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    1. hey i have a question

      it's kinda silly kinda nothing but i was thinkin kinda wondering hey. if i asked. would you pick the loose string from my sweater bring a blanket in cloudy weather go with me on an adventure give...

      it's kinda silly

      kinda nothing

      but i was thinkin

      kinda wondering

      hey.

      if i asked.

      would you pick the loose string from my sweater

      bring a blanket in cloudy weather

      go with me on an adventure

      give a little hug, a little pressure

      would you grab a little snack

      put my favorite towel on the rack

      hear me sing, and try not to laugh

      or light a blunt, hit twice, and pass

      help me dye my hair

      tell me i look cute in underwear

      text me just to say you're there

      snap your cookie just to share

      or rub my neck soft when it hurts

      tell my i've a way with words

      walk to the park when wind's absurd

      just to sip a tea and watch the birds

      tell me that you like my lips

      pick me clothes out for a trip

      head to the lake to skinny dip

      and blush a bit because you like my hips

      could you

      sweat with me at the gym

      fill our popcorn to the brim

      say that this shirt makes me look slim

      and maybe love me limb from limb

      instead of him

      .

      .

      .

      18 votes
    2. Is there an alternative to Archillect?

      you know the alternatives to http://archillect.com/ ? Who is Archillect? Archillect [archive + intellect] is a synthetic intelligence (or artificial intelligence, depending on the point of view)...

      you know the alternatives to http://archillect.com/ ?

      Who is Archillect?
      Archillect [archive + intellect] is a synthetic intelligence (or artificial intelligence, depending on the point of view) made to find and share inspiring visuals over social media channels. She is a living inspiration archive. She is a digital muse. She currently has an active Twitter profile, a Facebook page, and a Pinterest board where she converts unhappy human beings to inspired artists.

      3 votes
    3. Methods to sustain productivity.

      What creative projects have I been working on? It’s almost a labor to answer that one concisely, hence my lack of participation. My mind is of never ending creative ideas, some great and some not,...

      What creative projects have I been working on? It’s almost a labor to answer that one concisely, hence my lack of participation.

      My mind is of never ending creative ideas, some great and some not, most not.. but they don’t ever seem to stop. I also like to be creative, and as a result, have ended up with more “started” projects then I’m willing to count.

      So my question to fellow traverses of the tilde-verse is, what are some methods you use to sustain productivity in individual projects when creativity itself inspires starting new projects?

      11 votes
    4. boats. (or, Kintsugi Bitch.)

      I was a kintsugi bitch A dull, forgotten, broken pot And then you fixed me up . You lined me with your own dweomercrafted brand of gold Lac, Mel, et Saccharum . And when you’d starve me for...

      I was a kintsugi bitch

      A dull, forgotten, broken pot

      And then you fixed me up

      .

      You lined me with your own

      dweomercrafted brand of gold

      Lac, Mel, et Saccharum

      .

      And when you’d starve me for attention,

      Fed me more from your breast

      Til you filled me up

      .

      And then I’d look you in the eyes

      Sugar broiling in the stomach

      Am I pretty now

      ..

      Lost, full, and quite ignored

      When you had leapt onto the floor

      And said we’ve got to go

      .

      I grabbed your hand and followed blind

      My stomach churned I lagged behind

      You were the love I know

      .

      You said we’re going to the sea

      My dear you’ll spend a life with me

      We’ll make the waves a home

      .

      And I smiled ear to ear

      Cheeks were blushing like a deer

      Am I pretty now

      ..

      And then we made it to the bay

      quickly climbed into a boat

      They never have to know

      .

      We headed south for centuries

      They cannot take the memories

      I never hunger now

      .

      And after weeks of solitude

      A stranger came into the view

      There was another boat

      .

      My stomach burned, concerned,

      Not a soul had stood astern

      You produced a rope

      ..

      You gave a gentle kiss

      And slid the twine across my wrists

      And tied them into knots

      Dipped my legs into the water

      Either hand tied either helm

      Stretched into a cross

      I looked up at you in fear

      Just to see you’ve disappeared

      I started crying out.

      My stomach burned under the water

      And the sun was getting hotter

      And I’m all alone.

      I pleased come to feed me

      Don’t leave me weak, depleting

      I got no response.

      The fish were getting curious

      Flies buzzed something furious

      They knew what I did not

      That if you leave out milk and honey

      In the heat, in weather sunny,

      It’ll start to rot.

      .

      Months had passed in sickly motion

      Head leaned back, my eyes were open

      I died long ago.

      The bugs ate at my open mouth

      My skin was yellow, wrought with drought

      My throat housed a mold

      The waters smelled of sulfate

      As the serpents ate my stomach ache

      My blood has washed away

      The rope gave up on hope and

      Threw my purple, molten corpse into the ocean

      Am I pretty now?

      .

      .

      .

      5 votes
    5. angel (short poem)

      i have no idea where i am who i have been i have the slightest glimpse into the present a wavering image of a time long past my soul sits on siain heights above the fish and birds where we know...

      i have no idea where i am
      who i have been
      i have the slightest glimpse into the present
      a wavering image of a time long past
      my soul sits on siain heights
      above the fish and birds
      where we know endless comfort
      and a burning desire for wisdom
      this version, far away from the peaks
      that I am so accustomed to;
      yet drawn to the body of man,
      who screams in agony as he is raised to the heavens.

      4 votes
    6. metaphysical sigh.

      one day i will die one day so will you. the pictures on the wall will end up in the trash or old and tattered in an attic. our greatest of great-grandkids won't know our faces or how deeply we...

      one day

      i will die

      one day

      so will you.

      the pictures on the wall

      will end up in the trash

      or old and tattered

      in an attic.

      our greatest of great-grandkids

      won't know our faces or

      how deeply we were saddened

      to never see them grow

      to never learn the world they know

      to never speak their modern language

      or watch the trees around them

      grow.

      for we'll be dead in the ground

      and we'll never hear a sound

      for what comes next ain't only silence

      it ain't blood and it ain't violence

      it just

      ain't.

      so for now we're killing time perhaps

      we'll get laid or

      learn to paint.

      but in the end, it all goes out

      into the trash

      into the dust

      and rest assured

      into the ground.

      .

      if you choose to abuse me

      i'd rather hear threats for ever than

      hear no sound.

      because if you're still here to hurt me

      i can say that someone

      stuck around.

      .

      .

      .

      before i'm buried in the ground.

      9 votes
    7. What online services do you use to host and share photos?

      Services like Facebook, Instagram, Google Photos, iCloud Photo Sharing, Flickr, SmugMug, 500px, and more are available for hosting and sharing photos online. I'm curious what service, or set of...

      Services like Facebook, Instagram, Google Photos, iCloud Photo Sharing, Flickr, SmugMug, 500px, and more are available for hosting and sharing photos online. I'm curious what service, or set of services, you you use and how you decided. Do you cross post between them, and if so what strategy do you use?

      I'm currently spread a bit and without much cross-posting between Facebook, Instagram, and Flickr. Not a strong conscious decision, though I've been wanting to do a bit more photography and would like to figure out a better strategy.

      I think some key points to consider are cost (free vs pro, ease of upgrade/downgrade), storage space and restrictions (total space, max individual size, filetypes, enforced resizing/compression), ease and control of sharing publicly or privately, network audience and reach, and creative rights (who owns what rights on the content)

      This Terms of Service; Didn't Read site can be helpful for at least determining what the general rights on these services are with some broad judgement.

      14 votes
    8. What creative projects are you working on? (August 2019 edition)

      it's creative thread time, gamers. here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project,...

      it's creative thread time, gamers. here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project, whatever. pretty straightforward, i think.

      november threadfebruary threadmarch threadapril threadmay threadjune threadjuly thread

      12 votes
    9. Eldritch Love.

      Longest piece to date? Last night I saw a beast four different heads with blackened eyes. Not black in metaphor, but from the blood that dried inside. Each of seven legs was mangled and the beast...

      Longest piece to date?

      Last night I saw a beast

      four different heads with blackened eyes.

      Not black in metaphor, but from

      the blood that dried inside.

      Each of seven legs was mangled

      and the beast was blind

      but she could fly.

      .

      Once upon a night so dreary,

      and so dreadful I

      came across a weathered bar

      a woman stood inside.

      She sat me at a table, there was

      not a soul in sight

      but I felt fine.

      .

      Then she brought a glass of dark with

      something new inside.

      Leaned in close and whispered to me

      "Baby, close your eyes."

      I parted my lips and drank as

      her hand guided mine.

      My guard resigned.

      .

      She said "I know a place where you can

      truly feel alive.

      Each one of your problems fall

      defenseless by your side."

      And she wrapped her arms around me

      I contently sighed

      as she took flight.


      Her wretched and misshapen legs

      held me close to her chest.

      She let out her warning cries

      i inhaled every breath.

      Her claws were creeping out I

      fell upon them like a bed.

      I laid to rest.

      .

      I fell into a home so oddly

      shallow and recessed.

      The walls were made of rock,

      a water drop fell on my head.

      There was no single light,

      the ceiling lowered as she led

      me to her den.

      .

      As I looked around the room birthed

      questions in my head.

      So opposite the warmth that she

      had first on me impressed...

      She stroked my cheek, claws on my chin

      my heart fluttered, digressed.

      I was possessed.

      .

      She laid me on the floor and stood with

      five legs for each end.

      One aside my head and feet

      another at my hands.

      Then she gently laid a blanket

      down over my head,

      "Shall we commence?"


      I still feel it so vividly

      each night I fall asleep,

      the fused infatuated fear I felt

      at a monster's feet,

      when that heinous eldritch horror

      drained my blood from me,

      took me for libation, prayed a tithe

      she poured me out.

      Her heart could call the kettle as it,

      too, went black in drought

      She bore her fangs and lowered,

      took my body in her mouth.

      She then carried me cliffside, like a dog

      she threw me down.

      My corpse then fell so far, on

      impact, no audible sound.

      The final earthly thing I heard,

      her shriek, "The Gods are proud."


      Now upon each night so dreary, she

      crawls out to find

      a source of poor, defenseless blood

      that she can sacrifice.

      She'll lure them in with gentle kisses

      and sapphire eyes.

      We all will die.

      Epilogue.

      On my way to death, I was met

      with a choice instead.

      I could end my life or help

      ensure the gods were fed.

      In the heat of fear and pain I

      then nodded my head.

      The halls of purgatory filled with

      screams and smells of death,

      as my eyes dried from the inside

      and I then begat

      five extra legs.

      6 votes
    10. 12:08

      So what’s the deal with offices, amirite? What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on...

      So what’s the deal with offices, amirite?

      What if we gave a building full of adults enough money to get by. Oh, and also they have to drive 30-60 minutes to get here. And that time they spend on the way here? Yeah what if they just gave us that for free, and we made them pay for parking!

      I know, I know, fantastic right? But listen, it’s not over yet. What if we also made the work pointlessly constrained to a particular 8-hour block in the day, five days a week so that they never have any personal time, even though this is all work they could get done in four hours a day and is fully capable of being completed on their own?

      Fabulous!

      ——

      So yeah, I don’t have free time. That means I’ve got a few half-ass pieces that I’ve been wanting to finish up for awhile.

      Apparently bars are open today, so I’m gonna get sauced and get to it. Prepare for a small dump today. (Also I got some dummy minor news imma share in another post. Stay tuned if you want. Or don’t ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ all’s well.

      Anyway here’s that piece now.

      ——-

      I remember that time I forgot your

      birthday

      And that time was today

      At 12:08 in the morning

      And for a moment

      I felt great.

      .

      My dear that was the first sign

      That you were

      Slipping on out of my mind

      Today I’m sober in the morning

      Feelin okay.

      .

      Well well-butrin what a surprise

      When it done

      Come on back to my mind

      Now it’s 12:09 in the morning

      And ain’t shit changed.

      .

      And in those 60 seconds

      Girl I swear

      I learned a lesson -

      Depression is a woman

      With your name.

      10 votes
    11. fotózás

      fotózás i wonder what it must be like to remember your life. i wonder what it must be like to record it with a flash. i wonder what it must be like to pass those memories down. i wonder what it...

      fotózás

      i wonder what it must be like
      to remember your life.

      i wonder what it must be like
      to record it with a flash.

      i wonder what it must be like
      to pass those memories down.

      i wonder what it must be like
      to be normal like that.

      6 votes
    12. nyáj

      nyáj in the shadows of a great unrest stand hallowed halls yet undisturbed by collapse. to be untouched by revolution is a lucky fate for a place like this— so stable in lives and yet always...

      nyáj

      in the shadows of a great unrest
      stand hallowed halls
      yet undisturbed by
      collapse.


      to be untouched by
      revolution
      is a lucky fate
      for a place like this—
      so stable in lives
      and yet
      always received
      with such hostility.

      oh, to be a church—
      a great meeting hall
      for those of
      the faith—
      is to be us,
      the people of this place
      who dare to
      keep their fire alive.

      we are but a
      little congregation,
      coming together
      once in awhile.
      giving praise to
      what had been;
      remembering what
      our time had lost.

      we bear upon our weary backs
      a legacy
      and hope one day
      to restore it.

      but
      we must rest now,
      and resign to our dreams
      what could be again.

      5 votes
    13. And I Deal With It

      A free form poem. You sing the devotion song and your people drink from your font of well-meant falsehoods. They sway in the breeze, roses ripe for cutting, so you reap. And I deal with it. Brain...

      A free form poem.

      You sing the devotion song and
      your people drink from your font
      of well-meant falsehoods.
      They sway in the breeze,
      roses ripe for cutting,
      so you reap. And I deal with it.

      Brain revolting, hands shaking, heart beating
      Sweating, aching, freezing, creeping thoughts
      that I'm not enough.
      I'm a failure. I don't deserve it. What if this goes wrong?
      "Sometimes it can take awhile to find the right combination of medications."
      And I deal with it.

      The blood in the streets is cleaned, pristine,
      likewise the crimes of an otherwise good man.
      Heads shake and hands pray,
      repeating robotic platitudes, but I do
      nothing.
      And I deal with it.

      The sun shines high and the wind blows cool.
      Our future dances and plays in the light.
      We watch and her skin is soft, her hair yet softer, and I hold her
      against me.
      This too shall pass, my gut twists in knots.
      And I deal with it.

      Dark nights, dark thoughts
      in front of a washroom mirror.
      Lightning thunders, they come and go.
      Drinking my hopes to keep them gone,
      I tell myself, "This isn't you," but it hurts and it's true and I can't stop the dreaming of passing this down
      And I deal with it.

      7 votes
    14. bűnös & fáj

      i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged...

      i intended to actually post these like three days ago but that didn't happen because it has to be super fucking late for me to even want to post these and unfortunately they've now aged sufficiently that i categorize them firmly in the "intensely mediocre" column with everything i ever do. unfortunate, tbh. anyways here's stuff:

      bűnös

      UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
      or i'll shatter your bones
      and crush your heart—
      to dance with me is to dance
      a fine line that wrenches two worlds apart

      for on one side there is a hall of saints—
      on the other
      the brimstone of hell—
      and to stay on the side of the hall of saints
      is something you'd best do well.

      and brave souls that dare toe the line—
      that cross it
      are mighty thin—
      and their ranks are made of anarchists
      who commit most grievous sin.

      UP AGAINST THE WALL, MOTHERFUCKER—
      state your allegiance
      to the vaunted line—
      or soon you too shall join the ranks
      of those who deserve malign.


      fáj

      when i was seventeen
      the panic attacks began.
      the nightmares.
      the violence. the violence. the violence.

      violence is a funny little thing—
      insidious, slithering in through one grate
      and out the other.
      it always begins with little things,
      little fantasies in one ear and out the other.
      dreams here and there, manufacturing terror and hurt.
      invasive thoughts, marching to an intensifying drumbeat.
      one offs.

      it's not normal to
      want to hurt so bad.
      it's not normal to
      want to cut yourself everywhere,
      is it?
      to feel those feelings,
      to bear them like a cross shackled on your back?
      to wish some days you could cut to the bone
      even though you're afraid of blood?
      to mutilate yourself until you can't feel anymore
      even though you know those feelings are irrational?
      to wish you could die violently, publicly
      even though you're afraid of death?

      violence isn't a very funny little thing—
      terrifying, inescapable and ever recurring
      one night after the other.
      it was the little things once,
      the little fantasies that used to be but now
      consume the dreams, the
      waking thoughts, becoming a great crescendo.
      every day.

      when i was nineteen
      the panic attacks were normal.
      the nightmares.
      the violence.

      12 votes
    15. Burnt!

      Burnt! You embraced me with your apple-pie grin as I tumbled through the door caked in sun, and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George behind us are snuffed with the slam of the...

      Burnt!

      You embraced me with your apple-pie grin
      as I tumbled through the door caked in sun,
      and the larks and the orioles who titter their King George
      behind us are snuffed with the slam of the castle gate.
      We are alone in the fragrant silence of our shared universe,
      your heartbeat against my cheek nuzzles
      like the murmur of some public radio presenter.
      I float along helplessly like a kitten held by its scruff
      until the slasher-scream of a Janet Leigh smoke detector,
      brutally gored by the twirling swirling aerial dancers,
      beckons you away to some Burning of Washington, 1814,
      its desolation likewise impeded by a timely sprinkle.
      In the black ash-pile is the monomania of the Cosmos,
      circling like a hyena for any vulnerability
      to consume everything it touches
      so that we all might become dark and vacuous like it.
      The cosmos and its baggage are swept away,
      its might and vastness no match for a love as true as ours.

      This was my attempt at writing a poem in the style of Pamela Miller, a feminist and often zany poet from my native Chicago.

      Please let me know what you think.

      11 votes
    16. What creative projects are you working on? (July 2019 edition)

      it's that time of the month again, now hopefully aided by the changes in sort which will give this thread a bit of a longer half-life. here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects...

      it's that time of the month again, now hopefully aided by the changes in sort which will give this thread a bit of a longer half-life. here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project, whatever. pretty straightforward, i think.

      november threadfebruary threadmarch threadapril threadmay threadjune thread

      27 votes
    17. The Lab

      This was written for a themed flash fiction contest (the theme was Technological Dystopia) and ended up losing, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to share it here. It's not my proudest work but, as...

      This was written for a themed flash fiction contest (the theme was Technological Dystopia) and ended up losing, but I figured it wouldn't hurt to share it here. It's not my proudest work but, as flash fiction, I think it works well enough. I hope you enjoy!

      She was three floors from the bottom of the sunken tower when the crying first reached her. A quick swipe earned her a pair from the rack nearby and she continued her descent.

      With the aid of technology this process had been streamlined and systematized such that these checks were only needed once a month, but everyone dreaded them. She had drawn the short straw this time and, though it had been years since last she’d ventured to The Lab, she still remembered her last haunting experience. It wasn’t that she was a dissenter or rebelled against that which needed to be done. This was a necessary evil to save their species, but she was still a human being. Seeing them all like that, all tubes and tapes running from frail flesh, was enough to turn any stomach.

      A pair of heavy iron doors sat ominously in her way as she bottomed out. She could see the white, crisp interior of The Lab beyond and pushed forward, swallowing her hesitance as best she could.

      Before her lay a large room with clean white tile, walls and harsh, flourescent light. It smelled and looked like a hospital because that’s exactly what it was. 10 rows and columns of small, clear, plastic boxes stretched between her and the far wall. The muffs were doing their job exceedingly well, but she could still hear the awful racket bouncing around her memory. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and started working.

      Her primary duty was to make sure the machines were functioning correctly, mostly the arm that glided to and fro above the boxes, administering medicine or changing bags of various fluids as need be. She would also be checking the tubes for clogs that may have been missed by any old or worn out sensors; this was the part she dreaded the most. She flipped the lid on the nearest box and checked the left, then the right, and lastly the tube running into its belly button, and closed the box quickly.

      It couldn’t have taken her more than 5 seconds but that short time was enough for the anguished face to plaster itself onto her mind. Everyone does their part, she reminded herself, from the start to the end. It didn’t serve a purpose to bemoan that which she could not change. She moved on to the next crib, hoping this would go by faster than she expected.

      Halfway through her checks she hit a snag. There was a clog in Crib 54. She could register the fault in the system and it would fix it on its next hourly cycle, as were her orders, but it was such a small clog. The tube simply needed to be changed, and as a nurse she was well-versed in the procedure. In that moment it was decided.

      The tubes themselves were specially designed to be thin and flexible, but rigid enough to fit the shape of a tear duct. Her first task, after finding a pair of gloves, was to gently remove the tube currently in the eye. She hovered over the crib and gently pulled the tube out of the right tear duct. It came slowly, millimeter by millimeter, each bit covered in more goop and mucus than the last. It wound its way up into the sinuses which meant, by the end of it, she had pulled at least five inches of tubing. This she discarded.

      Next she had to insert the new tube (these were kept in abundance in a draw underneath the crib). She grabbed one, snipped it to length with a pair of scissors hanging from the IV stand, and took a moment to recent herself. Inserting the tube while the child was crying would be much more difficult than removing it.

      As gently as she could she reached down and, with her index finger and thumb, pried open the eye of the little one. With one came the other, the muscles young and unwilling to work independently, and she found herself staring into a pair of brilliant green pools. Her heart melted and, for the briefest moment, she thought of taking it. She could smuggle it out. The bed being empty would trip the system but she could clear the error and explain it away somehow. But no, that was silly. This wasn’t a decision for her to make; things were done this way because there was no other choice.

      She pushed the tip of the tube into the tear duct confidently, shoving the traitorous thoughts from her mind as the child’s cries were renewed with pain. She was here to do a job, cold and emotionless. It wasn’t her place to question the way things were done. The tube went in without a hitch and the child’s eyes snapped closed again once she released them. The little bundle of agony before her squirmed and she saw the tears begin to flow anew. With swift, definite movement she closed and latched the lid.

      The rest of her checks went smoothly, but she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that now ran rampant in her gut. She hated Lab duty, and she expected that would always be the way. With a heavy heart she signed the documents needed to record her visit, noted the tube change in the work log, and left The Lab through its heavy iron doors. The trip upstairs would be long and tiring, but at least she could try and forget ever having been here.

      12 votes
    18. lunch date. (the love poem.)

      Today I found a girl Who was pretty nice To me. She made me stop and talk And rest and breathe. She said your stomach growls, Your legs Are weak. How’d you like to come And sit With me? . And my...

      Today I found a girl

      Who was pretty nice

      To me.

      She made me stop and talk

      And rest

      and breathe.

      She said your stomach growls,

      Your legs

      Are weak.

      How’d you like to come

      And sit

      With me?

      .

      And my how time it flew

      And passed

      Us by.

      Lunch turned into tea

      Turned in-

      to night.

      The way her body curved

      It shaped

      My mind.

      And then her laugh,

      Her smile,

      Her eyes.

      .

      Would you mind if I stayed

      For an hour or two

      Or three?

      We could sit and talk

      And laugh

      And crawl between the sheets.

      And maybe I can stay the night

      Or two

      Or three?

      And you’ll hold onto me.

      And we can spend forever

      Cus talk

      Is cheap.

      And maybe nights will

      Slowly carve a curve and crash on

      Into weeks.

      Maybe we’ll be cuddled

      On the couch or sipping

      Sex on the beach

      Maybe I could stay

      For life, just

      You, and me.

      9 votes
    19. Wild Turkey 101

      i got fire in my blood Wild Turkey and the nicotine might just call my doctor have him put me on amphetamines driving past the memories i'm pushing on 100 speed crossing single-white lines with a...

      i got fire in my blood

      Wild Turkey and the nicotine

      might just call my doctor

      have him put me on amphetamines

      driving past the memories

      i'm pushing on 100 speed

      crossing single-white lines

      with a blade til my bones weak.

      cold-brew hipster

      gothboi fantasies

      hard to think straight when

      my thoughts are attacking me

      here i let the voices out

      inner demons writing rhapsodies

      before i go and swing from

      a noose and a dramatic tree

      .

      can't decide what i want between

      freedom and consistency

      i say i want it done

      but i think i want her missing me

      last week i bought a gun*

      this week i went to therapy

      when will i be free from all the

      thermo-manic tendencies?

      .

      drowning in my bed

      breathing wild turkey

      i couldn't feel if i were dead,

      but i like the way she hurts me

      i've come to know the pain

      it's like a second home to me

      liquor novocaine

      im falling from autonomy.

      if mecca was a bedroom

      girl you were a God to me

      and laying here alone is

      a wicked act of blasphemy.

      never knew you were a snake

      feeding hate from an apple tree

      I'll chop it down, and build a tomb

      so you can hold me,

      as an effigy

      (* didnt actually buy a gun. me no like. literally 0 plans to.)

      7 votes
    20. the law of averages (fuck math)

      short one. wrote it sober, so i couldn't (didn't?) really expand on it. either way, just bought a bottle for the first time since shit happened but i don't plan on going too crazy this time. then...

      short one. wrote it sober, so i couldn't (didn't?) really expand on it.

      either way, just bought a bottle for the first time since shit happened but i don't plan on going too crazy this time.

      then again, do i plan half the shit i do? or am i just constantly fumbling my way up through life.

      either way here's some shit about math.

      enjoy.

      You said I was the one

      But that was only when you managed

      To get some rest, and breathe, and

      Keep yourself from going rabid

      But must of the time you

      Wore your claws out like a savage

      So if we’re being honest I‘m the

      .08 on average.

      9 votes
    21. űrrepülés.

      i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar...

      i'm bored and entirely too fucking tired to still be up, so here's a thing i wrote in a little burst like an hour ago. see also enikő, the considerably longer weird shit i wrote in a similar burst.

      I. űrrepülés
      having once been the dreamer of many things,
      having once been an eternal creator,
      having seen the birth of great star systems and galaxies
      and life itself
      only to be snuffed out
      with ignominy
      i feel compelled to explain why i too must
      inevitably follow them

      hurt
      is a funny little word. it seems so easy to come
      to a common agreement on what it means and yet,
      if i told you it hurt
      would you really understand that?

      would you understand the feeling
      of hopelessness,
      the vast indignities of having to see
      your every piece of art,
      your life's work
      snuffed out
      like the stars?

      II. űrlény
      you can't play god
      with the people in your life,
      but that never stopped me from trying,
      from creating those great star systems
      that people care about.
      from creating life where there is none.

      and that never stopped me from failing,
      and the stars becoming great cataclysms—
      black holes destroying the life around them
      without regard for its beauty.

      you might say it is callous
      to try to move the heavens and the earth
      and to die when they don't arrange the right way,
      but,
      i would rather die than be that hurt person again
      watching the stars go out one by one.

      6 votes
    22. i woke up with a headache and found this in my notes. (the coffin song)

      In the shadows Like a ghost you hide In the single most foreign Corners of my mind Therapy and pills still Can’t subside the angelic choir Of your pretty lies Promises you made, The bones I broke...

      In the shadows

      Like a ghost you hide

      In the single most foreign

      Corners of my mind

      Therapy and pills still

      Can’t subside the angelic choir

      Of your pretty lies

      Promises you made,

      The bones I broke

      You once took my breath

      And now I choke

      Jesus let me breathe

      Is there hope for me?

      .

      Now I desire

      The obscure

      All that reminds

      Of being yours

      Your oils, poison

      My waters, pure

      Your love is cancer

      There is no cure.

      .

      I watched my grandfather take his final breaths as he kissed my head and you held my hand. Not two months later you foresaw our end, and decided not to keep me, even as a friend.

      And now you’re off, marriage in the plans. I pray your time falls like the sand and hits the bottom of every glass as fast as it can.

      I have no home. I’m lost and cold. You promised me a home would grow. We got a dog, and had planned for more. Mouth of this world, a fish at shore you took my breath and killed me slow.

      I’m suicidal, I have no hope. I’ve not a gun, don’t have a rope. The only reason I’ve not a note, I’d end it all, I’d end it all.


      I just want to feel pretty.

      Pretty loved and pretty free

      But for now I keep to getting

      Pretty drunk, it isn’t cheap

      But I can afford it/‘s kinda sweet

      Too bad you’re not round

      To drink with me.

      I’d fill the bottle

      We’d watch the office

      Instead I scar

      Until I am solid

      An ugly rock

      A useless object

      I’ll break my stones

      And build a coffin

      And die in your name

      Die in your name.

      11 votes
    23. my therapist won't return my calls (lmfao fuck me)

      tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love. i hit my cigarette like an abuser hits her wife because i'm a fucking coward to afraid to take his life i've felt love before i beg it through the strife but i...

      tw: self-harm; suicide; lost love.

      i hit my cigarette

      like an abuser hits her wife

      because i'm a fucking coward

      to afraid to take his life

      i've felt love before

      i beg it through the strife

      but i only find a heart

      at the wrong side of a blunt and useless knife

      .

      and it's only mine

      at least there's proof

      that i can feel

      when blood protrudes.

      but that's not "work appropriate"

      so i get tattoos

      what a shame i can't get paid to die.

      12 votes
    24. haha this shit’s not working (a poem)

      i got a job i got on meds i got a car still wanting death. still here at night alone in my bed still hear her voice ring in my head “why do you look like i abused you?” . i bought a bottle i...

      i got a job

      i got on meds

      i got a car

      still wanting death.

      still here at night

      alone in my bed

      still hear her voice

      ring in my head

      “why do you look like i abused you?”

      .

      i bought a bottle

      i bought some cards

      can’t kill my thoughts

      my god it’s hard

      just make it stop

      “i don’t think i love you anymore.”

      .

      anxiety’s

      taken over me

      every interaction

      i worry

      did i act weird?

      what do they think?

      i guarantee

      they laugh at me

      can’t beat it all

      can’t bear it all.

      .

      .

      .

      .

      .

      .

      .
      .

      .

      don’t want to live

      don’t want to die

      i fantasize

      (that) it’ll be alright

      she’ll cuddle close

      and hold me night

      and pet my head

      and kill the fright

      i can’t escape

      don’t want to fight

      god let me die

      god let me die

      8 votes
    25. I just want to feel pretty.

      Pretty. Pretty good. Pretty cool. Pretty smart. Pretty cute. Pretty kind. Pretty eyes. Pretty warm. Pretty witty. Pretty artistic. Pretty talented. Pretty cultured. Pretty traveled. Pretty-faced....
      Pretty.

      Pretty good.

      Pretty cool.

      Pretty smart.

      Pretty cute.

      Pretty kind.

      Pretty eyes.

      Pretty warm.

      Pretty witty.

      Pretty artistic.

      Pretty talented.

      Pretty cultured.

      Pretty traveled.

      Pretty-faced.

      Pretty loved.

      But fuck me,

      Life’s pretty hard.

      12 votes
    26. Friday haiku challenge

      I used to work at Amazon, and one of their internal "chatter" mailing lists had a tradition that every Friday people would write haiku, often about how their week went, or something in the news,...

      I used to work at Amazon, and one of their internal "chatter" mailing lists had a tradition that every Friday people would write haiku, often about how their week went, or something in the news, or just something random. Going to try to resurrect that here.

      If you want lines to color within, the "normal" requirements for a haiku are:

      The essence of haiku is "cutting" (kiru). This is often represented by the juxtaposition of two images or ideas and a kireji ("cutting word") between them, a kind of verbal punctuation mark which signals the moment of separation and colours the manner in which the juxtaposed elements are related.

      Traditional haiku often consist of 17 on (also known as morae though often loosely translated as "syllables"), in three phrases of 5, 7, and 5 on, respectively.

      A kigo (seasonal reference), usually drawn from a saijiki, an extensive but defined list of such terms.

      But of course often the 5-7-5 syllable structure is the only part used in Westernized haiku. Feel free to follow the guidelines above as narrowly or as loosely as you want.

      14 votes
    27. Animating the Inanimate Poetry Challenge

      @cadadr's 4 word poetry challenge is one of my favorite Tildes threads to read through on account of the many clever and thoughtful responses, so I figured I'd try to kick off another one. This...

      @cadadr's 4 word poetry challenge is one of my favorite Tildes threads to read through on account of the many clever and thoughtful responses, so I figured I'd try to kick off another one. This one is a little more conceptually involved, but I think it still has the potential to be a good time like the last one.

      Rather than going with a strict word or line count, instead I am creating a restriction based around personification:

      Challenge:
      Your poem must:

      • Be written from the point of view of an inanimate object
      • Give the object personality/emotion
      • NOT name the object, so that people have to infer it from what you've written

      An example might be an automatic door that is bored to tears from opening and closing ad nauseum. Or maybe a watering can that is excited to tend to its garden.

      In trying to come up with a model I decided to channel a resentful milk carton:

      It's fine
      I get it
      You don't have to justify yourself
      Lots of better things have come around
      Since you first chose me

      Just know that I'm still here
      If you need me
      Waiting for that blissful moment
      Where you light up my world
      And take me in your hand
      And make me feel like I'm flying
      Before you lower me down
      In a lover's embrace

      It's fine
      I get it
      Until then I'll sit here
      In the cold, cold dark
      Trying not to go sour
      Next to the slowly molding cheese
      And forgotten grapes

      It's far from perfect but hopefully it gives you an idea of what the assignment can look like. While I saved my "reveal" to the end, don't feel obligated to use that tactic unless you want to. You don't have to hide the identity of your object, just don't name the object outright in the poem.

      Feel free to make your poem as long or short as you wish. Feel free to make it as meaningful or silly as you want. Above all else, have fun!


      If you need help with ideas or just want the challenge of writing to a randomly selected specification, you can use this noun generator for objects and this adjective generator for sentiments.

      9 votes
    28. What creative projects are you working on? (June 2019 edition)

      it's time for another one of these threads. the last one racked up an impressive 100 comments in its run, by far the most of any of these threads so far, so that seems like a good sign for this...

      it's time for another one of these threads. the last one racked up an impressive 100 comments in its run, by far the most of any of these threads so far, so that seems like a good sign for this thread. anyways, here you can share/provide updates on some of the projects that you're working on. they can be of any kind--digital, physical, work related, passion project, whatever. pretty straightforward, i think.

      november threadfebruary threadmarch threadapril threadmay thread

      20 votes
    29. I know nothing

      I know nothing nor do I want to: a blank brain is all I want! I have nothing nor do I want to: I want to be, nothing else do I want!

      5 votes
    30. Faerie Desperado

      Old legends what spoke of the fae Said “cold iron must be used in the fray” Bore great axe ‘gainst brownie The first chord made it flee ‘Twas Heavy Metal what had won this day

      6 votes
    31. [untitled]

      In Feudal Japan Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi Tea Party Ninja Assassin of Joy Bringer of His Mighty Wind Most Fetid of Stench For a Tidy Fee Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi Would Disturb Your Foes Piercing Defenses...

      In Feudal Japan
      Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
      Tea Party Ninja


      Assassin of Joy
      Bringer of His Mighty Wind
      Most Fetid of Stench


      For a Tidy Fee
      Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
      Would Disturb Your Foes


      Piercing Defenses
      Buddha Alone Knew His Tread
      In and Out, Unseen


      But Never Un-Smelt
      Kaze no Tsuyoi Nioi
      Bearing Bowels Most Foul

      7 votes