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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

@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.

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

This isn’t what I want it to be. I’ve just had too many to care.

Most days I don’t need any to not care.

Yet I smile at them; servers and baristas.

Try hard, smile, look happy.

Maybe they’ll think you’re cute.

You arrogant shit.

“Sisyphus!

Arrogant twat,

How shall you pay

For the sins you’ve wrought?

I’ll hang your dreams

In delicate swathe

And leave you to work

Forever for naught.

.

Sisyphus!

You “god” among men

I’ll number your days

Count them by hand

While you work, serve

Slave to my end

Your bones will strain

And bend.

.

Sisyphus!

You represent

The whole that is wrong

With the common man

I’ll make you sweat,

And I’ll make you beg

(That) one day you’ll be free

Again!”

.

Dear Sisyphus,

I know your soul.

Your struggle is mine

And we share the goal

That work, work, will come

To an end

And we’ll live again

As free men.

.

Sisyphus,

I hear your cries –

Your yelps of pain

In the dead of night

When your muscles strain

And your mind ain’t right

My brother

Your pain is mine!

.

Gods above –!

Rescue me!

.

Sisyphus!

I’m you, incarnate.

I do my work and

Sing my songs in

Hope the gods will

Hear my plea

And one day

set me free.

.

I am he!

I aloud decree,

assuming Sisyphus’

identity.

I live his plight,

beg myself free

that I’ll find a

love for me.

.

SISYPHUS.

THIS IS YOUR WROUGHT.

YOUR MERIT THE PAIN,

THIS DAY YOU’VE SOUGHT.

YOU KNOW YOUR SINS

AND NOW YOU BEG

THAT YOU MAY FRESH BEGIN

.

THE GODS WILL REMEMBER

SINS IN DECEMBER;

DRAG YOUR SOUL DOWN

DEEP TO THE EMBER.

YOU AS THE KINDLE

YOU AND YOUR KINFOLK

FOREVER LIGHT OUR WAY.

.

SISYPHUS.

“IMMACULATE.”

WHAT A SHAME YOU’LL FIND

COME END YOUR FATE

WHEN THE TRUTH REVEALS

YOUR LOVE IS FAKE.

are you so thirsty

you would drink your own blood?

do you feel so dirty

that you bathe in wet mud?

are you so alone

that you make talk with yourself?

are you so afraid

that you, your own friends, repel?

.

would you clean your skin with acid

just to feel pure within your casket?

would you feed on rot and mold

in attempt to feed your soul?

are you so cold, your blankets worn,

you'd set your home ablaze for warmth?

do you so fear the words you'll hear

you'll drive metal spears into your ears?

.

are you so broken

and without any help

you would crack your own skull

and find some gold to smelt

in hopes you leave your corpse

a void kintsugi shell?

if not; then why, dear brain,

do you want to burn yourself

Apologies for the spam. This may be the last one today; worst-case there's only one more coming.

I see you, pretty home,

with your couch, your floor, and kitchen.

I see your sign there, hoping

that I might call and visit.

I want to tour your space

and dream of how I'd fill it.

What chair, what bed, what rug,

and if it could home a kitten.

.

I can see a career

that let's me furnish you to 9.

I faintly feel a hope

that one day you might be mine.

I teeter on a plan

that I could start, if energized

that would lead me to you

if I could try, and all went right.

.

A fireplace in cold,

you'd stay lit, always, in orange.

the warmest of colors

keeps my mind free of contortion.

Your firm, solid structure

Keeps me confident, supported.

What a beautiful dream;

I hope, one day, to afford it.

Is it self-inflating to label one's own work as graphic? (It is kinda graphic, clickbait title aside.)

This doesn't even really capture the right imagery I was trying to go for.

Might just have to re-write this idea into a completely different piece, I'm not sure. (mfw literally "felt creative idk might delete later")

The "ball" was supposed to really be a watermelon, because we've all seen that YouTube video where they explode a watermelon with rubber bands, but I didn't leave myself enough space to develop that transition from ball to melon properly. (Brand new sentence?)

Why am I even posting this if I feel its unfinished?

Who knows.

Anyway let's get to the thing here it is vvvvvvvvv

slip.

twist.

smack.

10 rubber bands on a ball

all hold each other taut

the inception of a toy

that will quick be left for naught

but brings a momentary joy - its only cause.

.

work.

stoa.

sweat.

hustle on, man, that's your call

you gotta love your boss.

it's the struggle of a boy.

that you never would be caught

while feeling tears or overwhelm - lest you be mocked.

.

smack.

stretch.

strain.

100 rubber bands slap

starting slightly straining

its appearances are coy,

the ball slowly rolls to stop.

picked up and bounced against the floor - it doesn't pop.

.

work.

stare.

grind.

expectations are my all.

you dream of taking off -

escape makes you overjoyed

daily grind just puts your off.

your brain it strains against the skull - stressing nonstop.

.

pop

waste

spill

500 rubber bands smack

crushing and constraining

such a carnage to enjoy

they start rolling out the mops.

the ball explodes onto the floor - as if a prop

.

rip

slice

tear.

my fists crash into the walls.

my skin, just rip it off

rip out the bone, leave me void

naked muscle growing moss.

wrap rubber bands around my head until it pops.

What a beautiful night
the stars are out
like tiny pinprick holes in the sky
illuminating our soft gray subtle shadows
as we chat about life and random fluff
and the moon shines through your dress
    making it
            transparent

Back to my car
a night full of passion.
Come the morning: I stop and reflect.
What could my life have been?
If I had missed all this,
            this artifice and sin?
For you are only silicone,
your dress a splotchy sheet
The stars are a cheap plastic disco ball
I bought it from goodwill for 97¢.
My car's no more than a fluorescent-stained couch.

Alas, alas for me
I must do better—yes, I will!
(I steel my resolve)
(I know what I must do)
(my heart, it pains me so!
For you have been so good to me, and thus I will repay you?)

I did it, threw you in the trash;
I'll hire a human whore tomorrow

You know they’ve got poetry on Spotify? That’s some cool shit. Ended up following John Cooper Clarke into a rabbit hole of other British poets.

Decided to bite and try writing a bit of poetry for poetry’s sake.

Anyway. ‘Ere go. “June.”

I thought your voice was music

And your beauty - work of art.

I found your jokes amusing,

Ponygirl, a golden heart.

Your company, a journey

Which I never could depart

I really felt I loved you,

Well, I did once, at the start.

.

See, music can be different

Some songs good, and others crap.

Some begin melodically,

Then get crashing in a snap.

Starting subtle violins,

Then it blares with metal scrap

They lure you malevolent

Some music is a trap.

.

Some artists Donatello,

Others Jackson Pollock.

Some art goes well with wine,

Some turns you alcoholic.

Some is deep and intricate,

Some is purely bollocks

Can’t call this a masterpiece

I’m not sure what to call it.

.

Thought your lips were pure cuisine

And your beauty - work of art.

I never thought the kitchen

Would have mold and rot at heart.

The oven sent asunder

All the counters ripped apart

You’re a diner with one dish,

And it’s a dry and sour tart.

Light it up

hit the stage

hit the dance floor.

Fight enough

start a riot

there's a chance for

love to grow

for the hate

to transform

Feeling these

knots in my head

am I deformed?

.

Feel like my

head, my heart,

a rock show.

Is this peace

or pain, I

do not know.

I can't close

my eyes and

the clock's slow

Pray I'll

kill myself

in Chicago

.

My head pounds

bass drum

memories of,

days when you

and I meshed

and we made love.

Wish that I

went and bought you

all your makeup.

Maybe some money's

all we needed

to makeup

.

Feel like my

head, my heart,

a rock show.

Is this peace

or pain, I

do not know.

I can't close

my eyes and

the clock's slow

Pray I'll

kill myself

in Chicago

.

With hate your

voice went shrill

you went cold.

Who's this girl

beside me

don't know.

Wake up in

the morning pain

or comfort?

All your screaming

I wanna go

Van Gogh

.

Feel like my

head, my heart,

a rock show.

Is this peace

or pain, I

do not know.

I can't close

my eyes and

the clock's slow

Pray I'll

kill myself

in Chicago

Father God

I've got a favor

to ask of you.

.

It is said

you can justify

the hell I knew.

.

So now I raise

my tired eyes

to the morning blue.

.

God above,

I've got a favor

to ask of you.

.

If I don't wake up

dead in the morning

could you stand by me

if just for a moment

give pause to the pain

put a break to the moaning

while I'm stuck in this mind

and I just can't control it.

.

If you're gonna drag me out

of my bed in the morning

then I ask I wake in

a place I feel at home and

I can pour a little brown, light

a green, and get to hoping

that I'll find good work,

good love, and consoling.

.

Ya Allah

Ana mish aerif

Ana riyeh feyn.

.

My head

is clouded, dark

and the sky is grey.

.

I've found

I hate the sun,

and dance in the rain.

.

And at night,

I close my eyes,

dream of the grave.

.

If you're gonna drag me out

of my bed in the morning

then I ask I wake in

a place I feel at home and

I can pour a little brown, light

a green, and get to hoping

that I'll find good work,

good love, and consoling.

raindrop

on the tongue

of the parched, de-

flated beach ball

in the hands of the young, lit

cig 'tween the fingers

of a nun,

one sin's never gonna be enough

fuck the prose

words will never be enough.

the writing's on the walls

but you can't read it

you aren't here

i need a sign you

can't ignore or a call

you're bound to hear

.

the words just aren't enough

on their own

to pull my heart strings

i can't find peace

without my blood

on guitar strings.

.

the words are going cold

the poetry has not a heartbeat.

i need to take the stage

and pray to god that they can't see me.

Not sure why I always feel the need to preface these with something.

Feels weird not to. As if I'm just "Hey chump, here's a poem, read it."

Y'all hear that Lil Nas X track "Old Town Road" yet? Never knew I needed to hear Billy Ray Cyrus on a trap beat until it happened.

If that blends your smoothie, you might also like "Like A Farmer" x Lil Tracy ft. Lil Uzi Vert

I like this whole hickhop wave coming through. Cool to see people playing around with genre-bending.

For all those "that's not real country" folk, here's some Cody Jinks and some Brown Bird (technically blues I think, fight me.)

Anyway, here's the thing. Feel free to read it. If anyone here uses one of those e-reader speech things for the vision-impaired, how does this sound? Does the reader have any rhythm to it, or does it just feed you line after line?

Alright closing out for real. Later.

I thought something strange

skeleton felt out the closet

In the house, the paint

kept peeling off the walls

and on the bed, decay

as the wood went rotten

Never could build a house,

made a life making coffins.

.

In the morn, I wake

and the skies are grey and cloudy

Turn to kiss my babe,

is it love me or get off me

and my head, it aches

the anxiety is starting

so I say fuck it all and I make me some coffee.

.

Lips on me -

desire.

Arsonist

with a lighter.

Feed my soul,

make the heart burn.

Where there's smoke

there is fire.

.

An infant strand-

ed out there in the snow

Sh'said "Babe there's a chill,

you'd better close the door."

Close your rain-

bow, there's no pot of gold.

And there's no one to sing

you any songs of your home.

.

Fill my art-

eries with bourbon old

Loverboy

til I am dead and gone

Rip off my skin

and leave my body cold

My son,

the devil

is a pretty blonde.

.

And I said

Mama

I’m tired.

My hands shake

My eyes burn.

Hair’s thin

Heart afire.

My lovely little lover was a liar.

.

Closed the door,

the hinge broke.

No chimney

house filled smoke.

Scents arose

of burnt mold.

A lake of blood and

guilt can't support a home.

Hi everyone.

Hello to all the new faces who don't know my name - (or how out of character it is that there are capital letters in this post!) This isn't really for you - or for anyone in particular I guess; I just wanted to write something to those who have followed my work on here.

So, you.

Howdy.

It's been a minute.

I just wanted to give you all a quick update; let you know that I'm safe. I've had a few of you reach out to me since my last post. I hope I didn't scare anybody.

For those interested - things... aren't all that better now, hahaha. Sorry.

But the good news is, they're trending up in a really good way.

I've decided to stop drinking for awhile; I figured that isn't really helping my cause at this point. I'll pick that back up when there's something worth celebrating, when I'm in better company, and when I'm back in control of myself.

I've started getting a lot more interviews for work; shouldn't be long now until I have a position landed and I'm back to being a functioning adult.

And uh - I started therapy. Been about a month now. I like my therapist, they're very sweet, very weird in a fun/eclectic kind of way. (My kinda person.) And that's been going well.

In fact, that's part of this.

It's not just Tildes I abandoned.

I've let a lot of very important people to be fall to the wayside lately - total isolation. Tonight, I started calling them back, apologizing, letting them know what was going on. And that's gone well so far.

Now I'm here doing the same for you.

I don't know if I'll be back on Tildes all too frequently. There's a lot on here I might just need to let rest.

So I just wanted to say that I'm here. I love you. I'm sorry. And, bye.

For now.

eyes crackle open

half past three

stomach on fire and

my body feels meek

i stumble out my chair

and here the creak in my knees

you're only in your twenties

and you're living ninety

.

my head feels funny

and i'm tired of the numbing

and there's too much week

at the end of my money

a little bumblebee lost

wishing for his honey

beat my head against the hive

until the world starts buzzing

and it falls.

.

and i

set

foot

down

on that unpaved road

step

forward like an orphan

on a search for a home

walk

forward hand to God

if he answers my call

honey (i'll) be

leaving for now

hope it won't be long

.

soul

full of gravel and

a heart made of gold

imma

face my music and

play my song

send

me down to hell

if it rights my wrongs

honeybee

i'm leaving for now

hope it won't be long.

April is National Poetry Month. It's also National/Global Poetry Writing Month, where participants write a poem a day for every day in April. I'm doing it this year, and was wondering if any other tilderiños were as well. I'm a little late on the post, but there's still time to catch up!

                                              #19 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

So rent a museum
and see yourself in mirrors-
In every room an exposition
of a different phase in your life
with all your figures and faces
and pictures of all the people who
passed through you
and all the scenes
you passed through
all the landscapes of living
and longing and desiring
and spending and getting
and doing and dying
and sighing and laughing and crying
(what antic gesturing!)
And walking through the house of yourself
you climb again to all
the rooms of youself
full of the other lives & selves
who passed through them
Rooms rooms rooms
piled up haphazard
in the architecture of time
And all the bodies clinging to each other
or rushing to windows
to break out of the room
which they boxed themselves into
All the people of your life
in one house in the night
all lights lit
like a cruise ship at sea
And you run up and down
knocking on all the doors
through which you hear
all the once-familiar voices
laughing or sobbing or singing
And you run to the roof
and look up to the mute night sky
And in the wheeling template of stars
see the faces of the figures
of the lovely lovers who
had once made time stand still
now all fixed
in their constellated relations
motionless in time

So that
some day
as time bends around
to its beginning again
you find them all again
and yourself

Hey everyone, thanks to you who posted in the original Workshop Wednesday; I think it went really well! Here we are for week 2 (sorry it took me til noon, I was busy this morning!)

Some questions:

• do we need a new topic every week? Or will one be enough?
• any other comments/suggestions?

Please begin your comment with [META] to discuss these. Otherwise, I'll copy and paste the guidelines from last week.

What's a workshop?

Basically, a workshop is when you have a bunch of people with poems or stories they've written, and everyone gets together, reads everyone's work, and comments on it, sharing what they got out of it and what the author could do to improve the work for publication. I used to do a lot of them in college, and I've missed the dynamic since graduating. I thought others might also be interested, so here goes nothing.

How this'll work (for now, anyway)

Each week, I'll post a "Workshop Wednesday" post. If you have a poem or (short) story you'd like workshopped, post that as a top comment. Then, read others' top comments and reply with what works/doesn't work/questions you have/ideas you have for the piece that could make it better. If you post some writing, try to comment on at least two other people's pieces as well -- we're here to help each other improve.

So I was talking to @cadadr in this thread about starting a workshop on Tildes, and since today makes for an alliterative title, I thought I'd start one now.

What's a workshop?

Basically, a workshop is when you have a bunch of people with poems or stories they've written, and everyone gets together, reads everyone's work, and comments on it, sharing what they got out of it and what the author could do to improve the work for publication. I used to do a lot of them in college, and I've missed the dynamic since graduating. I thought others might also be interested, so here goes nothing.

How this'll work (for now, anyway)

Each week, I'll post a "Workshop Wednesday" post. If you have a poem or (short) story you'd like workshopped, post that as a top comment. Then, read others' top comments and reply with what works/doesn't work/questions you have/ideas you have for the piece that could make it better. If you post some writing, try to comment on at least two other people's pieces as well -- we're here to help each other improve.

Going forward

Since this is the first one, obviously we can change the format or do something else. Please start meta-discussions with the word [META] so that we know it's not a poem you're trying to workshop!

I'm excited. Let's do this!

hiiiiiii everybody guess who drunk for the first time this year ayeeeee

we're back

i love it

i hate it

i miss you

how damned lazy

is the poet

who only ever writes.

how wasted

is the painter

who drowns out his lines.

how atrophied

the pianist

who cannot bend the light

if this is art then it isn't mine.

.

a screw

driver is useless

when nails

are the nuisance

an easel

is pointless

with verbally

mindless rhymes.

.

to what length in an artist?

if you cannot wield

every edge of the

toolbox right?

.

not every thought

is at best

through emo

writings expressed

kid, sometimes

you have to

know your lines.

.

to better outline your problems.

(better outline your problems)

better sketch out your issues

(guarantee she don't miss you)

better sculpt out the tissue

and try to attend to

the shit you

can only rhyme.

.

what a waste of an artist.

.

what a waste of an artist.

.

you call your poems cathartic

but that's your only

medium, right?

.

you wanna be a God

you better step up

better learn to

do your makeup

hopefully you learn

to draw her thighs.

.

better off dead otherwise.

.

if you're not the greatest it's a guise.

ich lebe noch von dir

so if i won't be remembered

then by your God

i should prolly' die.

.

what the fuck is an artist.

.

wjo is reallt an aritst.

.

you call your poems cathartic,

but that's your only

medium - right?

God

put me at ease

deliver me to peace.

if you're above

deliver me to love.

there's not a sign

you're months without a call.

i begin to think

you never cared at all.

in winter breezes

hang me from the trees.

god i'm sick of

never feeling enough.

make me crease and

break me at my knees.

tarot prophet guide me

with your crystal ball.

.

read the names i've

written in my skin.

banish me to walk

alone in cold.

hit my face and tell me

this is it.

kill me, say you

never cared at all

.

screaming in your car

you said you'd call the cops

if i don't take my seatbelt off

on our way home and walk.

.

screaming in our home

you'd always slam the doors

and leave the silence ringing

in the halls

.

alone in dark i wailed

you didn't care.

as you sat there on your phone

and talked and talked.

.

always acting like

i wasn't there.

even asked me to pretend

that we were not.

.

remember back in college

when you made some friends

and tried to make me hide,

not show me off?

.

tried to tell them

i was just a friend.

and when i protested

god you told me off.

.

but when i made you mad

how mad you went.

and appeared inside my room

without consent.

.

i walked in and found you there

sat at my desk.

it should've ended there

but i regressed.

.

i said we would grow past it

never did.

always made me second guess

the life i live.

.

it's not my fault

that you stayed home alone.

why do i slash and cry and pray

that you'll pick up the phone.

.

tell me why i love you

when it's wrong.

.

.

.

tell me why i want you

when you're gone.

.

.

.

i want you to ignore me,

miss my calls.

.

.

.

if at least you'll speak

to me at all.

fuck you.

i'm sorry.

i love you.

fuck you.

fuck you too.

so i've just recently learned about this guy, and his work is quickly becoming a favorite of mine.

i'm admittedly crazy poorly-read (is that the antonym to well-read?) when it comes to...

well, anything besides self-help books released up to "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck" by Mark Manson.

and his work has been concise and just fucking accurate enough for me to enjoy.

so i present you all,

a journey through love, with Richard Brautigan.

-2

Everybody wants to go to bed

with everybody else, they're

lined up for blocks, so I'll

go to bed with you. They won't

miss us.

in this first stage, we see that little Richie's met himself someone special, and off they go arm in arm to live happily ever after.

Romeo and Juliet

If you will die for me,

I will die for you

and our graves will be like two lovers washing

their clothes together

in a laundromat

If you will bring the soap

I will bring the bleach.

and here we see something that, personally, i found surprising from a poet who got his start in the 50s.

this piece emulates the incendiary, passionate, limitless love that some of us have been lucky enough to experience in the early years of our lives. the love where it's the both of you against the world. the love where the most mundane tasks seem incredulous solely because they're done together. the love that i have only seemed to find in life, through trauma bonding.

their love is powerful. their love is radiant.

I Feel Horrible, She Doesn't

I feel horrible. She doesn't

love me and I wander around

like a sewing machine

that's just finished sewing

a turd to a garbage can lid.

their love is over.

the crass yet poignant imagery somehow simultaneously flashing feelings of uselessness, self-loathing, and loss.

you are here.

Haiku Ambulance

A piece of green pepper

fell

off the wooden salad bowl:

so what?

the sheer stoicism here is inspiring to me.

this is the mindset that i want - and don't have the emotional energy to cultivate.

were Brautigan still around and kickin' today, i'd buy the man a shot of the best whiskey i could get with $7 and thank him for emulating the exact mindset i want, need, and desire

in four lines.

it's simple - the green paper is a fraud, illusory. from afar or even from near with a quick glance - the green paper is another leafy green of the salad. a leaf of lettuce, a bit of cabbage. even if you press your face into the bowl and smell, the paper will smell of salad and nothing but.

it falls onto the floor, you pick it up to throw it away. you notice the texture inapropos with more roughness, and frailty than a leaf of a vegetable. you test it - you tear it.

it was paper.

it was not the spinach you'd desired.

it was not real.

it was not what you wanted.

regardless of the time you've spent preparing the salad, chopping your veg, blending your dressing, tossing it all, and fixing it for presentation,

if you throw this paper out - it will be no loss, and your salad will only be better for it.

a green piece of paper fell off the wooden salad bowl.

so what?

Love Poem

the piece that brought Brautigan in to my attention in the first place.

It's so nice

to wake up in the morning

all alone

and not have to tell somebody

you love them

when you don't love them

any more.

resolve.

clarity.

peace.

the earlier bleach has gone unsipped. she has come, she has gone. he has suffered, he has grown.

and now, he is at peace.

his world back to...

normal.

this has been a journey through love with Richard Brautigan.

I'VE GOT

red wine

nicotine

fresh chocolate chip cookies

the plaid heated blanket that keeps me

cuddled up in the recliner that doubles

as my bed.

I'VE GOT

red wine

daydreams

moving to a different city with a different scene

i wanna meet new friends,

try codeine

find love or find drugs to console me

I'VE GOT

red wine

thin skin

pink like your soft cheeks when they're sunkissed.

haulover beach, you were naked

on a trip,

and you screamed, and you screamed, and i hate it.

I'VE GOT

red wine

ain't shit

except seven little boxes full of bullshit

old love notes kissed with red lips

seven boxes of evidence you didn't mean shit.

I'VE GOT

a lotta bit of lethargy

all my energy drained.

i remember the day where you looked at my eyes

and you said "babe since you met me you don't look the same"

you looked at the bags,

(beat.)

and you said "that was me"

(beat.)

and of course i dismissed it

said babe don't be silly

i envisioned us happy and said that "you make me complete."

I'VE GOT

red wine

white lies.

red wine.

red wine.

GOT.

red wine

no time.

it's time.

lifeline.

we met in a field

i plucked a fruit from your veins

you encouraged me to eat

i exchanged with you a name.

.

i kept you close inside a jar

and with time, you turned sour

you encouraged i add water

lest it be the final hour.

.

my glass turned pink

with the hue of your skin

you explained - it's drink,

you encouraged me to sip

.

i never knew beauty

like your taste upon my lips

you are my favorite poison

and i have now, not a drip.

hey this is tildes so i should talk about code.

i dont type each > for the markdown individually.

got a tiny function i wrote that does it for me: https://repl.it/repls/HonoredRubberyProfessional

so there's that for anyone who wants an easier time formatting their thing.

stuff at the bottom. not necessarily inspo. just.

yeah

i just

want to go back

to normal.

normal like in 2016

when i had a little cash

and spent it all

on books, coffee, clothes, teenage shit

i was nineteen

we had yet to meet

back to normal

like the centuries

where i would never be

from the dawn of the earth

up to the nineties.

back to normal

back to friends

back to hobbies and dreams

back to having endless things

that i found exciting

back to normal

when i'd stay up a little late

and fall asleep, be up at 8

and make my coffee

not living in the night,

sleeping in the morning.

.

but the meds are all a hex,

cyanide with side effects

take this pill if you're depressed

now youre a narcoleptic wreck

and your car's a crumpled mess

so momma drives you to your check-

ups full of shit you never said

like how you wanna quit - dead.

because you say something she think

is wrong you end up in the shrink

with all the people with the bigger problems

thrashing as they shriek

and you wake up on a table

see the warden of the clink

shoving hands into your mouth

tryna feed you what they think

'll fix your fucking problems.

hooked - benzodiazepines.

and now you're mellow, now you're numb

for now your skin'll cease to bleed

and still you look around in envy

pretty people - normalcy.

.

i gotta get out this house

get back to normal

maybe she can't find me there.

maybe i can get a text

or get some coffee

breathe, not even care

'bout if i'll turn a cursed corner

see her curly golden hair,

and have a flashback to the nights

spend crying lonely in despair

as she would sit, a room away

sipping vodka in here chair

taking snaps and scrolling insta

for her modelling career

and i would wail my soul would bleed

praying that her heart would hear

and she would get up, come and hold me

stroke my hair like "mama's here."

and i could breathe

our love immortal

i want nothing but a world

where i am back in full control

through death or breath

just make me normal.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5NB7RBZ1yGY

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w--D1S8SrCQ

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NO5JLdsNxSk | Lyrics

currently 7 hours into a 24 hour shift that will see me through to the end of this project.

this song came on that helped me find catharsis when i last felt like this in 2014.

coincidentally, i'd just finished one of my few milestones in the project

i could take a break if i wanted to.

i could hear the words filling themselves in, treating the song like a template.

decided i'd take a minute to "remix" or "cover" this song for how things are going this time around.

here's the original.

maybe give it a listen, then jump into this piece,

out of words now.

bishop

[Verse 1]
You still cross my mind from day to day
And I mostly cry
Still so set on finding out where we went wrong
and why
So I retrace our every step with a bloodwet knife
Trying to figure out what your head thinks
And my head just ain't what it used to be
So I ask,

...what's the point anyway?

[Verse 2]

I remember bringing boxes up the stairs to your apartment
Knowing love was slipping
rapidly away
I remember the skin of your forehead
Your nose and your lips I'd always kiss when I was out of things to say
You held my hand, and you would always promise me
You'd promise me pretty things but I would never understand
I remember when you said you didn't love me
And I swear not a single force on earth could stop the trembling of my hand

[Verse 3]
I remember how you smiled through the smoke in a crowded little coffeehouse
And laughed at all my jokes
And I remember the way that you dressed
While we wasted all the best of us in alcohol and sweat
And I remember when I knew that you'd be leaving
How I barely kept up breathing and I bet if I could to do it all again
I'd feel the same pain
I remember faded driving through the city in tears
How I wept to god in fits, I've hated Texas ever since

I've found it's true what people say
That death and drugs can numb the pain
And every single day I want to fade away, cus

[Verse 4]
I still remember independence tricked us
And lead us helpless holding cash into a pit to be devoured
I still remember how we held so strong to this
Though we had never really settled on a way out
I still remember your blank face
And how we'd always find a way recommit the same mistakes
I still dream that it would all come back together
Just to fall apart again

[Bridge]
My dear
I hear your voice in mine
I've been alone here
I've been alone here
I've been afraid, my dear
I've been afraid, my dear
I've been at home here
I've been at home here
You've been away for years
You've been away for years
I've been alone
I've been alone
I've been alone
I've been alone

[Verse 5]
I breathed your name into the air, I etched your name into me
I felt my anger swelling, vision black, I can't see
I held your name inside my heart but it got buried in my fear
It tore the wiring of my brain, I did my best to keep it clear
So dear, no matter how we part I hold you sweetly in my head
And if I do not miss a part of you, a part of me is dead
If I can't love you as a lover, I will love you in my death
Anything to see you smile, keep you happy in my end.

hi i'm bishop
and i'm the guy you probly see
inside your dreams
who shows up for half a second
then i morph into a sheep

no wait im bishop
im the guy who's in the back
of that one photo that you
took out by the beach in
2018 out in cabo

hold on, no, it's bishop
it's the person that you messaged
when you posted up on tumblr
needing help with your depression

i mean

no

wait

i'm bishop!

i mean

i'm 1930s jazz superstar Cab Calloway.
i don't really play many instruments
but i can sing
i'm a throat player

hi my name is bishop
and i'm actor Matthew Lillard
hah like zoinks babe, i was shaggy
let me take you out to dinner

but then she turned to me
all worriedly
i asked her "whats the problem b?"
she said "i'm not some pretty girl,
i'm bishop! i'm your coffee!"

and i looked around like what the hell
and down onto my bed i fell
the pillow was my face
i was the bottles on the shelf

hi there pal, my name is bishop!
wait i lied it's Captain Morgan!
don't you love the way i
can't walk straight in my own Jordans
(that were actually pretty expensive shoes, like who pays that much for shoes? i mean i get the aesthetic and all i have some jackets that were kinda expensive but like

...dude.)

(cough)

hi my name is bishop
but i'm really Roddy Piper
and i'm feelin hella Rowdy cus my
ex she made my life hurt

i mean wait
no

i'm Bert Kreischer!
i'm im a machine!
and i'm a funny guy!
i'm hella rich, i'll slide some money by
if you can sing me beddie-bye

no fuck
i'm Tyler Perry
i make really funny movies
and i think you'd probly like me
if you ever really knew me

i mean

im bishop
and i eat a lot of fruit
but i still cant seem to get rid
of my stomach
i've considered "fasting" before and i used to but i like to cook too much so i end up like not eating for a day and then cooking a lot (like a lot) and really enjoying that meal and the whole process but it kinda nullifies the whole thing.

i'm gordon ramsay.

i'm

im chef Joel Robuchon and i have hella Michelin Stars

and my heart burns

i mean fuck i ate too much i'm

im'm larry the cable guy, do you have heartburn? i could

*sigh* sell you

Prilosec

i'm bishop

i'm

....

anyone but me.

cheers

y'already know who it is
bishop - little punk bitch.

's go. no need to comment or whatever. just yelling at the internet today.

Xes On My Eyes For Life.

tw: self-harm/suicide/alcohol/drugs

startin off the year all
alone inside my bedroom
lookin back in the past
what i been through
how you'd pet my hair,
cuddle close in my bedroom
now ain't nothin but depressive
air in the bedroom
look what i get up to
xans and the mushrooms
body don't have much room
left for me to love you
it pushes all the air out
in case you maybe come thru
you took all of my breath out
and i can't even speak you

name into the air
with no fingers in my hair
sippin whiskey in my chair
i can see your shadows here
you told me "lay it bare, give
your heart and boy i swear"
from now until the day you die
i promise i'll be there."

now i'm broken down
and wearing out
your voice in my head
get it out
i'm gettin up and pullin down
the liquor off the shelf

my empty bed is
screaming out
i'm praying that you'll
hear me while
i'm masturbating moaning out
"I'm gonna kill myself."

Прости меня,
Пожалуйста
now is my time
убей меня
princess - зайчик
i can't take it
baphometic
angel - wrists slit

cus i'm broken down
and wearing out
i know the truth you
hate me now
i'm gettin up and pullin down
the liquor off the shelf

my empty bed is
screaming out
i'm praying that you'll
hear me while
i'm masturbating moaning out
"I'm gonna kill myself."

BISHOP NEHM MICH UNTER - UNTERGANG 2019

Xes on my eyes for life

seems like some people 'roudn here tdont know that bishop an emo rapper on the comeup 👀

so lemme introduce myself

bonjour

im bishop.

i write hella poetry, and i just got a midi board and a expensive-ass course on Logic Pro X so imma learn how to produce as well.

imma kind, lighthearted fella, but poetry is my muse to get the dark shit off my chest

and rap is the zeitgeist now so i dont gotta feel ashamed of that anymore lmao

i sold my soul for love and cash, but that keeps biting back

we'll see how siht plays out

.

i love comments, and always peep my inspo tracks or we cant be friends

(jk but srsly)

much love, spread positiv y, all of that shit,

bishop

ps i also cook a lot so if u hungry for some plants hmu

peep tha inspo at the bottom

a wise man once said
don't let your dreams be dreams
so any time i go to sleep
it's always nightmares indeed
a lucid hellscape, i cant
move i cant scream
as i lay there unawake
my fists pounding at the sheets
it steady creeps, in my head
it lays dormant in the day
but still it's stench seeps out
constant suffocates my brain
as i struggle for a breath
and my heart starts to race
i just wanna lay down and
fantasize a better day

chasin xanny with the whiskey
give a fuck about my kidneys
life feels like a living hell
if the furnace isn't in me
so im steady blowin smoke
out my lungs like a chimney
my body like the house that
you used to live in with me
now it's empty and i'm starving
feelin ugly, i'm not eating
but the devil promised riches
thus, the dark, i will believe in.

---

So Spoke Zarathustra
we're in this shit again
as i built up another hope
and then i lost another friend
now there's demons in my head
i expose my skeleton
i thought that i could trust you
always swore you're genuine

but now i'm in this swamp again
and i be wadin' through the water
my skin begins to bubble up
my blood is getting hotter
and i can hear a voice within
screaming out with an offer
all the pain will end if i just
offer up my slaughter
let the water take me under
let the Bishop take me under
i could send my soul away
and throw my body in gutter
and i shudder in my slumber
fingers gripping at the sheets
and i wake up in a sweat
this is what she did to me.

---

don't let your dreams be dreams
let them be nightmares
when your soul's in the dark
you can trust that the night cares
upon a hilltop
there stood a white mare
who scoffed my direction
took off and left me there

taking an L like
fuck, i'm here again
Zoroastrian hell
as my heart starts withering
cut that bitch out,
used my last breath
to bury it
fell to the ground
as my life was
diminishing

send me to hell
then at least i'll be free of this

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DxvLc2a6Iao&t=112s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Ff0bq_ydEQ

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w--D1S8SrCQ

if anyone would be interested in my top 10 emo rap tracks of 2018 lemme kno because i know what they are i just font have the everny to write a wholeass post on it but if yall want it i will

bye now