#originalwriting — Public Fediverse posts
Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #originalwriting, aggregated by home.social.
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Just posted Chapter 17 up on Patreon so subscribers can read it for $5/month/weekly chapters (or $3 for individual chapters)! You can also read the first page of each chapter for free at https://www.fracturedheart.net or on Patreon.
You can view the “as intended” or “sanitized” versions of this chapter at the respective patreon accounts linked to below:
"as intended" adult only patreon account:
https://www.patreon.com/FracturedHeartAO
"SFW" patreon account:
https://www.patreon.com/FracturedHeart#gayRomance #boysLove #yaoi #tsundere #friendsToLovers #enemiesToLovers #romance #webnovel #creativeFiction #creativeWriting #originalFiction #originalWriting #originalbl #mxm #slowBurn #grumpySunshine
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Just posted Chapter 17 up on Patreon so subscribers can read it for $5/month/weekly chapters (or $3 for individual chapters)! You can also read the first page of each chapter for free at https://www.fracturedheart.net or on Patreon.
You can view the “as intended” or “sanitized” versions of this chapter at the respective patreon accounts linked to below:
"as intended" adult only patreon account:
https://www.patreon.com/FracturedHeartAO
"SFW" patreon account:
https://www.patreon.com/FracturedHeart#gayRomance #boysLove #yaoi #tsundere #friendsToLovers #enemiesToLovers #romance #webnovel #creativeFiction #creativeWriting #originalFiction #originalWriting #originalbl #mxm #slowBurn #grumpySunshine
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Just posted Chapter 17 up on Patreon so subscribers can read it for $5/month/weekly chapters (or $3 for individual chapters)! You can also read the first page of each chapter for free at https://www.fracturedheart.net or on Patreon.
You can view the “as intended” or “sanitized” versions of this chapter at the respective patreon accounts linked to below:
"as intended" adult only patreon account:
https://www.patreon.com/FracturedHeartAO
"SFW" patreon account:
https://www.patreon.com/FracturedHeart#gayRomance #boysLove #yaoi #tsundere #friendsToLovers #enemiesToLovers #romance #webnovel #creativeFiction #creativeWriting #originalFiction #originalWriting #originalbl #mxm #slowBurn #grumpySunshine
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The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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The Warehouse Window
For my sunlight,
its glass cut through a concrete wall
the edges crumbled and rocky,
like an unfinished birthday cake.
No place for symmetry or neatness
when testing and receiving
networking equipment with a candelabra of cords.
The whir of fans, hard drives,
circuit boards, modules, and power supplies
are their own orchestra.I’m their repeating crowd for this ensemble
I have memorized all their
performances, crescendos, movements,
choruses, and solos.
The yoked fluorescent lights,
stallion forklift, or gluttonous cardboard compactor
endlessly feasting in the corner
by the loading dock where
an occasional wasp wanders inside this mirage
to die in a papery sleep.That sunshine above’s the same
as in my son’s elementary school window
sloping through the courtyard where ferns
and flowerpots hide a dry duck nest.
The kids named her Simone.
She has three eggs
an opaque olive, pearl, and coral.
They’re blurbs of shell and membrane.
They wanted to name them too,
but those dreams weren’t real yet.
You have to know they’ll live.I knew my classroom wall
beside our courtyard door
where we pasted, crinkled, and scribbled
dinosaurs, sloths, and squids
against paper sorceries of
marine life, prehistoric countrysides,
and endless amazon jungles.
We had our own momma duck too,
her name long empty amongst almost everything
I remembered, wondered,
and dreamedin fourth grade.
#author #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
“You are the King, and I am your Star”
It was etched, carved, and bled there
by you and my uncle.
A lost language scribbled
upon your trauma Rosetta Stone.
Years after you’d moved off
the street, shack, slum
and into this real home,
devoid of rats, rags,
and abusive fathers.It was on a beam in the basement,
behind an old TV box,
with dead earwigs in its folds.
The house once had a garden
from your mother, my grandmother.
And those bugs, the clawed ink-drops
were living everywhere
their husks, fossil-songs
to her stalks of cherry tomatoes.The wood was creased, parted,
and curled, as if the vignette had just happened.
You were still the two little boys
marking it yours, with the sunlight
tracing through a ground-level window,
growing life in a non-chlorophyll pattern
from 94 million miles away
a natural spotlight on hope between past and future.We found it when I was moving out.
Another bout of depression, failed
relationship, and unpaid rent
for your childhood home
you bought when grandma died.
It was a piece of you; something you wanted
for memory, family, a forever symbol of safety.
A limb of hope after
so many emotional dismemberments.I could not hold onto it,
It was slippery, slimy, a dream that didn’t want
to be held, an eel lurking in the quagmire,
eternally wriggling away
beneath the subtlest grasp.
Your sanctuary was another rubble-sunk Atlantis,
so now, years after it was sold and lost
your first glimmer amongst the povertyI can at least remember what it said.
#blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poet #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
I Can’t Change the Sunlight
First, it was the beams between dust,
highlighting particles dancing
in my parent’s basement
with chocolate carpet and an eyebrow window.
Where we, old friends and lovers,
would swap dreams and desires
until you tearfully realized I couldn’t do anything
but wrestle with my depression.Then, rays of it glittering in jeweled reflections
during our honeymoon
on an emerald lagoon, with tropic tips, and
bows of sand being plucked by Key Largo waves.
That sediment could never be a keep or castle,
it was too broken, fragmented,
and fragile to form any support.
Just like us.Next was the morning slanting through
the bay window over the couch of our old house.
A theater seat for our fights, screaming, throwing, thrashing,
and every detail of my unending depression.
You, my son, are on my lap, asleep, an infant.
I’m crying, and the tears sting your forehead.
I wipe them away, my trauma baptism,
I have an endless supply.This stardust anchor falling through time
and space, cracking the earth’s atmosphere,
honing our existence, growing our cells,
is a cosmic stake piercing my heart.
It will not end me. I’m always undead.
Worse, it reminds me honestly
that this daylight trigger
will always be thereas long as I am.
#ampoetry #author #blogging #books #creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #patrickWMarsh #poem #poemOfTheDay #poems #poetry #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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A little holiday truth for the online trolls. Some people spread cheer, others spread chaos. This poem says it all. ❄️🎄
#Poetry #MyPoem #OriginalWriting #OnlineTrolls #Truth #StayInYourLane #StopTheHate
-
Read my poem “Kindness”
Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloomI don’t know what to do.
#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
Read my poem “Kindness”
Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloomI don’t know what to do.
#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
Read my poem “Kindness”
Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloomI don’t know what to do.
#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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Read my poem “Kindness”
Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloomI don’t know what to do.
#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
-
Read my poem “Kindness”
Give me trauma on a blackboard
I’ll glitter all its owls and tentacles
encircling and stamping the
freakish and rancid record we
have etched on the atoms of our reality.Afterall, we all shatter, hurt, and harm.
Life is an appalling confectioner of pain.
We do it minutely and majorly
tying these cruel ribbons
together over our own coffin.When the good and kind happens,
those cerulean clouds hanging
on the smeared edge of a Bob Ross painting
we wonder how to feel, breathe, and act,
as if happiness were the vaguest whisper.We’re always nurturing doubt,
a mandrake necktie perpetually tightened
by anyone at any moment of any time.
It isn’t nemesis specific
but a negative, shapeshifting terrain.I’m so proficient at the dark
it’s my tallest city, a hades overpopulated.
The rain-colored afternoon is always preferred
and when the system splits and
the jailed trees bloomI don’t know what to do.
#creativeWriting #emotionalWriting #literature #originalWriting #poem #poemOfTheDay #poetsOnWordpress #spokenWord #writing
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For Cheyenne
Roaming across Wyoming, you meet many folks,
But the Cheyenne, they say, are as strong as oak.
They bend and stretch through the plains as they roam,
And the company they keep is the richest, deepest loam.
For never have I met a people so fine—
And I hope, through the hold, I might find their glen in time.#poetry #romanticwriting #lovepoem #originalwriting #greatplains
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New short story out! 🗡️ Backfire of a Gun ❤️ Summary: Before a raid on an enemy base, a mercenary reflects on a relationship that brought out his human side but ended in disaster. www.tumblr.com/lapis-love-w... www.pillowfort.social/posts/6691229 #shortstory #originalwriting #lapiswrites #writing
Lapis-Love: Backfire of a Gun -
New short story out! 🗡️ Backfire of a Gun ❤️ Summary: Before a raid on an enemy base, a mercenary reflects on a relationship that brought out his human side but ended in disaster. www.tumblr.com/lapis-love-w... www.pillowfort.social/posts/6691229 #shortstory #originalwriting #lapiswrites #writing
Lapis-Love: Backfire of a Gun -
CW: Long Post: Original Zine with Writing and Art titled "Glimmers in the Penumbra"
Glimmers in the Penumbra
I assembled this zine to collect drabbles written for my D&D group, and I'm sharing it with you all today.
This is for you, @[email protected] , @[email protected] , @[email protected] , @[email protected] , and @[email protected]
Special thanks to @[email protected] for drawing the illustrations used in this zine and for buying my drabble commission slots on behalf of the group. She has made a lot of really cool art for our group and for her character Dia especially, so you should check it out if you like this!
This was a really fun project. It was great to play in the 100 word limit with different styles and character voices to make something tailored for each character.
I assembled this zine so that I could make a special and unique home for all of the pieces together. It was put together in Scribus, a free and open source layout tool.
If you enjoyed this zine, please consider a donation to Crips for eSims for Gaza or at Gaza Funds.
--
Full Text Transcript
Glimmers in the Penumbra A Tabletop Roleplay OC Drabble Collection
--
Embodied
The snow feels wrong. It mushes against the strange pliant dough stretched across her soles, shoots her through with a kind of pain she's never felt before. It bites, metallic, as though she can feel the pinprick of each shard of each snow flake. The air, too, grips her. All of this, wrong. Never before had the winds caused her pain, nor had snow felt anything but pleasant on even her tenderest scales. Winter has abandoned her. It was in her very weft and now all she has is this naked pink putty. No way for a dragon to live.
Dia Istehar
[Includes an illustration of Dia holding herself in a gust of snow and wind.]
--
L’Enfer
Fire's heat. Warms, tickles, crisps. Pleasure becomes pain. Sears, destroys, consumes. Ashes to ashes.
Vous qui entrez, abandonnez toute espérance.
No way to snuff a forest fire once it's caught hot and tall, naught but to let the blaze run out. A heart is like that. A little fire you can throw water over, but the burn in him grows fast. All you can do is get out the way.
Watch for smoke.
What's a flame want? Nothing but to burn. Bright and hot, alive until it's out. Doesn't care what's burning, where or how. But a man's heart? Well.
L’Enfer - The Inferno Vous qui entrez, abandonnez toute espérance. - Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Ozias DeVir
[Includes an illustration of Ozias lighting a cigarette.]
--
Song of the Princess
She is come from a castle in a far away land, from a lineage ruling for generations.
Hath traveled the lands in great odyssey, and suffered many a hardship and poverty.
O Princess, Sweetest Briar with thorns sharp, stand strong against despair. Nobility is not in gold but in heart and deed and bearing. Retain thy grace and thy dignity. Fear not the dark and the wicked, for thou art puissant. Magic courseth through thy veins as fish in a stream.
Know that one day thou wilt reclaim thy birthright. So sayeth this poem, written in serenade of a princess.
Briar Allaire
[Includes an illustration of Briar, regal in a crown.]
--
Idle Musing
Life should be fun. Things would be far too boring without a bit of mischief to keep it interesting, ya know? Just a dash like spice in the stew. Nothing serious, maybe swipe a shiny here or snack there.
Things can change pretty fast out on the road though. It gets scary out there, with monsters and bad guys. Sometimes I think I should have just stayed home.
But hey, one minute you're strumming along up and down the strings of a bouzouki, tickling the melody to and fro, and bam! Out comes the zouka. Didn't expect that, didja spookies?
Kaapro
[Includes an illustration of Kaapro, a Kenku, smiling and playing a bouzouki.]
--
Sacrament
"Go and sin no more."
The other man, the one on the other side of the wooden screen, knows what a joke it is. He says it anyway, and manages not to laugh. It's procedure after all.
A rosary and an extra Our Father. A man's life snuffed out, his blood on the stone, and all Lucere needs to do is mumble some words.
Done in God's name, isn't it a Holy act?
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
Deliverance won't come, but so too will he sin again. He always has and always will.
Lucere Crough
[Includes an illustration of Lucere holding a rosary in his hand, covering half of his face.]
--
Just World Fallacy
Let us consider the situation rationally. Which situation is more likely?
The first, that I was conceived by two emotionally stunted people unprepared for the maturity, care, and mundane sacrifices of parenthood? That I lived at the whims of a man who took out rage and fear on his vulnerable son? That my mother could bring me into the world but shrink my existence so small in her heart that she could ignore it? That suffering is largely beyond our control and the world is fundamentally unfair?
Or that I am unloveable and it's my fault?
The answer is obvious.
Pinion Andolus
[Includes an illustration of Pinion where you cannot see his face, gazing at unbalanced scales.]
--
Knight in Shining Armor
My face mirrored in a gleaming scale. I chased it like the glint of oasis after days walking parched sands. Was it a mirage? I follow its path and come no closer, but the image does not fade. Still there, out of reach, ever on the horizon.
What is she really like? I've imagined her on the highest pedestal, with every sublime virtue, and in the deepest depravity, with every foul cruelty. Perhaps she is simply a well-meaning fool, doing her best.
Do I truly want to know? Would the mirage dissolve, and would that be for good or ill?
Okaara Justa
[Includes an illustration of Okaara, a half-orc, gazing at her own reflection in a piece of plate armor.]
--
寝袋詰め 心の準備 と出かける
「一緒に」
romaji reading: shurafuzume kokoro no junbi to dekakeru
「issho ni」
The bedrolls are wrapped. Ready for what awaits them, the party sets forth.
[Together]
[No illustration]
Originally posted on Tumblr here: https://www.tumblr.com/terror-billie/759892367589392384/full-text-transcript -
Darkling Sneak Peek!
#Darkling #SneakPeek #Writing #MyWriting #OriginalWriting #WritingCommunity #Writeblr #WriteblrCommunity #AriWrites #AristaWrites #DarklingSpoilers #Nano #Nano2023 #Nanowrimo #Nanowrimo2023 #NationalNovelWritingMonth #NationalNovelWritingMonth2023 #LizzyHail #AndricRoche #Fey #Fae #Vampires #Kavians #Vampire #Snippet #OriginalWriting #OriginalCharacter
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#Crowdfunding success! 'William and the Werewolf' proceeds to publication, & remains available for pre-order. Congratulations Michael!
https://nitter.net/MythicalBritain/status/1649393194449227776Hello @Unbound, please support your #authors with more info here on the #Fediverse? We have readers who love #IndependentThinking, #OriginalWriting, #BookIllustration & #printmaking...
#WilliamAndTheWerewolf #14thCentury #Bohun #romance #NewBook #medieval #medievodons #bookstodon @bookstodon
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#Crowdfunding success! 'William and the Werewolf' proceeds to publication, & remains available for pre-order. Congratulations Michael!
https://nitter.net/MythicalBritain/status/1649393194449227776Hello @Unbound, please support your #authors with more info here on the #Fediverse? We have readers who love #IndependentThinking, #OriginalWriting, #BookIllustration & #printmaking...
#WilliamAndTheWerewolf #14thCentury #Bohun #romance #NewBook #medieval #medievodons #bookstodon @bookstodon
-
#Crowdfunding success! 'William and the Werewolf' proceeds to publication, & remains available for pre-order. Congratulations Michael!
https://nitter.net/MythicalBritain/status/1649393194449227776Hello @Unbound, please support your #authors with more info here on the #Fediverse? We have readers who love #IndependentThinking, #OriginalWriting, #BookIllustration & #printmaking...
#WilliamAndTheWerewolf #14thCentury #Bohun #romance #NewBook #medieval #medievodons #bookstodon @bookstodon
-
#Crowdfunding success! 'William and the Werewolf' proceeds to publication, & remains available for pre-order. Congratulations Michael!
https://nitter.net/MythicalBritain/status/1649393194449227776Hello @Unbound, please support your #authors with more info here on the #Fediverse? We have readers who love #IndependentThinking, #OriginalWriting, #BookIllustration & #printmaking...
#WilliamAndTheWerewolf #14thCentury #Bohun #romance #NewBook #medieval #medievodons #bookstodon @bookstodon
-
#Crowdfunding success! 'William and the Werewolf' proceeds to publication, & remains available for pre-order. Congratulations Michael!
https://nitter.net/MythicalBritain/status/1649393194449227776Hello @Unbound, please support your #authors with more info here on the #Fediverse? We have readers who love #IndependentThinking, #OriginalWriting, #BookIllustration & #printmaking...
#WilliamAndTheWerewolf #14thCentury #Bohun #romance #NewBook #medieval #medievodons #bookstodon @bookstodon
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Happy Friday, Fediverse. I'm coming to yell about my ongoing serialisation. If you like hero journeys and character driven stories, please check out I Found the End of Everything. And consider joining my SubscribeStar—! My goal is to get five subscribers and to really start making something of this whole adventure.
#originalfiction #originalwriting #QueerLiterature #urbanfantasy
https://mastodon.social/@crowbasing/107704026792983786
