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/lit/ - Literature / Fanfic / Poetry

M-my hands are w-writing on their own~!
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🎉 Happy New Year! 🎉

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to my thread
i hope you enjoy what i happen to share here.


Father's Day


When I started thinking about what ti write I couldn't think of the right things to say, to tell you. I've spent a large potion of my day walking around my head to get something for a page. Signing a card someone else got for me, which I am sure you are aware happened, means little to nothing. I guess, though, that was my problem in the first place - I was figuring out what to say, not what to think. For most of this I've looped around countless times to "I'm sorry that"s and "I know… but…"s and "I tried to… but…"s and even in thinking about what Father's day [sic] really is, I find myself at those stuttering statements.

I've still found myself stuck here.
All the things I feel I want to say here are worthless and, I suppose, anything I could say is - words are empty things

From what I understand, Father's Day celebrates paternities, paternal bonds, roles enjoyed by these figures, and so on, but I know my understanding of many things is limited (this is no exception). I would propose to create my own definition in our own context but at this moment I'm incapable

So much of this still has nothing to do with you and I feel lost and discouraged, really

I can't think of something to say to my own dad

So, what is Father's day? "A day to celebrate our great and strong-bonded relationship of father and daughter; your hard work and endless effort for a disjointed family; your pride; your steadfastness; your support; what you mean to me."


All of those things, though, are just… they seem to me so dry and dull, expected, careless and defaulted to. You're infinitely better than me at this because you have the power of retrospection and accomplishments. I've left you mad, frustrated, hurt and empty-feeling, and, if I had anything at all I've done I could use it to help me say sorry and that things will be better, will change - but I don't. And if no actions are made, and words have no worth, what do I have to give to you?

I want to write "I love you", but does it have meaning? I want to say "I love you", but can you hear me speak it?

"It's interesting how the addition has become like the main part of the house, and the original part the addition."
"Nothing makes me happier than seeing my favorite girls in the world happy together."

So I hope today I can be happy for you.



i read

And you were standing by my side, to my right, by the frame
and when i looked your sweet outline on the background swam with motion
i knew you were here, i saw you were here
you were there, you were there, i saw your figure by my side
rising from the background,
moving liquidly in the background…

you are not there

the world tilts downward, toward the left, floors shifting.
we stay put as the center leaves us behind in its shift
I stand, and i feel the world waver, and spin, around me.

i feel an oval plate upon my mid-back
lulling me into balance - a focal point

i waver and become half-limp mid-motion in air
despite what stillness my head may have,
all are streams of colors and textures, intensities, identities

the world slows down

it is time for sleep now.

Descend the stairs.


Onion Skin

i take a breath
hold it in me, prolonged tautness
a pad of softness on my head
gentle hands upon neck & shoulders
and i exhale

my soul jumps,
onion skins three frames from my body

and it stops
the shifting earth revolves without my fall
my slight descent in the air
balmy embrace of hand on neck
constance of this placid hold
as i float
onion skinning one instance
…..looping in one action,
…..prevailing in each frame

the air of watery flow
delicately rolls about me
before drawing back

i shut my eyes in the air
and float gently onto bed
poufs of air cushion my ears
and i feel me onion skinning
into whole-bodied hum
of entering sleep


Covers brush on parts exposed
like tender waves of silken skin
bare soles of feet turned up in hiding
make hills and mountains down below

On sleepless nights

My mind makes circles in its path
As it spirals down the minutes stretch
there's not much to say about declining
It is unwise to focus on it

On sleepless nights

I fill the valley on the bed
And sigh a gale down meadows
My heart quakes in my chest
Let it come to pass

On sleepless nights.


Read all these, I like the very unusual flow and style you have. It's avant garde in a way, if you pardon me using such a hipster term to describe it, heh.

I think my favorite is the very last bit of prose, the one you wrote on september third. Something about the content gets me. I really like the descriptions you use.


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I thank you…
One thing I take pride in is the flow of my writing.
the word choice in sensory detail i think i do okay, sometimes…


Our cheeks come together
…..And I feel your scruff against me
…..Rough, like a prickled peach
…..or a soft bur

The crook of my hand cradles you under your head
as my other one traces your jaw
Tho' my fingers grace both places
…..they're not that hard to follow…

for you

i love you.


If i ever went around in the water before in my dreams i dont anymore.
ah… i did..
but ive never felt melded to the spirit of water before, like i have with the wind.

this morning i had another dream where i ran with the gust of the wind.
i ran as fast as i could, feeling that dull beginning of whole-spread sting across my calves. then it lifted. and i was lifted too. i became light and my propulsions became bounds, my pumps became strides. a wind was at my back, all around me, and i "ran" with the wind. i ran through forest. my strides were soft, long, flowing. my feet barely met the ground. i touched off on balls of feet. so quick, firm but light in weight.

like a gust.


wend on weightless soles
fade in sound of presence
and thought in mind.
ebb from the flow,


I want to disappear.

Box pleat skirt, peacoat and booties
over tan hide
over the side
so gorgeous.


the day comes close to a close
there's not much to say about the decline.

in a few hours i'll be up again
pull clothes over my weary body
and walk into what feels like the final sunrise.

I'll take a picture through the dirty window as my final sight
before the last decline.


She kissed me up along my neck so softly that I felt myself warmly blurring into the world, this world around me, so warm. I felt myself melt into the resonance of the gayageum emanating from behind the curtain. It was so easy to forget there was a person there, the music was so pleasant, and so was Marlene. Her hand slowly passed across my skin, up my chest and across my cheek, then through my hair.
She smiled, quietly, into my ear. “I'm a disgusting human being.”
“No you aren't.”
… but she talked over me. “I am. I want for everything in the world.” Her gaze poured into mine. “I want musicians to play for me.” (The musician stiffened, causing a rest.) “I want the richest fabrics, and personally tailored fashion. I want sculpture, painting, furniture, and ornamentation. I want gardens and I want animals. I want the earth and I want the sky. I want the stars.” I felt her palm rest on my cheek. “I just, want the world.”
Sadness ruck her face.
“I am disgusting.”
She slipped her body across mine and kissed my heart as she rose to her feet. Her clothes slunk sluggishly in her wake, fading in a shimmering “s-s-s-s-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h…”
The last notes dropped off, echoing hollowly, and the song stopped.


There is no use writing a story
about me
because those whom i would write it for
already know who i am.

i am here.
i am here and i am here.
i am here.

i am here.

i am here.


good reads


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thank you…


I am enjoying every bit of it. Do you put your writings anywhere else on the net? I would certainly love to read more


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anything i post on the net you'll find here, as here is the only place i post things on the net…

thank you very much for the nice comment…


please let the curtains fall.
like an ambient dream
over my fading soul.


well, i puked it back up



When i put on my wool socks
and turn off the lights in the house
i can walk across, fade across the doorsteps
and cease to exist.


I'm 20 years old and I don't even know what that means.
I see a big door in front of me and every day that passes by the ground below me warps and our distance grows

is it a door? i dont know.

it is stairs
and they keep growing in number ahead of me and i am the only one standing on the first few steps

will you tell me

how many steps have you tread?

Where are you now?

will you tell me

do you see yourself

when you look in the mirror?

will you tell me?

I don't know.


There are so many things you feel yet so little you say
and every day your view of me seems to get worse and worse
you don't work hard, you don't know how to work
that's what you told me today

I don't know how to live a life outside of the one I live.
I don't know what it's like to have an existence that is not mine.

There's something wrong
There's something very wrong in me

There are so many things I try to explain but nothing ever reaches you on its way
The sounds reverb somewhere between us
they come back to me
If only when I put it all together you could see it all.

It's there, it's there… Am I coming in? it's there…
it is there…

is it there…

I don't work hard. I don't know how to work.
I don't know what will is, I don't know what want is.
I don't know how to live, and

I am the most horrible person in the world.


it is nice
to be in this space
this space where i feel
in space.

music is so beautiful and lets you feel so many wonderful things

i am riding the waves of sound. reverberating.
reverberating, through cosmic waves i flow through pulsar and nova



waiting for self-destruct
time is endless, time is still
when will it tick


my circuits in this current
the flow
going and going to and fro
in and out
far and near, yonder and here
flick the switch again


if i just
stay quiet
it won't make a difference.
if i just stay quiet
it won't do anything to them.

if i just stay quiet
nothing bad will happen
nothing bad will come of me.

if i just
stay quiet

I'm here. how are you



I wonder what it's like
to be you.



I can feel it come out on my breath
I take slow swills and feel the pulp
i was always terrible at mixing but i guess that's how it goes
my body is limp but taught. a dis-harmony of recur
i can feel it in my vessels as it comes out on my breath.


I wanted it to snow because I was tired of looking at the filth.
when there is snow the weight of yesteryears disappears
The dark sky and the dark abyss of distance
bright light of the moon
on the white


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so reader, i was thinking
I wonder what people think of their own age
and their own situations

what do people like about themselves and what are they good at
what do they do to spend their time
I wonder what they think about on a day-to-day basis
do they think much at all? or is their mind clear
or is their mind empty

There is so much to write yet none to write at all.
the duality of not wanting to broadcast, but not wanting to disappear.
to be here.

The Art of Disappearing
It's a book but i wanted to make it my own title
but then again, i have nothing to share
as i've said
Those who know already know and
I just want to be here.
I am here.

I am here.

I am not really here.

As time goes on I wonder if things will change
The stagnance of the decades encapsulating my soul
though it flows
it flows like a nebula
like pulars through the waves
magnetic waves
my gravity swells, and everything swings-by



you're not here.


I don't really know how to open this. Openings are usually easy for me, or maybe they aren't, I don't really know.

I like my writing style
I suppose that it's mine because I like it, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this way

A fellow writer has described it as "avant-garde" many times, and that, were i to stop suffering, the magic of my writing wouldn't be there.

Well, what he really said was "Honestly, I feel like you're some kind of troubled avant-garde artist / And as weird as this sounds, it's oddly endearing / I feel like if you weren't as frustrated about your art or felt like you do about it, it would probably lack a certain quality that I like about it" at least, that's what the logs say. they also say he said "The way I meant avant-garde is like / Progressive, experimental … Some of those pictures you've drawn / The way the characters hold themselves has some kind of like / intensity? to them I guess / There's also a kind of "I'm lost but I'm looking" to certain pictures that I see in their expressions" and then it trails into " you're not a bad artist" so I suppose you can guess where the context might have started.

I call it cathartsis.

That's something i've been wondering about a lot. when I'm better, what happens to my art? my dead has been passioning me to write but what happens when there's no more dread from which to draw?

Well currently I'm being inspired by my lack of ability to focus. I'm watching my boyfriend play this game called "League of Legends" (Just to date me and aid others to label me in the future) . That game does a fairly good job of letting you get into a character playstyle with the champions.

well what a way to beat around the bush.
and now that im here the inspiration is gone.

I was going to write about how someone mentioned i was very Thoreau in my writing and i thought that i guess it fit me.

I dont know when i stopped reading but it's a shame i can't focus enough to read anymore.



sometimes i wish i heard my name in the night
so i felt that someone wanted to hear me reply.

or feel a brush on my shoulder
or a whisper in the dark


There's certainly a distinct charm in these selections that i cant seem to put into words at the moment…

Good stuff right here OP


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Thank you.

it has been quite a journey.


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my [Deep.] art


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It's snow today?
Again, it's not. Today it's not again.
I take few shots of moon,
and shut my curtains down.
It's starry sky this morning
so big, so empty and exciting.
And filthy ground today, once more.
I start my day, between, again.
Between such empty stars in head
And filthy hands and words I have.
With awkward gestures, rough words
detached from the skyes in head.
But I believe that snow one day
connect the sky and dirt below.
And I will wait, I will be wait.
It's not today, no snow again.

%%english is not my native, so be gentle, plz%%
%%those shots of the moon picrelated%%


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you funny, guy.

im sure people would like you to make your own thread, or, if you're trying to pretend to be me, at least put more effort into emulating my syntax.


It's been 2 years since i really posted here. Since then I've written 3 books and have begun sketching again.

if anyone ever wants to read more of my stuff feel free to post again in response. however, i dont really plan on continuing any posts here.


I'm interested.


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I missed your writing. It was a huge push for me to start writing again, and if you ever publish those books somewhere I'd like to read them.


I'm currently struggling to write an actual book, instead of poetry.

Though, now that I think of it, I suppose I could start from one of my poems, and practice storyboarding with them.


Childhood was…

Curses and Blessings.
Angels carrying your weight
Giants rearing heads and raising arms
Clocks are beautiful works of art with one purpose: appeal.

But outside is where it really is.
Honest sky, pure air
Fields of green with yellow blemish
Humms are too far away
to hear or even believe in.
Because it's you.
You and the earth.
Stick your toes into the dirt.
Feel the cool, soft embrace 'round flower.

The wind blows in circles
and its leaves carries memories.


I just wanted to say that this is probably some of my favorite poetry I've ever read.

Are you still here?
You never really were, but you know what I mean.

Do you still write these messages, these words meant to be read so scarcely? I hope you haven't put these poems in a book. Words like these can't be written in a book, they lose their meaning, like the pleading in the bottle at sea. All the context that makes it so powerful, gone. Words like these best find their places in bathroom stalls, carved in trees, left collecting dust in the attic; out of the way, but never hidden. These words are fine wine; intoxicating and better with age. You've inspired me with these wayward words in the great expanse of the world's grand archives. I wish I could preach this poem, because it's spoken to me unlike anything I've felt before, but I couldn't bring myself to disgrace. Even writing this makes me feel like they've been dirtied by my many words. I only hope you get to see this praise. See its footprint, rather. See that I was here, once.

You were here, too.





I'm moving again
belongings like charms
though keeping so many's less good than harm

I won't go back
to any place
that isn't happy to see my face

I unpack these
my curs'ed charms
I let my brain sound all alarms

I heard it rang
through boxes thin
stacked so high, up to my chin

I hid away
those heavy rings
back in my closet from daily things

I'm tired now.
of all this stuff.
I've carried it for long enough.





I let the toll
- it resonates -
fade out, away
and let it go.

I have less boxes now.
I'm moving again.



Thank you all for your kind words over the years. Unsure if you all are still around but I do appreciate your sentiment. I hope you enjoy what I posted today.


have you finished your book?


Nope. lol

but really all it ever was going to be, was an autobiography. If I write something now, it would probably be a graphic novel series consisting of only portraits and other paintings/pictures with some text.
idk, it was never about the book. it was only ever about getting it out of my head and it existing and being seen. (I am certain that is apparent)

That comment about the negative parts about my journey being a driving force behind my work… (which I read as "the driving force behind my work" because it was) I thought a lot about that "lost but looking" dialogue, and a lot about it recently. For a while I worried that I would stop drawing because, once it wasn't so unbearable that I Just Had To Put It Out On Paper, I wouldn't have that uncontrollable urge to create forcing me to draw so often. And I was right, for a long time I stopped. But my recent experiences reminded me that I'm a person constantly challenging myself and never accepting what is, and therefore am a challenging person and may not be accepting of what is around me, and I am ok with that. I can use that new form of "lost but looking" to drive my creative process now. I can be lost in myself but looking for ways to let what is, be. And not worry about being a perfectionist so much to change it and make it as perfect and efficient and shiny as possible.

I never really considered myself a writer, and I never really liked my art when I forced it, anyway. A lot of my writing felt forced. I want my art to be more lenient and expressive. This will definitely mean less writing, but maybe not so much less story/journey-telling. But more important than that, I want it to be sincere. so I am going to practice letting it exist as whatever comes to me, in whichever medium, in however long it takes to complete. That is how I let that poem happen yesterday.

I think this is the best approach.

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