the truth of spring, for the fierce snows and deadly freeze will return with a vengeance to be counted upon the weeks or even the months to come, but rather 'tis a most welcome respite!

Remind me once again, o late January thaw, of the promise of spring and the warmth of the sun!

Sleep yet, o seedlings safely slumbering beneath the earth, your time will come. We'll see by the telling of the groundhog how long that may yet be.

Winters in Sacramento used to be very cold, with long stretches of gray sky. Summers were hot, with at least one big heat wave. But global warming is noticeably happening here. Winters are not as cold, and summers are getting more and more brutally hot. We're still getting plenty of rain, but I'm not looking forward to summer. Spring will be nice, but July and August are going to be tough.

We don't have whole house air conditioning, just three wall units. One is in my room, cooling both me and my computer. During the heat waves, parts of the house become miserably hot. I stay in my room and work, and hope the power stays on.

21st century, you are not what I was promised...

Curtis, your unintended prose posted as climate commentary may just be more poignant that most of the creative efforts here!

Thank you Dahl <3

Sounding the Void.

How can we measure its depths?

Moreover, should we?

The void calls. From the heart of the preteenager to the greying philosopher

At some point we all hear the call.

Dare not to enter, not even to measure its depths.

Like a salt dolly sent to measure the depth of the ocean.

Shout at it.

Shout down its call.

Shout into it.

Though your voice be small 'gainst the immeasurable immensity,

Shout, sister, shout!

Someday, womb of the tomb will be appealing and then,

If the void does call,

Might you consider answering and perchance entering.

But not yet. Gods be good, not for many years to come!

And defiantly, 

Not yet.

A song I'm writing

////////// (escucha bien lo que dices)

/////// , don´t be

so hard, I need you here

/////////// (que rico lo que me hiciste)

/////// just 

too much I need to think

I´ve been feeling you too much 

/////// but

I don´t think I can trust

Como siempre

I can´t stand it

I can´t stand it

I can´t stand it

Oh, that's good! 

This is more of meandering thoughts that artistic prose. 

Gaining language/losing language.

I guess I've always been a bit behind the times. Style, slang, technology etc. I'm okay with that and even intentionally lean into that for effective self-parody. 

But I was thinking about flavored seltzer.

I hate seltzer, but I'll come around to that. Stay with me.

Thinking on my hatred for seltzer and how to properly describe what it tastes like to me triggered some thoughts on shifting language.

Yesterday, I made a 'sound'. And intentional cartoonish vocalization that was without words. My lovely wife, raised up on the same steady diet of TV that I was instantly recognized the sound, identified from which specific Bugs Bunny cartoon it had come from, and carried on with the dialogue from rote with perfect inflection.

She and I never properly learned higher math, but somehow retain this sort of thing for decades and decades.

Anyone under - say - 30? Would not pick it up. 

As for 'style', I'd say I spent most of my years cultivating a 'non' style. Not against, not subversive, just utterly non-defined. One day, I did post what I thought to be a pretty cute selfie. Took the time to actually apply make-up and all! A you ger friend commented that my eyebrows looked 'fleek'. I replied that I was off to go look that up and expected to be mad if it turned out to be an insult!

By now, millennial slang like 'fleek' and I guess 'yeet' are already past their prime and being parodied by these kids today.

In fact, people my age or younger, when wanting to sound especially old fashioned, might put on a pastiche of 'hippy' slang from the 60s.

I go a bit further back. My cultural and musical proclivities allow me to go full slang from the 1930s a la Cab Calloway and any other hep cats from the era.

So, slang changes. Words change. Learning newer slang is a bit like decoding a language.

Apart from 30s terms like "viper" or "L7", not much is 'lost' though.

But technology is a wee bit different.

About that flavored seltzer.

Remember?

This is about my disdain for flavored seltzer.

I thought about it and settled on an apt description of my experience with flavored seltzer to be akin to:

"It's like I'm watching TV, but it's so static-y that I can't quite make out if what I'm watching is a show about a lemon, or an orange."

Then it struck me.

Is there static on TV anymore? Or does the screen just go blank, maybe with a 'home' icon screen saver sort of thing?

I thought maybe to alter the description to be about listening to a static-y radio but again, my internal age check made me realize that no one really listens to the radio anymore.

Oh, I know that even these kids today will likely understand the 'static' metaphor, but have they actually experienced it?

They will probably understand it in a way, but their kids might not. And their grandkids would have no clue, really.

So, I'm searching for the 'updated' metaphor for just how unpleasant flavored seltzer is. 

I'm a part of a writing club on Neocities and this week's prompt was to base something on one of Salvador Dalis paintings so I wrote mine based on The Persistence of Memory (the clock one), as well as the weird vertigo I experience when trying to fall asleep! Felt like y'all would appreciate it as well (。・∀・)ノ

Clocks

The ticking of the clocks,

Their simple rhythm,

The gentle tick, tick, tick torturous as I lay sleeplessly.

The room is spinning though I am laying down.

It's too hot, too cold.

Is this what hell is like?

I'm being sucked down

Deeper

And deeper

Into the pit of my mind.

I'm going to be sick.

But where am I going?

I can feel my body laying still.

The clocks are still ticking.

I don't think I'll be getting much sleep tonight.

Ooo, great capture of the tedious passage of time!

Languish, I, on the cusp of things.

O that sacred space of the crossroads wherein it is a place neither here nor there.

Lessons learned that come from no other place nor time.

Patience tried to its fullest.

Knowing me[¿Potential gore?]

How is it, to know someone? For my guts to be dissected, bit by bit to the point of exposure.Observe the mahogany color, one my eyes limits to see, staining my skin only to leave a faded crimson red.

The subtle pulse of my veins indicating my consciousness, as it slowly slips away.The thought is both something I deeply desire, and absolutely dread.

Such vulnerable state, is far too easy, to take advantage. But even then, the feeling of being weak to command, kill for you I will, and my dear, oh please, hold my blood stained hand.The idea is something I ravish.

 Oh to be known, given that much care, to discover your raw self, instead of the well baked one.

Eat me raw.

No matter the bones likely to choke you. No matter the fresh wounds caused by the hunt, no matter my still, beating, heart. Serve me as I am. Let the blood be my natural seasoning. The desire so taboo, ever so tempting, teasing me. Despite the awareness of it all ending with me devoured. 

Who is deserving of such a meal?

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Ooo, provocative look into the darkness! 

I gasped dramatically when I saw this and speed ran writing a poem so hopefully its not ass

ALSO TRIGGER WARNING!!!! I haven't learned how to write about non depressing topics so this poem is a little sad and has mild body horror elements idk how to describe it but enough yapping here we go

Tides

I can feel my heart against my ribs and lungs,

A beating drum,

A nauseating melody-

That sickens me,

Familiarity fills my senses,

I’m scared nonetheless,

I’m familiar with the tides,

The lows and highs,

I’m familiar with the water,

But now I’m farther,

And I’m drowning,

I still feel my beating heart against my lungs,

A rhythm I once loved,

It’s hard when you’re trying to sleep. 

Ooo, it's been months and you've come along to resurrect the topic with a great new poem!

I have an unhealthy amount of un-posted poetry that's been marinating in a Google doc for long so I'm using any and every excuse possible to post the ones that don't give me second hand embarrassment so I'mma post two more here

TW mild described body horror and slight SH elements

A Craving

A craving,

A cut that grows deeper with absence,

Want is need so there's no room for either,

The room is full of water we can’t drink,

But it’s pretty,

It burns with salt,

So I wash it out again,

It burns.

Stains In The Carpet

I’m the glue your my fingers,

The leech in your skin,

I always linger,

Like a parasite,

Loving like I do is a sin,

Yet I still do,

An obsession,

An addiction,

I'm the glue on your fingers.

Deeper than skin,

Please stay just a little longer,

I can’t be alone tonight,

You can never sin,

No matter what you do,

I’m obsessed,

A mess,

I want you here,

I wanna live-

-closer than before,

Seep into my skin-

-like water in carpeted floor,

I want you more,

I want you more,

Like a parasite,

I can’t be alone tonight.

(I hope you guys enjoyed reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*.✧)

Well keep 'em coming, then! Good stuff!

no idea what this is going to be until i finish it. poetry? story? something else? we will both be in the dark until it gets completed.

[warning for mentionings of scars] Blissful Unawares

    The harsh light of the television burned my eyes, an old show in black-and-white flickered to life. No sound emitted it was muted, and the silence was blissful. It had fit quite well with the icy chill the otherwise dead house carried. Goosebumps had rippled over my flesh, scarred and burned beyond care.

Once, the house had been full of life and colour. I had had a life, someone to care for, someone to lean on. There existed a woman so beautiful, I had feared she may be an angel. I never saw much in the conventionally attractive, and so for someone to exist outside of such, she was a breath of fresh air.

And now, now she was gone. Sometimes I wished she were dead, because it is her I blamed for the pain I inflicted on myself and for the hollowness that burned deep within.

I hadn't slept long, I never slept long. Days blurred together, and all I had was this damned tv. The power wouldn't hold in this house for long, and such thoughts depressed me further, and the tv was now unmuted for me to get lost in the past, the old, the romances that screamed promises and drama. Predictable, a comfort.

Outstanding

i'm young, but your writing is star-studded.

the minute word dumps are incredibly real too

This is very......... (ellipsis x100) crude.

Sisyphus, my little Greek legend…

(though I use your moniker lightly)

Sisyphus, did you know that by 1986, the human race had charted the depths of the ocean, mapped the heart of an atom, and held hands with the fingertips of outer space – and still, the common cosmic mystery remained unanswered: do we have free will, or is everything predestined? Are the courses of our lives written in the stars, the decisions we make already carved along a tunnel of infinite cause and effect, or do we have the capacity to make choices with a volition that remains above the influence of any prior events or nature of the world around us?

That’s a question which lies dormant at the core of metaphysics; a prompt made at the beginning of every ostentatious, college-student debate; the puzzle that plagued each one of Descartes’ restless nights. This unanswered phenomenon has captured such an endless level of human fascination since the dawn of time; its allure eclipses that of any of the other riddles decorating philosophy.

But rather than searching for its answer in the patter of a part-time metaphysician with premature wrinkles and rapidly greying hair, the pretentious speech of a boy whose skin is tanned a penny-copper from blissfully surfing through college atop his trust fund, or even in the pages of a brilliant mind like Descartes himself, let us start over and return to what is known.

The first, unchanging truth:

Whatever the case – free will or not – a certain destiny is still written into many stars – constellations and galaxies too, all blackened by their legacy. This lineage of celestial bodies seems to trounce the idea that free will could ever exist; the evilness born into them has steeped the narrative of every descendant for millennia. Thus, it is scarcely feasible that one with such heritage could escape the cursed fate of his origins – to both live a life of compassion and die beneath the headstone as yourself would be against all odds. 

The second:

Despite understanding the hopelessness of defying first fact truer than any other rolling stone, the brightest one of them all still thought that he’d give it a damn good try.

i really can write better; i complete my literature/english 2 grade levels above my own @ school. it's late for me and i can't come up with much else, but i love using archaic terms in my writing similar to how you have above.

Outstanding! Thank you for sharing

A poem for a friend's 18th birthday

Humour me 

This evening, so bright and shiny,

where stars look down upon you

i hope i can amuse you, 

so humour me one moment,

and i can assure you i'm not being whiny.

You're growing up, you're maturing

and you feel the exhaustion stirring 

in your bones, like a whirlpool 

of stories started anew.

Humour me please one more second

you've graced my days with your presence

the moments we first beckoned,

to the present we share as friends.

You've seen my gloomy days,

my joyous nights,

in my extreme, peak heights

and in pits of deep, black coals.

i care for your well being, may your heart have no more holes.

Please, humour one more moment my lady.

I saw you grow, i saw you change,

Change in ways only a star does,

supernova of your wisdom and grace.

I stand beside you, day and night,

so don't fret over what might have been,

all i can say now is: I wish you happy eighteen

Not a poet but just wanted to write about one of my characters, kinda inspired by the “Boots” poem :3

The room is dark, darker, darker than it’d ever been. I sat, mindlessly pondering, “Nearly all my peers are dead and gone, I’m no better than their corpse.” Everything is empty, emptier, emptier than the void. Emptier than my own heart, than the vast expanse in my brain that’s full of nothing, not even atoms fill the space. But it’s fine, I’m fine, that’s what I always say. It’s what I say to keep the rest at bay. They shouldn’t worry, it’s okay, I already “have it good”. I’m always eager, always willing, always happy, always okay, never upset. That’s how it should be, of course! I should just give up. No one would listen anyway, not even the souls roaming in the halls. Yet, it’s still dark, dark, dark, dark, and empty, empty, empty, empty, everything is nothing as I’m still laying in my room. It’s still nothing, nothing, NOTHING. Not even my excuse of a brain could fill this “nothing”, no it can’t. This is just nonsense, yeah, that’s it. My skull is mush from all the sadness around me. It’s not anything, really, it’s just some dumb thoughts. Yet, I can’t help but keep thinking more and more, I can’t take it anymore! It’s pathetic, yes, it really is. My brain is overflowing, suddenly nothing isn’t nothing—

“Hey, you okay in there?”

Said a voice.

I recognized that voice.

It calmed me.

He

He calmed me.

So idk what this is wrote it for a girl that liked me and then I'm pretty sure died, I didn't know her all that well, but she was also my best friend, it's kinda complicated

The girl that loved me

Ann-Marie was as a love letter, written in cursive. By a girl struck by cupid's arrow. Neatly folded, wrapped with a ribbon, sprayed with a perfume smelling of roses. A letter so perfect and never sent, a letter so perfect it still has her scent. Taken by the wind, paper rustling on bustling streets.

Ann-Marie was as a love letter, crumpled on the ground. When somebody would pick her up and read her, she gave them all the love her letters had to give. Then they'd throw her in the wind. One day as she was flying through, I found her too.

Ann-Marie was as a love letter, taken by my hands. I did my best to smooth her edges, not let her fly alone again. I read her as I fell asleep and in the morning light. I never knew her words were meant truly for my eyes. As hard as I tried to hold on to her tight, the wind took her one day, far away.

Ann-Marie was as a love letter, in the wind again. Only as it took her did I see my name. Now she is eternally somewhere in the sky, I hope somewhere high, away from cruel eyes. I always will remember her, looking at the skies. 

my poems are on wattpad at  theyenvycarnesha

I think— I know— I shan’t look back.

That is where you wait for me.

The cool night’s breeze lays on you tongue.

It whispers sweet, old melody.

I feel the sensation of your rosy skin.

It tears mine to shreds.

And that old tune you sing to me,

Ought to stay inside your head.

It was night when we met

and i wonder if i knew what i now know then

if I'd do it again

i'd like to think

i could be better

but i think we both know better

it's been so long since that night

i tell myself i'm doing fine

we both know it's a lie

and you're not so great yourself

barely getting by, i see the world on your shoulders

i see your fire growing colder

i can't help you now

and you cant help me

we still circle each other like vultures

for the rotting meat

you don't decay in my memories

in my mind you're glowing

sun in the forest canopy

a warm body on a concrete floor

welcoming

wanting more

wanting me

you found a place at my feet

and when i put you on your knees

i felt like a king at least

for a moment

and i go back there when the night is lonely

 shut my eyes and hear you

calling for me

I open my eyes and see what you've done

away from me and my loaded gun

the mask you wear looks damn good

we both knew it would

you've given up on me

and i have to get it together

you've never looked better

and i cut my tongue to seal the letter

i'd have sent it if i knew where you are

so i burn it and wash the smoke drift far,

far off into the night sky

It was a Saturday afternoon, leaves crunches below me as I was walk by as the wind blew towards my face with a sour lick as I bundled up for a brief moment. Somewhere out there, I thought to myself, "Seems like it's a quiet day today, huh?". While I wandered off the streets, I've heard someone calling for me at a distance like it's whispering for my name, but just when I turned around, there was no one around here.

Haven't written in a while but heres a little something I posted a few months ago :) Any feedback is very appreciated

--

I wish I were like Icarus, who flew too close to the sun. But instead, I’m afraid I’m his coward brother. If I were given wings and told not to fly too high, I would raze the Mediterranean Sea, overly anxious, feeling my heartbeat in my ears and looking up at my brother with envy. How can he be so careless, this free? I would get so absorbed by my fear and jealousy that by the time I would feel a wave block the sunshine from warming my skin—my pale, scarred skin, all the opposite of my brother's—I would already be swallowed whole by the water. The salt would dissolve the wax that was gnawing at my skin, the sea would force its way into my lungs, suffocating me, and the currents, much stronger than me, would pull me as far down as possible, anchoring me to the bottom of the water. Eventually, my brother would join me. Where the salt liberated me from the feathers that were never supposed to be mine to begin with, it would bite his burnt skin, making him scream, but only bubbles would come out of his mouth—useless vibrations.

We would both meet on the bed of soft sand, and we would both know the same end, and Icarus would finally be as scarred as me, if not more, but at least he would’ve known the sun.