Spartan Writes Things

[NerdSandwich she/her]

On 5/1/2025 at 12:21 AM, SpartanBrigade said:

Hi everyone! I’m a developing author and I love writing stuff 

It may not be the best but I’m still proud of it and wanna share it with you lot while I progress in skill

This is a poem I did a couple days ago

The Liar

A liar sat at a loom of mist and shadow

Spinning tales from desire and diffidence

Threads of hurt and isolation woven into spiraling tapestries 

Twisting and rising in the dark

An arras concealing a silent ache

All who looked upon the work were captivated

 Enveloped in the illusion

For just a time they could lose themselves in the magic

Cast off their doubts 

Float free of their fears

And just for a time, so could the liar

In the morning the Sun rose bearing truth on its wings

The light seared a hole through the cloth

Reduced to ashes flitting on the breeze

The loom fled

The shadow retreated

The mist evaporated 

The people fell back to Earth

And the liar was left a broken shell

Alone in a hollow room

Clutching at the vanishing ashes

Of a tapestry that never was

 I was gonna say reminds me of Tolkien but apparently like 2 other ppl have already said that.
Anyway, nice work very profound and well structured (not that I'm like the world expert on poetry or anything but I think it's a good poem?)

[SpartanBrigade He/Him]

This is just something I wrote right now

If it doesn’t make very much sense I apologize 

I’m really tired and running a fever

It’s mostly just an explosion of thought

Also note that this isn’t addressed to anyone here
It’s aimed at another group of people

Spoiler

All of it is meaningless. All of it is the same. I see a collage of images all washed in sepia, dull, insipid, safe. I hear the scraping of a vinyl, always turning, always turning, always turning. What does it play? The Beatles, The Smiths, Buckley, whatever band is trending on TikTok this week. Beside it lays a scattering of books; Dostoyevsky, Austen, Kafka. Is this it? Is this how we measure humanity and life and value? How many words you’ve read on how many pages of how many books? I see pretension wearing the face of maturity, endless dronings on about philosophy and the nature of the universe. Don’t you know that if you read enough books, quote enough scholars, and speak constantly while saying nothing, you can run away from 16? You have a habit of connecting logic with feelings and feelings with logic but you don’t think long enough or feel deeply enough to realize that’s a basic function of human existence, not a trophy that makes you special. Again the ceaseless spinning.
There is a light that never goes out.
There is a light that never goes out.
There is a light that never goes out.
And me, why I’m the worst out of all of you. What do I do? I sit and I watch and I don’t act. I analyze all of you, pinpoint your flaws and ridicule them with a burning mind. The gadfly that spreads disease with its bite and thinks itself so very clever. The critic with the pen cutting a dream, a life, a heart. Not deeply enough to kill, but enough to leave a wound that bleeds for several minutes before healing in a thin white scar before vanishing altogether. Blind me, burn me, break my pen.  Beauty cannot exist without decay and destruction and pain. How quaint of you. Look away from your books, your thinkers, your art. Look to your mirror, your window, into the black fire with all of its infinite color. See the light which never goes out flicker, tremble against the night. And tell me Eleanor Rigby, who will cry over your headstone when the graveyard has been overtaken by moss? Who will whisper that once, very long ago, you thought one candle, your candle, could light the world?

(Yes Coder I know I should add paragraphs and indentation)

[Argenti he/him]

6 hours ago, SpartanBrigade said:

This is just something I wrote right now

If it doesn’t make very much sense I apologize 

I’m really tired and running a fever

It’s mostly just an explosion of thought

Also note that this isn’t addressed to anyone here
It’s aimed at another group of people

  Hide contents

All of it is meaningless. All of it is the same. I see a collage of images all washed in sepia, dull, insipid, safe. I hear the scraping of a vinyl, always turning, always turning, always turning. What does it play? The Beatles, The Smiths, Buckley, whatever band is trending on TikTok this week. Beside it lays a scattering of books; Dostoyevsky, Austen, Kafka. Is this it? Is this how we measure humanity and life and value? How many words you’ve read on how many pages of how many books? I see pretension wearing the face of maturity, endless dronings on about philosophy and the nature of the universe. Don’t you know that if you read enough books, quote enough scholars, and speak constantly while saying nothing, you can run away from 16? You have a habit of connecting logic with feelings and feelings with logic but you don’t think long enough or feel deeply enough to realize that’s a basic function of human existence, not a trophy that makes you special. Again the ceaseless spinning.
There is a light that never goes out.
There is a light that never goes out.
There is a light that never goes out.
And me, why I’m the worst out of all of you. What do I do? I sit and I watch and I don’t act. I analyze all of you, pinpoint your flaws and ridicule them with a burning mind. The gadfly that spreads disease with its bite and thinks itself so very clever. The critic with the pen cutting a dream, a life, a heart. Not deeply enough to kill, but enough to leave a wound that bleeds for several minutes before healing in a thin white scar before vanishing altogether. Blind me, burn me, break my pen.  Beauty cannot exist without decay and destruction and pain. How quaint of you. Look away from your books, your thinkers, your art. Look to your mirror, your window, into the black fire with all of its infinite color. See the light which never goes out flicker, tremble against the night. And tell me Eleanor Rigby, who will cry over your headstone when the graveyard has been overtaken by moss? Who will whisper that once, very long ago, you thought one candle, your candle, could light the world?

(Yes Coder I know I should add paragraphs and indentation)

Have you considered not reading Kafka and Dostoyevsky that might help

[CoderDrag0n8 He/They]

On 6/12/2026 at 11:18 PM, SpartanBrigade said:

This is just something I wrote right now

If it doesn’t make very much sense I apologize 

I’m really tired and running a fever

It’s mostly just an explosion of thought

Also note that this isn’t addressed to anyone here
It’s aimed at another group of people

  Hide contents

All of it is meaningless. All of it is the same. I see a collage of images all washed in sepia, dull, insipid, safe. I hear the scraping of a vinyl, always turning, always turning, always turning. What does it play? The Beatles, The Smiths, Buckley, whatever band is trending on TikTok this week. Beside it lays a scattering of books; Dostoyevsky, Austen, Kafka. Is this it? Is this how we measure humanity and life and value? How many words you’ve read on how many pages of how many books? I see pretension wearing the face of maturity, endless dronings on about philosophy and the nature of the universe. Don’t you know that if you read enough books, quote enough scholars, and speak constantly while saying nothing, you can run away from 16? You have a habit of connecting logic with feelings and feelings with logic but you don’t think long enough or feel deeply enough to realize that’s a basic function of human existence, not a trophy that makes you special. Again the ceaseless spinning.
There is a light that never goes out.
There is a light that never goes out.
There is a light that never goes out.
And me, why I’m the worst out of all of you. What do I do? I sit and I watch and I don’t act. I analyze all of you, pinpoint your flaws and ridicule them with a burning mind. The gadfly that spreads disease with its bite and thinks itself so very clever. The critic with the pen cutting a dream, a life, a heart. Not deeply enough to kill, but enough to leave a wound that bleeds for several minutes before healing in a thin white scar before vanishing altogether. Blind me, burn me, break my pen.  Beauty cannot exist without decay and destruction and pain. How quaint of you. Look away from your books, your thinkers, your art. Look to your mirror, your window, into the black fire with all of its infinite color. See the light which never goes out flicker, tremble against the night. And tell me Eleanor Rigby, who will cry over your headstone when the graveyard has been overtaken by moss? Who will whisper that once, very long ago, you thought one candle, your candle, could light the world?

(Yes Coder I know I should add paragraphs and indentation)

*literally me thinking as I read*

Hmmm how do I unoffensively suggest that I enjoy paragraph breaks without being mean...

*sees bottom*

holy sh-

but i like paragraph breaks and i am probably addicted to them and once while I was using them i got high and saw unicorns and ranbows and then actually ate one and now that I think about it that might have been the drugs that I was also taking at the time*

fun coder fact: 90% of the poems i write, I write while high*. That is why no one ever ever ever responds to them! And that is also why I continue to write them anyway!

*disclaimer: I do not actually do drugs

[Usseewa ✾ She♡They ✾]

On 2/11/2026 at 9:09 AM, SpartanBrigade said:

I've written another poem
Just last night actually

  Hide contents

Armor

You hold my name like something borrowed
Careful not to crease it
Careful not to keep it too long

You ask if I am well
In the same voice you use for strangers
Warm, practiced
Already halfway out the door

My words are winds in the desert
Passing over endless sands
Intangible, fleeting
When the sun rises they never were 

I think you love me
In the way one loves fair May
Grateful for its warmth
But never willing to stand in its rains

If I broke open in front of you
If the ink spilled out and reached for your hands
You would step back
Not unkindly
Just enough to stay clean

You would say my name like an apology
For something you never promised

You only ever gave me
What cost you nothing

wow..

i love it...

.