Cold and Rain
When it rains,
I’m happy.
I get replenished,
Like the ground and green.
When it’s cold,
It’s refreshing,
Cool and crisp,
Welcome.
I long for when I feel the cold winter air,
On my exposed skin.
I long for the comfortingly bitter wind,
That banishes the unbearable heat.
I walk slowly,
So as to prolong it,
So as to stay a while longer,
In the cold, rain, or snow,
Before becoming trapped in a room,
No1 2Cry2 (No One To Cry To)
When I am sad,
Depressed, frustrated,
Lonely, confused,
Anxious and stressed.
When I am these,
The worst thing,
Is having no one to cry to.
I just have to sit or lay here,
Keeping it all inside.
I can’t even cry out,
Can’t do anything,
And it hurts.
It hurts so very much,
Having no one to cry to,
No one to listen,
No one that cares,
No one there,
To hear you.
You mig
Sick of Home
I’m homesick, in that,
I’m sick of this home.
This dreary and unexciting,
Uncomfortable and cold,
Long-lived, too-long,
Home.
I long for a new home,
One I enjoy being in,
One I seek refuge in,
Not refuge from.
One I await,
Not one I return to with reluctance.
I’m sick of this home,
And long for a new one.
Missed Experiences;Missed Life
Where is my life?
Have I had one?
I ge
About a month ago, I ended up in the hospital for a night. I was not mentally okay, but I’ve recovered since then, and I’ve written this poem about my experience, set to the rhyme scheme of “Atlantic” by Sleep Token, since they describe similar things.
TW: Self-Harm
No TW, this one’s hope for me.
writing about my feelings has helped, actually. The harm i caused myself didn’t change me, but reflecting on that foolishness has. Never, ever hurt yourself. It is not salvation, it i
Unpleasant Environment
I hate this place.
This place where I struggle;
To find comfort,
To find motivation,
To find productivity,
To find joy.
I shift and stir,
Awaiting my next break,
From this place.
Awaiting tomorrow,
Awaiting comfort,
Awaiting the ever-closer…salvation.
It may take weeks,
I might be here months more,
But at least I have,
A hope.
A hope of escape.
A Step Away
A
One-Way Mirror
I watch from the shadows,
Apart.
I listen from this bed,
Paralyzed.
I am like a spirit,
Invisible,
Not physical.
I am watching through a one-way mirror.
And yet I’m the one in distress.
Numb-But-Not;Helpless;Separated
Each day, more distress.
Each day, another horror.
Each time, I feel awful.
I am scared and angry but conditioned.
I can’t do anything; nothing at all.
I am separated; not c
Not Alone
Oh my.
I feel very…different.
Relieved?
Realizing I am not alone.
My experience is one others share;
It can be explained.
People get me.
I am not…a bad person.
I am not…wrong.
It is not…my fault.
And help will work.
I spent so long
—too long—
Thinking.
Thinking that what I was going through,
Was somehow untreatable.
I believed for so long
—to long—
That I had to explain,
And still no one
Wrote this at night, falling asleep.
Wrote this as a dream came to me.
Wrote this while I cried,
Wrote this and forgot it.
A Knock on the Door
A knock sounds, at my door.
I open it, and gasp.
Who is she, with no mask?
Who is she?
“I am you,” she says happily.
“Who you will become,” continues Lily.
I stand breathless, then begin sobbing.
I don’t stop for hours, and she’s at my side.
I just can’t believe it, but
Posting backlogg
Helpless
I can’t watch this,
I can’t read this,
I just can’t.
It’s all too much, this hate.
It’s all so wrong, our fate.
Was I born too late?
I feel something deep within—watching this unfold.
I feel fear, anger, and deep deep wrongness.
I can only ignore it so long—until they come for me.
I feel helpless—paralyzed—watching
I feel sorrow and depression.
I can only dream, hope, and plea.
When I was in a very Brandon Sanderson phase of my life, I created a nameless setting that I wrote a few works in. Originally, it would have spanned the whole universe, but the only two things I wrote were on the same planet, Flers.
(From a comment on another blog post)
Anyway, I'll just dump setting information, and mention what I like at the end.
So, initially, humanity is just on the planet Flers, on an island continent in the south. A group who has basically monopolized the
About two years ago, I wrote one novella and four short stories in a setting of my own creation. I've looked down on it as weaker writing, but now that I'm looking back, I think there are things worth salvaging. My short story collection especially, as I wrote it later.
One of the things I did was add little "Syndicate logs", information from a mysterious organization from space throughout the collection, to shed light on their motives and plans. I'll put them below. Without context of the
So I don't remember much of this game, as I forgot to type it up when I first played it.
It was 4 player Bios: Genesis, with me (red), @The WorldHopper Taynix (yellow), @Hoid the ShardBoy (green) and my non-Sharder non-Sanderfan brother (red).
It took ages for anyone to get a bacterium. We went all the way to the start of the Proterozoic without a single one.
Eventually, the Hydrothermal Vents from turn 2 became @The WorldHopper Taynix's bacterium, and I got one two from a refugi
There are two types of story in The Longest Thread. The frivolous, meaningless chaos of a story the authors didn’t care about was the first- in fact, the Thread was born from posts like this. These had little to no consequence and were soon forgotten. These second was the real story. The plot arc of a character who was truly believed in, the inspiration of a powerful tale, the writing of an author highly invested in their work. This was what the Thread had become. And this type of story couldn’
Living through a medical transition often means your "wins" are measured in lab results, dosage adjustments, or appointment checkboxes. But this week, the breakthrough wasn’t in a clinic—it was in the mirror.
I’m dedicating this post to a non-medical win: the pure, unadulterated euphoria of a fresh haircut.
There is something transformative about the sound of shears near your ears. It’s the intentional shedding of an old silhouette. For me, this wasn’t just about "cleaning up the edges
This was also something I made at that writing camp, this one had a bit more work put into it, but I don't like it as much because the gayness isn't the focus of the story, and the poor writing I feel like is more noticable. I also accidentally stole House of Leaves's colored text gimmick without knowing about it. (Also copy+paste is weird, the colored text is supposed to also be bold, but for some reason the entire document is bold. Ah well.
This was a thing I wrote last year at a writing camp. We were given a prompt to show a reversal of who typically has power in a situation. It's pretty mid, but I like it still.
Homines, Mors.
Nobody even still remembers
Why?
We forgot.
Simple and true.
All we knew
Was that…
We wanted it.
And that was enough.
That was enough.
Homines is still bustling.
The streets are empty.
But you can hear its death everywhere.
2 solders, sleeping on the streets.
Wearing different uniforms, both bleeding red.
Humans, Death.
Ding ding.
”I’ll go get it”
I go up to the door.
I already know who it is.
I open the door.
I suppose now is the time to mention my hand was shaking.
The Darkness is at the door.
You should step outside.
Inside is so cold… it’ll be warmer out here
I turn back.
My family is there.
Laughing without me.
But I’m at the door.
Without me.
Occasionally, one of them looks over.
They probably think I’m handling it.
They don’t
A Flaw is an entity from a dimension between stories, I think in TLT this is known as The Void. Flaws exist for one purpose- to prey on Authors and destroy their stories. There are three types of Flaws I have created: Subversion Flaws, Killer Flaws, and Tyrant Flaws.
The Subversion Flaw is a demon-like entity that lives in its normal form in the space between worlds. It is the lowest level of the Flaw hierarchy and subservient to higher ranks, and is also the most common form of a Flaw. A s
The High Priest lay on the cobblestones, feeling the heat of the flames licking the wall, feeling the weight smoldering vestments settle on him, the burden of tradition chaining him down.
"Please . . . spare this temple."
No answer. The fire began to burn the tapestries, and the heat became unbearable. Blood and ash had mixed, and were indistinguishable. The Dreamsmith had been right. The false prophet had been correct. The doom was upon them.
"Doom?"
The High Priest jerked
The fluorescent lights of Mr. Hemmingsworth’s AP Sociology class hum with a clinical, soul-sucking frequency. I sit three rows back and two seats over from Luanne, hidden behind the broad, stiff shoulders of my own jacket. Mr. Hemmingsworth is droning on about “social structures” and “the invisible threads that bind us,” but all I can see is the island of oak where Luanne sits alone.
She doesn’t look like an invisible thread. She looks like a jagged, purple lightning bolt in a room full of
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