Three in the morning.
And I am incandescent,
For a few brief seconds.
They say I am naive,
Quick to react but slow to consider.
You never change,
But I always trick myself into thinking you will.
Hoping that for once this won’t make me tear down another photo,
Replace it with a brick inside my chest.
I am ever turned towards you,
Needle to your true north,
When all I want is the vast horizon, drifting in an endless sunrise, unmoored.
You are not two-faced.
That would be a compliment.
You are ever yourself, ever the star, ever the underdog, ever the altruist, ever the expert.
And yet my frustration confuses you.
You are wild not because the entropy of the universe lives within you,
No beauty of nature reflected in you.
You do not heed consequences—
Why should you when I take the brunt of them?—
And so you are free to play and piss and pose as you please.
A creator of stories by default, a repeating track of your own follies gussied up and redistributed.
Why bother with your B-sides?
I breathe and try to sleep,
Try to tamp down the fires of my discontent.
Cool girl, pretty girl, ambitious girl, glimmer.
Your sparkle is but dust in my eye.
I care not out of love, but out of habit.
Hey, um, I know you’re very busy, but you’re the only person I follow that I’ve seen post poetry, and I just wrote my first complete poem, and I don’t know what to do with it, how to edit it or anything to polish it up? Like … all my other attempts at poetry stuttered out before the complete emotion got captured, and I’ve got no idea what to do now, if you have time to help? (or if you think you’ll have time in the future, I have an abundance of patience) thank you, for your time.
Hey lionheadbookends! Luckily you caught me in the limited window of free time, so I’m able to answer your ask now though I’m not entirely sure how much help I’ll be:
I’m honored that you thought of me in relation to poetry, but I’ll be honest… I don’t really know much about it at all. Usually the poetry I post up here is kind of stream of consciousness burbling up from my mind when no narrative can convey what I want it to, and except for here on tumblr (and, technically, the cross-posting onto ao3) I don’t really publish my work anywhere. I mean, I guess technically I don’t publish my work at all since even my few “real world writing” is in play format and so not published per se so much as performed a bit and then not at all.
I guess mostly it depends on what you want the poetry to be. Generally my poetry is me expressing (usually negative) emotions or concepts to declutter my brain so when I post it onto tumblr it’s almost like me throwing letters in bottles out into the ocean. It’s nice if someone reads them and enjoys them, but ultimately the act of writing it was all I wanted–everything else is inconsequential to my goal.
So what would you like your poetry to be? Is it something you want to use to convey a specific message to people (or particular person)? Is it something you want to use as a foundation for future works?
If it’s the last, I think even those other attempts at poetry that “stuttered out before [completion]” could be helpful as a way to build upon and improve your writing. This is mostly anecdotal advice, and somewhat cliché at that, but writing is very much something you have to practice to improve upon, like exercising a muscle, and as seen with me in the past few months, if you don’t use it, it does become more difficult.
… as I said before, I don’t think this is of much help, but I’m glad to hear you’ve written a poem that you’re satisfied with! I think that–your personal satisfaction with what you’ve written–is what is most important, especially with poetry which is so emotionally charged and intimate.
Chompy Maiden flies so sweet.
To all the ships in the Bone Fleet,
She smiles sharp and wide and well,
Then bites their shields and hulls to hell!
Chompy Maiden is so strong,
She can never do a wrong,
‘Cause all the enemies she hits,
Explode and get all wrecked to shit!
So if you think you can destroy
Chompy Maiden, she’ll enjoy,
Your crit ones and awful luck,
Your plan has failed, your ship is f–
lyrics adapted from Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye
(but, honestly, inspired by the gorgeous TAZ fanart that used it by @kaylabarart)
Oh baby I’m a one hit wonder,
you ready to be a bit under-
A/N: A quick little song–I realized it was fifteen minutes to midnight and I came up with this little thing and wanted to see how fast the turn around for song transcription/composing was for something as short as this.
An hour. For five measures. Which is… well… considering with film it’s approximately an hour of filming for one minute of actual footage, that kind of tracks? And given I’m not actually trained in this and have a somewhat suspect ear for notes I guess it’s not bad.
I’m just looking for a
little piece, of mind. Just a
little peace of mind, to
have and hold.
I don’t need a
whole, a part’s just fine. Just a
part to claim as mine to
fill this hole.
‘Cause inside me is a void
that I should stop trying to avoid:
I’m unwell, there I’ve said it.
I’m unwell, don’t you get it?
It’s just me and my depression!
A/N: I made a song! About depression! … not that today was particularly bad–mentally, that is–I just wanted to try my hand at composing? I dunno~ I’ll admit at some points I perhaps got a little too influenced by Beauty and the Beast?
Technically, I finished this before midnight, but then I got fussy about the typos in the lyrics so I had to fix it…
Seriously, this is what happens when I don’t have any prompts… Please head over to my ask box for the Ask Box Advent Calendar!
Um, if you can, would you please write something about an overwhelming grief? The sort of thing where you can’t even cry because it’s too big to deal with? I’d really appreciate anything you could do for that subject.
Grief is a very personal thing, my friend.
There are layers to it,
variations in how deeply,
how long a loss will pain you.
I’ve had the sharp,
distracting pain of a sudden
but expected loss.
A paper cut,
the side effects of
And the screeching,
and broken glass,
shards through skin,
Scars even afterwards,
aching in the cold.
Grief draws closer,
organs shutting down.
I will not ask how you are, my friend,
only if I may help you survive.
She doesn’t cry often, but she does do so easily, deliberately, spending tears like shiny coins in a gum ball machine. Better to release them when she chooses than to hoard them, hold them off, keep them at bay until the dam breaks. She feels her tears oncoming like the tide, the salty air and the change in pressure, ozone sparkling behind her eyelids. When that happens, she doesn’t batten down the hatches, she redirects them and channels them–tearjerking music with nostalgic, haunting melodies, fictional lovers with doomed relationships–emotional irrigation for the fruit trees in her heart.
And so when the time comes…
when the time goes…
her eyes remain startlingly dry.
“You’re allowed to cry, you know?” someone says, and you grunt in response.
Of course you know you’re allowed to cry; how irritating. You don’t need someone’s permission to cry.
You just aren’t. Haven’t.
Not for a while. Not for a long while.
Maybe not ever.
You feel hollowed out, as if your brain has shut off higher functions, higher feelings. You’ve been slouching from day to day, no momentum to propel you forward.
You’ll restart, soon, living instead of just subsiding, but you might not be the same.
it was never about you
you’re beginning to get that now
their snide words, dismissals,
that frustrating scoffing noise
and roll of the eyes,
the way they broke your heart,
and tore up your dreams,
or even just ruined your day.
it wasn’t about you.
it was about them.
of course it was,
what else? who else?
why would they apologize?
they did nothing wrong,
after all, it’s your fault
for taking it so personally,
for expecting otherwise.
they were just being honest,
just looking out for themselves.
what a waste of time, they say,
no sympathy for the weak.
(how cruelly chosen your words,
they haunt me even months later)
you pay in money, in time, in effort,
you try to hang onto memories,
of singing and sunshine
and the salty air by the sea
(i cried for hours
on my bedroom floor,
sobbing and heaving
hoping i would vibrate apart)
you edit yourself constantly
now you have nothing left to say,
everything crossed off
(everything too vulnerable)
they ask why you never respond
(i’ve learned it’s better not to)
you are silent and stagnant
filled with hurt,
cracks poorly glued together
(no thanks to you)
it’d be over with anyone else,
stricken and blocked and stored away,
wrapped in old newspaper
boxed and taped up,
let the dust make things softer,
let the sharp edges wear away.
(and yet, still, i revolve around you)
if this is what love is, it’s a disease.
(tear it out of me.
just let me heal)
It is easy to become the king’s Favored, for kings are whimsical and easily pleased. But it is far less easy being the king’s Favored.
Nobody talks about the after.
After you’ve completed the impossible task. After you’ve slain the giant or rescued the princess or guessed the fairy’s name and brought glory to the kingdom. After the wedding and the treasure and the happily ever after.
Nobody talks about it, but is not the being more important than the becoming? The existing more difficult than the creation?
Once you were a common peasant, plucked from your charming, simple life and thrust into a daring adventure. Now you are the king’s Favored, and your life is hell.
Did you love me at all?
Fingertips pressing bruises into my skin,
the scent of your shampoo on my pillow,
traces of you in my life,
footsteps in the sand.
I will excise you from my heart,
scalpel sharp and swift,
triple bypass for a flatlined love.
Reflections of another self,
skin still brown, but scaly.
Teeth become fangs,
nails become claws,
jutting from my back.
I was born of dragons.
My mother, pale blue,
descended from healers and marines.
Ethereal, but powerful,
She called me her lucky penny.
I didn’t understand then.
My father, rich red orange.
Gleaming, vivacious, self-assured,
the sun in the sky,
the core of the earth.
I learned early on
not to meet his eyes.
My older sister, deep purple;
the color of royalty,
of poisonous flowers.
Everyone bowed to her whim,
and her talent unparalleled, too.
I stumbled in her footsteps.
My younger sister, yellow,
as bright as her personality.
Buttercups and bumblebees,
growth and spring and cheer.
I tried to clear a path,
then looked up to see her fly.
World on the cusp of war,
friction and tensions rising high,
words and talents slung around.
The weight of magic,
the sound of drums,
consequences hovering, waiting to fall.
Resistance, justice, freedom,
held fragile between fangs and claws.
Long forgotten disasters,
hidden traces of the ancestors.
In the mouth of the cave
waits the leader, made of tin.
I am not a brown dragon.