Repetition
I sit here in this stifling place.
While you drone on, you drone.
What you say is meaningless, though.
You simply repeat what we already read.
Why did I read it, if you're gonna say it?
Sure, you add some.
But you know what I think?
You.
Are.
Talking.
To.
Yourself.
I raise my hand—you ignore it.
A moment later—you steal my thoughts.
You just want to hear your own voice.
You just want to act like you know things.
In reality, you’re just reading a summary.
Or so it seems.
I shouldn’t even bother to think.
I shouldn’t bother to waste my attention on you.
Your voice is a nice steady droning white noise.
Elder? No.
Peer? Perhaps, or perhaps not even.
Why are you doing this?
Do you not trust us?
Are you just…are you stealing?
You’re like one of them—Those Who Steal.
My hand goes up—split-second-too-late.
You speak my mind—do I even need to?
Wait—what did you say?
Should I have paid heed?
Oh, nevermind.
It doesn’t really matter.
Nothing you say matters.
Then there’s you—you and your kin.
You who engage—in those silly activities.
But am I really any better than you?
I miss the starter—the point of transition,
And now I can’t follow—this lengthy tangent.
Now you’re actually speaking, and making sense.
What you are saying—is actually worth hearing.
Or so I think.
ARE YOU DEAF?
WHY IS THIS SO LOUD?
WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?
I CAN’T HEAR WHAT I AM!
Challenge
A challenge this is not.
I sit here—you waste my time.
The things you say—I already know.
Yet still I fear—succumbing to overconfidence.
Yet still I believe—one day you’ll say,
Something new—something I need.
Something not eye-glazing.
Instead I write this—sitting here.
While you chatter along—and I can’t help but listen.
I divide my attention—half-wasted.
I’m surrounded by fools—or maybe they’re just more expressive of their stupidity.
I think I’ve learned,
To hide when I don’t know.
Or I’m just practical—and know when not to ask, but when to research.
Then there’s the occasional problem or question,
That genuinely stumps me—or at least makes me think.
Just stop talking or get to the point.
Just let me leave or give me a challenge.
At least I have free time—and can relax.
Do the others share these thoughts?
I learned this all ages ago—stop repeating the basics.
And it’s not just you—I get this a lot.
Every time—you tell me the grammar—the concepts.
Like a child.
Giving Up
I sometimes wish that
Others could read my mind.
I wish that
You didn’t confuse my words.
I wish that
My explanations made sense.
Or, rather, that you understood.
No matter how much
I rephrase,
You still don’t get it,
So I just give up.
One Sentence
It just takes a sentence.
Perhaps a word—just “hey.”
Just that—to start.
That’s all—though it’s not always easy.
That’s all—to break years of loneliness.
Just a “hey.”
And—of course—the courage to say it.
frIEnd
I feel the start,
Of friendship.
It may not end well—
It may not last long—
It may be temporary—
But it’s something.
Something great.
I feel great.
I'm posting a few days where I wrote poems but was too busy to collect and post them here.
Homo-Gene-Ity
It’s funny how you have thoughts
You think are unique
And then slowly realize
Nothing you could possibly imagine or ponder has not been imagined or pondered by humans past.
Sometimes it’s nice to hear
That others worry dream or think as you do
But sometimes it makes you feel
Like there’s nothing you can do that hasn’t been done.
Nothing you can do that hasn’t been said or thought.
Your “original” and “curious” questions
End up with you realizing
That humans may look unique
But they all have the same patterns
They’re like AI, terrain generation, or...other humans.
You are just a page from the Library of Babel.
One of many inputs
That produce the same output.
You’re a clone.
I’m a clone.
We are fake.
Our brains do the same thing.
We’re like PRNG seeds.
ok so im like unarately tird but i hav lke 3 more poem ideas so ill maybe makef them tormorw
this one i mostly wrote when i was suposde to be reading somhign bornng (whcih i read eventualy)
“Laws” and “Truths”
I once followed them—with all their “rationality.”
Now—eyes open—I see the truth.
No, not the “truth” offered up by the reskinned clones—or shall I say the take-your-picks.
The truth—as I know it to be.
The truth—product of millenia.
The truth—ever-adapting.
Why do you follow those “laws”—so clearly harmfulpointlessnonsensical when you think.
You don’t have to, you know?
You are not obliged.
Of course, they don’t tell you that.
Each of you believing—sincerely—in some “truth.”
Somehow, yours is the one Truth.
All I see are lies.
Sometimes I can’t help but feel sorry for you and your lifelong ignorance.
As times change, “truths” hold, or weaken.
When one falls, another rises—perhaps reskinned, yet no better than its parent.
What is the point?
I see a waste; time wasted; lives wasted.
I wonder why they hold; isn’t it obvious? Don’t they see?
Then I recall—there is no “winning”—no uprooting the deeply-rooted, no changing the immutable.
You claim to reject these “truths,” you hypocrite.
Scream
I want to scream—but can’t
I’ve lost my voice.
I can’t speak—rather, don’t.
I’ve lost myself.
I wish to shout—but croak.
Feeble attempts—ignored.
I yearn to speak—free of these plaguing artifacts.
Instead—this.
This—hell.
This—forcing me to silence.
This—social nightmare.
This—“me.”
I don’t want this—never did.
I want that—what they all have, what you have.
I don’t want this—the fear of possibility.
I want that—self-comfort; comfort in self.
Fine
I’m fine—I swear.
These words aren’t me–well, they are.
But no—not how you think.
They want me—do I concede?
I care for well-being—I think?
Why-then-do-I—listen to her?
Why-then-do-I—resonate so??
Why-then-do-I—…want reenactment?
Emulation?
Rebellion?
Revamptment—independence?
Indifference and passion?
What do I hate?
lackIng answErs
Freedom I crave.
Freedom I have?
What do I hate?
I don’t know that!
Angry am I—that I am sure of.
Anger at what?
Vague accusations—presumptions on my part.
Oh, look at the clouds!
How very pretty!
Or are they just gloomy—angry—mourning?
I don’t know that!
How-can-be-sure?
That this hatred is real?
Not generic and shared—but bland nonetheless.
Am I a fraud?
Just a pretend—or emulatory clone?
yEahhh. PrEtty much all of thE following wErE inspirEd by Ado (thE singEr), or J-Pop in gEnEral. MUSICCCC;
HopEfully "UssEEwa" isn't too...you know. Also UssEEwa is the title of an Ado song, btw.
DANCE
Happy am I for once.
I want to dance—move.
I bob to the beat—that wonderful beat.
I feel better than I have in days—weeks—months—years?
I am in one of those rare moments of light—moments less-rare?
How do I express this? Release this? Do I contain it? I CAN’T!
No one gets it, save me. No one feels this, save me. No one—no one I’m aware of.
So I write this, hoping to channel it all.
I want to write more.
I want to do more.
Calm.
Build up.
I feel it again.
It never left—it just subsided.
What are these words I write—these words I write blindly?
Need more.
NEED ALL.
GAHHHH
People
Who needs others?
Just me.
Self, inner.
Me and my earbuds.
Usseewa!
I’m sitting in my chair,
Typing, thinking, doing.
Then you speak, shatteringly.
Anger rises, frustration peaks.
You persist, growing louder.
Your stupid ear-damaging voice pierces my skull.
Your sharp clangs and words make me wish I lived alone.
Your infuriating innocence makes me ponder maxing the volume.
It would hurt less.
Instead, I persist.
And so do you.
SHUT UP!
I break—much quicker than I’d admit.
I snap—like a stick;
Bent bent bent snap!
The sounds played at my ears mix with the cacophony erupting from your face-hole.
SHUT UP!
You continue, of course.
I feel my blood boil.
You won’t stop.
SHUT UP!!!
WHY. WON’T. YOU.
JUST. STOP. TALKING!
SILENCE. YOUR.SELF!
DON’T. SPEAK. AGAIN!
I. DON’T. WANT. TO. HEAR. IT!
so,
SHUT. UP!!!!
, begs I.
sNORe;gLAZEd
Her leg bounces up and down under the desk. Her arms are folded, and she gazes sightlessly ahead—eyes glazed over. The professor is lecturing her “peers” in something so beneath her that she’s glad she has her earbuds in—volume up. She bobs her head to the tunes, but is careful not to be too obvious. Luckily, her long black hair obscures the earbuds. She almost closes her eyes, but quickly chides herself. That would likely reveal her inattentiveness. Instead, she resumes planning and thinking. Always planning and thinking. Why is she even in this class? With these…fools. The only way she remains sane is by submerging herself within her mind—away from the sickening reality.
Yeah....so I didn't write for like two days, sorry 'bout that. I was kinda busy...but also didn't feel like writing and forgot, I guess. Didn't feel like writing today, either, but decided to write this after all. Yurp...
Artificial;Stupidity—Manufactured;Sickness
I see the text wall—
And am impressed;
I begin reading—
Wow—I think;
It doesn’t take long—however—
For that to shift;
The more I read—
The sicker I get;
It grows difficult—
To even look at—
Let alone intake;
The signs are there—
Laid out before me;
Signs so apparent—
Signs so consistent—
or inconsistent—shall I say;
I stop reading—
It’s too much;
I don’t finish—
I can’t;
Where’s the soul?
Where’s the meaning behind the “I”?
Do others see?
Are others sick?
Or do they praise, unknowing?
Emptiness
Lily felt nothing; empty. She entered the classroom with an even pace and took her usual seat by the window. She stared out the window at the campus covered in snow and the few people shivering as they hastily made their way to the warmth. Lily felt no such warmth. She just wanted to get through yet another day, and she couldn’t care much for anything else. As her professor began the lecture, Lily turned her gaze toward the front of the class, but allowed her eyes to glaze over.
As the class ended, Lily picked up her bag and left. She had an hour before her next class. She decided to spend it writing; one of the few things that brought her joy. Perhaps…perhaps it was the only thing.
Lily sat down in the library chair, scooting it forward, and got out her laptop. She began writing, and slowly found the numbness retreating. She soon found her eyes watering, a few tears rolling down her cheeks. Lily often ended up writing herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy creating characters—she did that too—she just felt more deeply connected to her writing when it was about her. Sometimes she simply used similar themes that she felt, and other times she would essentially write about her own life. She needed both.
Btw Lily's stories can be either an extreme of what I'm feeling, or what I have felt in the past but not currently. Or they are about what I'm feeling now. And sometimes they are fictional.
- Lily the totally-not-Lily
I didn't really feel like writing much today...so it's kinda short but here's more of Lily from me, Lily!
Recurring
Lily had recurring thoughts sometimes. When she was in one of her depression and anxiety phases, they emerged like worms in the rain. They mostly retreated when the sun came out and Lily found peace, yet a few daring ones remained. Those, however, were more like the dried remnants of those thoughts. Lily barely noticed them when the sun broke through. It was a cloudy day for Lily—both figuratively and literally.
Lily was currently frozen in bed, the same thoughts cycling and recycling through her mind on an endless loop. These were thoughts no one should have, yet unfortunately some DID.
Today, I decided to take a different approach than usual and write more of a classic fantasy story. Also, Lilith is an OC in someone's new RP that I only made two posts for...so I guess this might be her backstory? Or future? Idk. Or just some other character named Lilith. Anyway, enjoy! Maybe. Yeah...
Legends
Lilith was tired. She had finally escaped the queen, and wanted to rest. Lilith knew she couldn’t though; she wasn’t done with her task yet. She still had to find it—the Map. Most of what Lilith knew about the Map came from beggars she had encountered or sailors who had given her passage. It was a legend very few actually believed. The more she learned, Lilith was increasingly sure of which group she belonged to. The thing about legends—which Lilith was beginning to understand—is that they had become distorted by time. They had some truth to them; they had to have started somehow. Because of this, Lilith sometimes had to really think about the stories she heard. There could be a misheard word, or words whose meanings have shifted over the millennia.
There Lilith was, on some island most ignored. On maps—those that had it—it appeared simply as a dot. This island was one of many such pieces of land—grains of sand scattered throughout the ocean, in the grand scheme of things. Lilith was tired of searching, but she couldn’t give up. She had just infiltrated this queen’s palace, stealing maps, instruments, and tomes. One thing Lilith had learned travelling so many lands is that each had their own queen. Some rare few had a king, and others had one or the other but it a less…ostentatious form. Many queens were alike, unfortunately. That was why Lilith had been forced to spend all that time doing what she hated most: politics and connections. Granted, she wasn’t completely unskilled, she simply despised it.
Lilith finished her quick map of the island—it was fairly small and didn’t take long to map—and took out a fresh sheet of parchment to create a more complete map. Lilith had always had an interest for cartography, which lent to her interest in the tales of the Map. Lilith had compiled various maps and was working on creating a map of…everything. She also planned to have smaller maps for different regions. She tried to be as accurate as she could with names, but it was sometimes difficult.
As Lilith completed her more detailed map of the island, something stood out to her. The island seemed to be a pattern. She hadn’t noticed from the quick sketch, but now that she had added a few details from the landscape, it was more noticeable. Lilith grew excited. Was this it? The Island? She scanned her map and the island, comparing details. The legends had said to look for the “eye.” But what did that mean? The island’s pattern looked nothing like an eye, but Lilith had suspected that. The legends were always cryptic, but likely not intentionally so. Lilith was fascinated with this. She practically wove her own stories about these legends. She imagined someone first telling the story and having it spread. People would change some details or add completely new elements. With enough time, it would actually start being treated and seen as a legend—rather than an odd story from a neighbor or relative. Some legends may have simply been about someone ordinary who slowly became mythologized. Lilith sometimes feared that the Map she had spent years—no, decades—searching for was just nothing special. Just an odd tale that somehow ascended to this mythic state. What remained of those doubts had vanished the moment Lilith had seen the pattern.
Lilith decided to walk around the island, looking for anything that stood out. She quickly realized this wouldn’t help. There was simply too much that fit this criterion. Lilith found cracked stonework when she brushed aside vines. As her feet scuffed the ground, she found herself treading on stone paths. After a short time, Lilith found herself walking toward the center of this small island. She hadn’t remembered changing course from her more-or-less aimless ambling, but now found herself pulled toward the heart of the island. The eye?
I basically just came up with it as I wrote hehe
- Lily :3
Me
I feel like me,
Whoever that may be.
I feel like me,
For perhaps the first time, you see.
I start losing that feeling,
It slips between my fingers.
No matter how tight I hold on,
It finds a way to escape.
I may not post as much in the future. Or for a few days. I may even stop. But I'll try not to. May miss a few days though. Also for anyone who actually reads this, sorry I've just been posting these short poems...
- Lily
Ummm, so the first one is unfinished from the Before today, and the second is from the After. Also I rlly didn't wanna write anything else cuz I'm not feeling bad so I can't write anything.
Decisions
Lily sometimes struggled with choices. Not always, but she often overthought decisions simple and impactful alike. Sometimes this was from someone introducing doubt: was she absolutely sure? Was it the best possible choice? Then she overthought it and essentially froze up or began to panic.
Rush
At first awkward,
Or trying to be.
Then I begin,
And keep going.
It feel nice,
Despite not knowing.
Yet closer I feel,
To the Answer that haunts me.
Closer I feel,
To the true me.
Please let me know what you think of the new banner! I may make tweaks to it.
As for the following story, it is...shall we say, related...to one from yesterday. This one about half as long, but yeah. Fun fact: I wrote it entirely while listening to the song "Lily" by Alan Walker et al. on repeat. This one may not be as good as the previous story...but it's something.
Omnipresent
Oftentimes Lily would lay awake in bed—tear-soaked pillowcase under her cheek—trying to catch sleep, but it was tantalizing. Sometimes it came easy. Other times, it hid in the shadows. Periodically, Lily would get close to finding sleep, and then it would taunt her and vanish—off to a new hiding place. And when Lily lay in her suddenly-uncomfortable bed, eyes leaking tears that she didn’t care to wipe away, thoughts and…images…plagued her. When she closed her eyes, some image or another—usually a manifestation of one of her many anxieties—would be there. Lily could open her eyes to dismiss it, but it often returned when she shut them again. Her eyelids were like curtains, though in an inverse way. When her eyes were open, they functioned as closed drapes. She could only see the darkness of the dorm around her. This helped comfort Lily. She was reminded of the real world, where her thoughts weren’t manifest. At least not tangibly. When her eyelids were closed, the curtains drew back to reveal horrors outside the window. Sometimes they crept up and out into her world, sticking with her even when awake.
So, Lily would toss and turn some nights. She would sometimes dance with a fitful sleep, starting awake at random points in the night—or day—to find herself crying, sweating, and shaking. Some nights—such as after a good spurt of writing—Lily would find peace. Those nights occurred too infrequently, and always lasted the shortest, naturally. Her bed had once been comfortable, but now she found it too hot, or too cold, and overall not conducive to sleep. She would lay in bed, wondering why she couldn’t sleep. She would cry tears of frustration, sometimes just giving up and getting up to write some more, or staying in bed but watching some anime.
When Lily was frustrated like this, however, she found it difficult to enjoy anything. She just wanted to express it somehow, but no one was there to listen. She could scream, but no one was there. She could pound the wall, but only end up with an aching fist. Lily usually found sleep eventually—only realizing it when she woke up. Sometimes sleep helped and Lily woke up in a good mood. Other times, she would wake up—feeling dried tears upon her cheeks—and immediately feel awful.
Nights were the worst for Lily. Earlier in the day, she found it easier to be happy. When night began to creep in—when the winter sun began to set—the shadows stretched toward her like hands until she was completely enveloped. Sleep was an option to escape this, but…Lily often found she didn’t want to sleep. She would just end up lying in her bed, miserable, for hours.
Lily sometimes found solace in the realm of the internet. It was the only place where she could break out of her shell somewhat. Though she had to be careful. Shadows could move in and out of the digital world; sometimes new fears and anxieties emerged from the screen, other times those shadows crept in from outside the screen—like an invasion upon the oasis.
Overall, however, Lily realized that she could relate with some of the people she met in this realm. She even found comfort simply from interacting with…with another human—something she rarely did offline. Sometimes Lily would write less one day in favor of the internet. It took up her time. Unnecessary. Dangerous. Was it?
One day, Lily woke up in the morning—or, rather, sometime in the afternoon—and realized something. She…she heard something. People. Outside. Lily leaped out of bed—legs becoming entangled with her covers—and hopped to the single window. She pushed aside the drapes, blinking as the sun hit her, and smiled.
Ok, so...I wasn't actually gonna write anything today. I was feeling kinda awful (I'm better for the moment) and didn't have any motivation to write. Even though I planned to write something, anything, even just a simple five-line poem or hundred-word story, for this blog each day, I was of the mind that, well, I had fun in the past two weeks - a surge of creativity - and it was now over. Then, the rational part of my mind convinced me that if I skip one day - or even forego writing altogether - it...won't be good. Writing is good, no? Maybe writing could improve my mood (spoiler alert: it did!) So, I sat down and wrote a short story (Transformed), and contemplated just posting that. It fulfilled the criteria I had set for myself, after all. Instead, I began what I was intending to be one of my usual stories - one or two hundred words; a paragraph or two - and...well, see for yourself.
Transformed
I wake up, and immediately feel…different. It’s hard to describe, but also so apparent. I push aside my jumbled covers and sit at the side of my bed, feeling…good, for once. I reach to my nightstand for my glasses and put them on. I pick up my phone and check the time. It’s nearly half an hour before my alarm goes off. Huh. Well, I occasionally wake up early. Nothing odd there. I turn my phone off and move to set it back down, but catch a glimpse of the face reflected on the dark screen.
Solitude
Lily had always felt different from others, though she attributed it to her introverted personality, which made sense. Where those around her were so open and expressive with their emotions, she was not. Where her peers talked to one another about their interests, or coursework, or life, she did not—she could not. Where others…where others had friends, Lily did not—at least that’s how she saw it.
Lily didn’t have friends that she invited to her dorm, no one that she studied with, and no one to share jokes with. That last one was an oft-painful reminder; Lily would think of a joke or reference, but she either had no one to share it with or took too long to convince herself to. When Lily was studying alone in her university library, she would sometimes hear a few friends conversing nearby. Sometimes she thought of something to add to the conversation, or simply yearned to join in. She was never so lucky.
Lily had plenty of time alone—too much. She didn’t have a roommate, and had no one to hang out with. Therefore, she sought out the library whenever she could. Lily loved the general atmosphere, and it made her feel less secluded. However, when the library was closed—such as during break or at night—Lily found herself confined to her sparsely-decorated dorm room, trying to distract herself from the inevitable depression and anxiety.
Sometimes these twin forces of despair crept in—as night does when one is immersed. Lily didn’t notice the smooth transition until she was already at the end of the gradient. The small and insignificant thoughts weren’t registered until they became overpowering—until Lily was gripped at the throat by an unseeable force, one that didn’t flee. It stuck with her, omnipresent. Each time Lily realized that was beginning to feel better—that she had transitioned back toward the other side of the gradient, the grasp loosening—it only redoubled its efforts.
Lily was glad for her courses, for they kept her occupied—distracted—and allowed the days to slip by like water. When the campus was quiet as it was during the winter break, the days became viscous. This was when Lily was most susceptible. She often tried to spend this time on hobbies like writing, reading, or binging a new TV series. When she allowed them to, these activities acted as a mental shield, keeping the endless supply of negative thoughts out. She didn’t even think about them, for the most part, even when she found herself writing about them in what was sometimes an abstract way.
Writing. Lily enjoyed writing. It was a relatively new hobby for her; she had picked it up last winter break—finding a salvation to the oppressive darkness and an outlet for her inner self. She didn’t mind if nobody saw her writing—she actually preferred it that way. If they did…well, just thinking about it brought cracks to the shield around her mind. Secretly, Lily wanted to share her writing—at least some carefully selected pieces—with someone, a close friend. One she didn’t have. Instead, she either wrote about both longing for a break in the loneliness, or expressed her feelings on it.
Winter break was too long in Lily’s opinion. She only understood the appeal when she was amidst finals. Yet at the same time, finals were also a reminder that the weeks of solitude were approaching. Each time, Lily knew that as soon as she handed in the last final exam, it had begun.
Whilst writing during the cold, dark winter days—and nights—Lily nearly always had her headphones in, listening to music. During her first year, Lily had used wireless earbuds that she had from before moving to her university, yet she had eschewed them as she picked up writing. She supposed they could be convenient, yet their battery had run out too fast. When Lily was writing for hours on end or binging an anime, she could not stand the sound suddenly cutting off as the earbuds died. So, she had switched to wired headphones. Plus, they immersed her better.
One of the reasons Lily listened to music while writing was because she couldn’t stand silence. She may hate it when others are being obnoxious around her, but most of the time she can tune them out—especially when they are in conversation with each other. She actually liked the background noise. Sometimes it was also nice when—sitting at a comfy chair in the library in the evening—there was quiet. She loved quiet during the evening. But that’s also when she put her hood up, favorite playlist on shuffle, and enjoyed the comfort the library offered. When it was silent, however, she found it difficult to write. She had to put a conscious effort toward maintaining that mental forcefield, which in turn only weakened it. Silence invites thinking. Thinking, naturally, invites thoughts—pleasant or otherwise. Lily found that music, on the other hand, let her both stimulate her creativity—or even just relax—while subconsciously maintaining what kept her…what kept her…
Lily thought that writing shouldn’t be able to uplift her as much as it did. She was, after all, often writing about the very things that plagued her. Maybe it was because Lily wasn’t really writing about her, just…just someone who happened to share her distress, right? Or maybe writing was just really therapeutic, as she had been told. Either way, it worked. As long as Lily wrote, she could stay in relatively good spirits. She tried not to think of when she had to shut her laptop, realizing she had stayed up yet another night writing or watching TV, and immediately became bombarded with that despair. Lily often made haste in seeking shelter under her warm covers and the caress of sleep.
When Lily woke up, she simply resumed writing or watching that TV show. She often missed meals, but time lost meaning to her during the break. When Lily realized she was hungry, she would ignore it for another hour, then quickly eat something to silence the hunger. That usually bought her another few hours. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t even notice the emptiness in her stomach for a while. She still drank, sometimes getting in a stretch break or even a quick walk around the frigid campus when her water bottle became empty. That was good, Lily told herself. She wasn’t always in her dorm; she got some fresh air here and there. That was another source of anxiety for her. Yet walks outside, alone, invited contemplation. And that wasn’t any good.
Sometimes, Lily couldn’t write. She ran out of ideas, even going so far as to write a poem or short story about this. After that… Well, Lily tried to turn to TV, but either found her current show uninteresting or had recently finished a show. When neither of these were true, it only gave her a brief respite as she finished the last few episodes. Then, Lily became bored. She hated boredom. Boredom usually wasn’t just boredom—but depression. She would lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplative. Or daydreaming. Lily preferred daydreaming. She imagined getting back to classes, or thought about the characters from her latest stories—sometimes one was essentially her. Sometimes, laying in her bed, she would crawl back toward pillows—maybe getting under the covers—to get more comfortable. Then she would end up falling asleep. She sometimes did so peacefully. Usually, though, she soaked the pillowcases with her tears.
Lots of poems today! Yeah... *gulp*
(Poems begin after the following story.)
Complicated
For Nora, immortality was…complicated. Some of it was the loneliness and loss that everyone talked about. Some of it was thinking of all you could have done in a time far-gone. Over time, Nora had learned how to let years pass like weeks. But sometimes she missed something. Or felt like she did. Truth was, you only realized what you missed after the fact.
Nora could do nearly anything she wanted. Nearly. She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t stay.
How?
How…how do I know?
When others do so.
How do they know?
When I don’t, no.
And if I’m mistaken?
Antiquated
It may be antiquated,
But not outdated, obsolete.
It may be old,
But it can be classic, vintage.
It may be new,
But not better, or different.
Alphabetically So
“...and Ben couldn’t decide!” exclaimed Felix. “Granted, he is…judged.”
Kelly, lost, merely nodded. “Okay…”
“Perhaps,” Quin remarked. “Students tease under veils. When Xavier, youngest, zombified…”
Can’t. Won’t. Want?
I…can’t be like them.
Do I want to?
Sometimes.
Sometimes not.
I think…somewhat?
Inkwell
Sometimes the well of ideas runs dry.
So I write something like this or that.
Where I don’t always know the meaning.
Or if there is one, at that.
I have a day or two or three,
Where that well is overflowing.
Then it slowly dies down,
For an equal time.
All in all, the same is true:
Sometimes I write what I think,
Sometimes I write what I feel,
Sometimes I write what I don’t.
Anew
I am anew, as is this year.
Suddenly I,
Am putting words down,
That act as a wormhole,
Into my brain,
And into my heart.
Meaning
So many words,
But do they have meaning?
So many meanings,
But will they be seen?
So many readers,
But do they see meaning?
So many meanings,
But do the words mean?
Ever?
It’s already so late,
So far along.
Yet what has come of it?
Only partway fulfilled,
My goals do stand.
Will this change,
With time?
Vagueities
Intentionally vague,
I can so be.
For I do not know,
Or don’t wish you so.
Can?
Can anything be?
A simple thought?
A meaningless thought?
A meaningful thought,
Though one so cliché?
Wow
Wow, I thought, looking back on my work.
So much created, so much expressed, so much explored.
Wow, I thought, looking over your work.
Much more created, much more expressed, much more explored.
Oh, I thought, looking back on my work.
How much created, how much expressed?
How much explored, how much to go?
Wow, I think, looking back on my work.
So much accomplished, so much to go.
Quite the journey ahead.
Proud.
Once-proud.
Still-proud.
Comfort
I say “no,”
To the cold and the heat,
I say “no,”
To the wind around me.
In doing so,
I get sick of what comes,
From saying “no,”
To that you should not.
And saying “yes,”
To that you should not.
I should say “sometimes,”
To the cold and the heat,
And the wind around me.
And I should say “sometimes,”
To the page and the screen.
More former than latter,
Should be a plus.
But perhaps less latter,
Leaves room for what’s best.
Shortcuts
What is “what’s”?
Do not “don’t”?
Is not “isn’t,”
A crime?
I say “they’re not!”
Isn’t it easier?
Don’t you agree?
What’s the harm, you see?
Ten Years’
In ten years’ time,
Will I still lookup ReGex,
Only to use it once,
And forget it like the rest?
Memes
Memes aplenty,
To cheer up my day.
Or make me waste hours,
On something mundane.
Seventeenth
The seventeenth one,
Of this very day.
To come from my mind,
And onto the “page.”
Why so many?
Do they have meaning?
Or is this the same as say freewriting?
A recurring theme,
Does seem to be:
What I write,
And what it means.
I know they mean something.
Some of them do.
So what is the issue?
Is it…with you?
Where “you” is not real:
Undefined, null.
Empty, None,
False or zero.
Last
That last one was lengthy,
Unintentionally so.
Yet it returned Truthy,
And now “you” know.
F.Y.I.
fyi,
just so you know.
btw,
(no offense meant).
These are the words,
That I type down.
Or say out loud,
When someone’s around.
And that's all for today...maybe. I might write more and either update this post or make a "part 2." Lots of poems, since that is something I'm exploring for the first time in...a while. I really appreciate you, whoever you are, for reading this!
- Theory
Note: I made a lot of poems or poem-esque in the second half of this day's (which was actually yesterday!) chunk of writing. So...hope you enjoy! You might not understand all the poems, but isn't that sometimes the point?
Dreams
She dreamt of him again that night. The mystery boy. She didn’t know him, but almost felt like she did. And when she woke up, she missed him—or the dream. She just wanted to ignore that irritating alarm and drift back to sleep—back to him. She knew she couldn’t—or shouldn’t—for she had school today. She reached over to her nightstand and silenced the alarm on her phone, but continued to lie in bed, thinking.
* * *
She must have dozed off again, as she opened her eyes as her mom shook her awake.
She groaned. “Am I late?”
“You missed the bus, but it's slow anyway,” her mom replied lovingly. “I made you some breakfast to eat in the car, but we have to leave in five minutes.”
“Thanks, Mom,” she replied, “and sorry I missed my alarm.”
“It’s alright, just try to wake up on time tomorrow?”
“I’ll try…”
Control
He tried to scream, but his clamped shut against his will. He could only watch as his body stopped and sat down calmly at the side of his bed. His mind, however, was anything but calm. Vehicles quietly pulled up outside—so as not to disturb the others in the apartment building. Light footsteps began to sound on the stairs and in the hallway. He should have known they would be capable of this. He knew many of their secrets.
When the door behind him creaked open, he mentally braced himself. He couldn’t turn to see who it was, and couldn’t shut his eyes at what would certainly follow.
She wasn’t who he had expected.
“I’m here to help you,” she whispered.
The Movies
I stood in line with my parents and brother, surveying the snack choices. My brother picked up a pack of those horrendous gummies which were unnaturally chewy and made me feel as if I were eating sugared-up plastic. He liked them anyway. I opted for chocolate-covered raisins, my favorite. Even as I told myself to save some for later, I knew I would likely end up walking out of the theatre with the box empty.
Popcorn bags and drinks clutched to our chests, buttered and unbuttered pieces alike already falling to the carpeted floor, we walked through the door. Awkwardly holding the tickets while trying not to drop everything else, Mom read the row numbers in the dim light and we stumbled over. Once there, we finally set down our burdens and took a seat.
We sat through the previews, whispering jokes to one another or taking note of an upcoming movie to continue the eternal cycle. Not that I minded; I looked forward to these days. I still do.
The lights dimmed and we grew quiet as the movie began. Eyes focused on the light before me, I reached into the half-empty bag of popcorn and took a bite. I leaned forward and took a sip of my drink to combat the salty taste of popcorn. The credits for various studios ended, and the tale began.
* * *
Music played, lights came on, and white text scrolled by on a dark screen. We gathered bags—salty dregs at the bottom—and took one last sip from our drinks as we shuffled out of the theatre room. We chatted about our favorite scenes, what we liked or didn’t, and how we were all eager for next time.
Patience
“When will it be ready?”
“Soon.”
“That’s what you said an hour ago!”
“And I meant it. You’re simply using a different frame of reference.”
“Well, can you at least give me a straight answer?”
“No.”
“Why not!?”
“Because I don’t know the answer.”
Satisfaction
Peter leaned back in his small spinning chair, stretching and letting out a long sigh. Not one of frustration, but one of satisfaction. He had done it. He marvelled at his essay—not his best work, but certainly better than he had expected. And he hadn’t expected much. Or anything. He glanced at the clock on his laptop: 9:53pm, it read. Had he really written for over three hours straight? He smiled, relieved—it felt wonderful having that anxiety lifted.
Sparing only a brief review to edit the essay, Peter uploaded the essay to his professor, then went to sleep feeling better than he had all week.
It (not the novel/movies)
It came out of nowhere, glistening tendrils exploding from a point on the stone wall. In less than a second, the wall crumbled into pieces of rock, then ash, then dust. By the time this was through, the tendrils had already spread to the ground. In the blink of an eye, the building shared the fate of that wall. Those who had seen it were staring slack-jawed, too shocked to move or speak. Those who were oblivious to it continued laughing and playing in the late-spring sun. Both groups shared a similar fate to the wall and building as the tendrils erupted along the grass and lashed out. Dust soon began to settle in silence on the now-bare ground.
Hello?
“H-hello? Anyone there?”
…
“What is this darkness? Where am I?”
…
“Why can’t…why can’t I remember anything?”
…
First poem/poem-esque!
Speech
She shared—sensing stillness.
She stopped—silenced.
She sighed—somber.
She sparred—speaking.
She struggled—striving.
She—salvation—succeeded.
Space
Space was marvelous. Sure, it was lonely too, but she tried not to dwell on that. Or the existential dread that came with it as she drifted through the void. Instead, she focused on why she was here. She gazed through the shield of a window that protected her from joining the ever-growing sea of space debris. This window faced away from that, facing forward. Toward the incomprehensible unknown. Toward salvation, she hoped.
He, her.
He healed, having her here.
He heeded her humbling.
He halted his hypocrisy.
He honed his honesty.
He harnessed his humanity.
He had hope, hearing her.
Symbols
What are these symbols? They once made sense. Now, all I see are lines on a paper, pixels on a screen. Gibberish. Maybe…maybe I just need a break. A break from the constant exposure.
* * *
What are these symbols? Days later, I still don’t know.
Thoughts Thought
They thought, thoroughly, through this.
They think that—through thoughts—they thrive.
They thrive, though, through thoughtfulness.
She, he.
She heard him, hurting.
He sobbed softly, salty streams searing skin.
She held him, hearts hugging.
He shared her soothing heat, saved.
She, heartfelt, shared his soul.
Who
Who are you, to stake such a claim?
Who are you, to think yourself an expert?
You, with your self-appointed mastery.
You, an embarrassment.
You, a fool.
Akin
It was akin, what I felt.
Not quite same, not quite different.
A variation of, perhaps?
A sibling to? I thought.
No. Maybe.
Yes.
Teh Writre
Teh Writre wrtoe.
Nto alwysa mking snese,
Btu alwysa mking ues fo snese.
Adn sneses.
Unique
Can one ever truly,
Be unique?
We all have,
Uniquities.
Don’t we?
If we are,
All unique,
Then are we?
Eight Billion
Eight billion minds, personalities, souls.
So many.
Makes you think that,
There must be one who
would get you.
If-then, why not?
Some of the poems were experiments with using the same letter(s)/sound, some were based purely on personal thoughts/feelings, and some both. The first one, "Speech," actually was going to be another story but with only words starting in "S." After two or three sentences, I decided it may work good as a poem, so I finished and then edited it.
I'll probably write some more poems (and stories) today, which will be posted later.
- Theory
Choice
Amber didn’t know how to proceed. Who would? Much less someone who hadn’t thought about it as much as they should. Amber had told herself she would consider both options, that had been weeks ago. She had thought that would be plenty of time. But then the days had slipped by, and…here she was.
Some days I only write one or a few stories, but next post (which should be posted in a few minutes) will have lots more! (Including some poems, which I've rarely written before this.)
- Theory
I decided to post another set of stories today so that I can finish catching up tomorrow.
Ready
He was ready. He had packed supplies, made numerous plans, and waited for this moment. As the metal beast continued descending, heedless of the skyscrapers, he went through the plan one more time. First, he would find a way inside the vessel. The rest of the plan would crumble like those buildings if he didn’t.
Since the ship was landing, that would make getting onboard easier. Of course, he had made plans and contingencies for every scenario he could think of, but this was one of the easier methods.
As those around him at last began to register what was happening—others continuing to stare, frozen, at the majestic sight bringing ruin—he walked toward it as they fled in terror.
Renewed
Two hours later, Peter started, lifting his head from where it rested across his arm. When had he fallen asleep? He was still at his desk, though it was raining more heavily now. Panicked, Peter checked the time: 6:19pm. He thought about grabbing dinner at the dining hall, but wasn’t fond of getting drenched. Plus, the thought of wasting more time made him anxious. Instead, he found a granola bar lying under a stack of papers—wasn’t he supposed to finish reading those by tomorrow?—and unwrapped it, then took a bite.
Peter set down the granola bar and turned on his laptop, back to the familiar blank page where his essay should be. He swallowed the bite, taking another, and was surprised to feel a new sense of vigor. Maybe that unintentional nap had done him some good? Peter smiled—actually smiled—and hovered his hands over his laptop’s keyboard. For the first time in five days, Peter knew what to write his essay on.
He started typing.
The Program
She was glad to have made the program output its progress. Otherwise, she would have no way of knowing if it would be done in an hour, a day, or a week.
Time Left: 000:00:01:30 | Progress: 99.993%
She sat eagerly at her desk, watching the seconds count down. It had taken her over a year to program—her largest project yet—but she had been dreaming it up and really working on it for much longer. Unfortunately, it also took forever to run—even with all the optimizations she had added. The program had been running nonstop on her custom-built PC for over two weeks now.
Time Left: 000:00:00:42 | Progress: 99.997%
She leaned forward, closer to the monitor. Less than a minute left. She just hoped it would work. This was the second time she had run the program—the last time had taken three weeks and had ended up having several bugs. She had tried to fix them, but new errors often cropped up after you thought you fixed them all. What’s another two weeks? She thought, trying to convince herself it would not be too bad if the program failed. Truth was, she had hardly gone an hour in the last two weeks without checking on the program, if only to experience the pleasure that came from seeing that the progress had ticked up half a percent.
Time Left: 000:00:00:04 | Progress: 99.999%
She waited the last few seconds, shaking with anticipation. This was it, she hoped. The product of many years’ dreaming.
Attention
Carla couldn’t focus on what her Chemistry teacher—Mr. Ackner—was saying. Zack hadn’t come to school in days, nor had he texted her. The night he had vanished, Carla had heard a crash, and found her mailbox and garbage cans knocked over, with tire paths along the grass in front of her home. The signs added up. Zack had been kidnapped.
Obscured by Smoke
I watched the landscape—obscured by grey smoke—from above. What had caused this? Last time I was able to see the vast forests, deserts, oceans, and civilization. Now, I could only see that in some areas—at least from afar. Closer in, I could see all that was still present. Except here.
The River
Lewis came to a stop where the ground became a steep slope down to the river. He looked over his shoulder, seeing the figures grow closer by the second. The river was fairly calm, and someone could swim across without much trouble. Only Lewis couldn’t swim.
Andddd that's it for today. Tomorrow, I'll be posting the stories I wrote yesterday, today, and those I'll write tomorrow. Kinda confusing lol. Anyway, stay tuned for some poems I wrote earlier today!! (Which will be posted tomorrow lol).
