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  1. 8 points
    smoke on the air and trust us but you've failed us, haven't you? you've failed us again and again and again and again drumbeat staccato rhythm that's no drum you beg our respect and yet you have done nothing to earn it tear me down into a million pieces i will always stand back up we're standing tall and holding hands tight interlock our fingers and feel my heart beat do not let me go build a wall he said so we did we built it in our hearts and around our bodies we raised the barricades and readied the siege cannons thief in the night, stealing our everything and it's almost funny that you think we'd lie down and take it it's your future, they say and think of the children well, the children are thinking eyes wide open in the fading light watch the earth spin loose from its orbit out of control like a broken windmill get off the merry-go-round if you can't take it but it's not stopping and there's no way off don't jump. dig in your heels and say no. black and white moral gray of right and wrong this isn't about beliefs anymore this is about freedom gold coins are glistening but that doesn't matter when they're soaked in our blood you blocked us out and shut our mouths and so this is war and we will win it ready your weapons answer the call it's our future and we are taking it surrender quietly because we're not taking survivors this is a battlefield and you drew the lines and moments later crossed them well we've had enough brace yourself for the dawn sky turning orange or red like blood tomorrow is for us for our broken chains and rust-colored hearts fists in the air with the voices screaming get ready, soldiers the kids have had enough.
  2. 7 points
    oh hot damn this is my jam leg bounce? leg bounce? clickclickclickclick mouse? pen? either works eternal munchies: the saga gotta have something to chew on no music? guess ill die taptaptaptaptaptap type LOUD and FAST just because of the clickety clack three-note scale repeats. repeats. repeats. nothing to fidget with? aggressive fixing of hair ITCH FAST, clack fingernails sitting down? ankle roll, ankle roll standing up? tiptoe until you cant anymore wiggle shoulders, bob head, rock your center of gravity "how are you not single" good motherfuckin question gotta fidget, dude, check messages/websites OVER and OVER them spinners arent enough and i gotta keep my hands free leg bounce? leg bounce? can't quit these internal monologues turned imagined arguments god damn that second story window? all grey-ass fuckin' sky suddenly something to soft-focus your eyes on forever "what are you doing?" "sometimes you just gotta dance, you know?"
  3. 7 points
    i know i've barely been on here but lemme just say? i had a very sweet old lady all me a 'kind young man' on a day i was feeling like i couldnt physically get to the level of masculine i wanted to and uh w o w that felt good?? i mean, obviously i cried happy tears within the next 5 seconds, which wasn't really the look i was going for kjgfbkjfg
  4. 7 points
    I'd like to start by saying That it may appear I'm not involved . Born and raised here, a "true" american, in a nice, rich, democratic city where everyone thinks the same things (in terms of politics, at least). People don't have prejudice when they look at me If I curse, am rude, say something stupid, that's not applied to my mother or father or teachers who look like I do. Who look white. But that doesn't mean that I don't see what others like me are doing. It doesn't mean that I don't judge what some of you are doing. Sometimes I get it. I hate it, but I've slipped up. I regret everyday. You say that the problem is other people, that "we are the good ones, that it's just those not right in the head those ones from over the border those ones who look different those ones who love wrong those ones who believe in a different version of god." But what happens when you are suddenly faced with the gripping realization that laws are on people not guns on people not tax bills on people not corporations on people, just like you who want to feed their families by leaving them behind forever who want to have another chance who are dreamers who are hard-working who look and sound and believe different but are still people. Those laws aren't working. We've tried working on people, and it didn't work. We don't need more laws to use on people. To anyone who's not convinced yet think of this. What happens if a child, a son, lets say, doesn't like girls? Doesn't believe in the kind of god you do? Loves someone who doesn't look like everyone you know? isn't "right in the head"? You can't control the human condition. You can't control humans. If your son hates his life making it just peachy won't help. Pushing him might just push him to guns, drugs, rape, hate, and more. And then what will you do when your little boy is on TV shooting up a school full of innocent children. You don't have to listen to me. I'm just words on a screen. But I'm really tired of my friends breaking down after class because for them racism is present. I'm tired of listening to girls get harassed on the street Because they wear less clothes or more than most. They are on your side the people you hate. Many voted for him too not because they wanted to be deported or harassed or worse. But because they wanted to "make america great again". They want jobs and food and better wages just like you. They thought only the "bad" would punished that they were "good people". But the man they voted for punishes everyone. I hate to be that person, but to quote To Kill A Mockingbird, "I think there's just one kind of folks. Folks."(231) _____________________________________________________________________ I don't know if this was PC or not. I hope so. Let me know if it wasn't. I just was kind of fed up with the way things have been going the past year and a quarter.
  5. 6 points
    For the past year and a half, two of my friends and I have been keeping a list of quotes we’ve overheard. Some of them require context, but I find the best ones are better off without it. For example: "You don't want to get in a fight with him. I think he kills people for a living, he's been pretty vague." “No, he’s just scared of girls. That’s not his problem, though.” “What’s in the fanny pack?” *unzips neon yellow fanny pack with a straight face to reveal fruit snacks* “You don’t want to get stabbed? That’s so extra.” “I mean, the guillotine had a pretty sweet pulley system.” “You’re overlooking all the other perfectly valid reasons I’m going to hell.” “Shrek is NOT a folk tale!” “You shake my spear.” “NO.” “FUCK YOU.” “I love it when girls say nice things.” “Do I have an ass?” “Well, all your shit has to come from somewhere.” “the gate keeps out T H E B E A S T” “We didn’t play like the fucking goose.” “How’s your boyfriend?” “Still nonexistent.” I have around 100 more pages of these, but feel free to add your own. If anyone wants more of these, I can attach more. If nothing else, it’s C O N T E N T Update: this had a great response, so enjoy some more. Like, this is the highlights of last semester's list, just to give you perspective of how many damn quotes we've collected overheard quotes pt 2.docx
  6. 5 points
    I want to learn To fall in love with writing again I want to whisper lines of poetry to myself in the mirror again I want to yell my truth from the top of a mountain, Scream my verse and let the whole world know That I am me
  7. 5 points
    good morning—evening—afternoon—day night blur did you know that time is quicksand? slip and slide and i'm on a week-by-week basis gotta get it in before the due date before the due date before the— what's next? check the box that's that credit and then off i go to where? to my life? to my dreams? no, off to college, hope you get in, hope you don't starve here's what i want but if i reach up will i only fall? my worth is in percentages in numbers in a's and b's and c's in test scores on that blinding bright screen in coffee shops with shuffling papers and can i afford to sleep tonight? there's a special kind of stress that comes when the teacher think she's the only one like here's the work, forget about the others— this is your only class pile it on bend but do not break what is it i'm aiming for? why pile bricks on a sapling? why must fragile bark warp, and thin branches tremble? i used to get excited now i'm just struggling to survive drowning in the haze of test homework essay test of clean graphite circles on plain white paper why haven't i the time to sing?
  8. 5 points
    take a ribbon and wrap it tight around your fingers curl your fist into silk-strong solidity raise it in the air and count the moths that flock to your light one, two, three; open your hand and show it to the world. hold it high no higher. wrap the ribbon further up your arms use it to hide your scars pluck the wings from the moths dusty gray and soft-fuzz glue them to your eyelids. do not use butterflies; that is a false sort of color. do not let yourself be fragile cover yourself in acrylic and hide your glass bones bury your fire-blown history in the coals of the forge call on your molten heart and start spinning. they'll try to break you. don't let them. hold tight to the cloth. don't let it choke you. it will try it will crawl up to your throat and wrap tight around your lips begging silence, begging submission— do not submit find some paint dip your fingers in smear it on your face drip red onto the pavement and make sure to coat your lips hold tight to your lover and do not let her slide away. tie the ribbon between your wrists a handcuff, almost, a bond a lifeline. tie it tight. feel for her pulse. paint her fingers red and kiss her moth-wing lids don't let her wash away in the tide. they will try to break your hold. they will try to smash your bones. they will try to paint butterflies on your cheeks bright colors and fragile innocence. they will put lampshades over your light and paint fool on your face in gray-green-blue. they are lying. remember, they are lying. go find your ribbon. find your paint and your moths and your lover mix them in a cauldron and bite down till you taste blood. this is how to start a home-grown rebellion.
  9. 5 points
    "you look at me like i hung the stars in the sky." my dear, the sky is the canvas behind your irises and i could swim endlessly in the cosmos within them please do not mistake this love for blindness my gaze long ago sought every fault line, every dying sun every craggy moon in sharp pitch-contrasted relief my dear you're better than you think
  10. 4 points
    give me thunder or give me sugar or give me the black charred roses trod under the blood moon where i intend to make this hate a harvest we aint here to save ourselves & a mouth begat a swing, & a swing begat the fall, & the fall begat the splatter, & the splatter begat the swish and spit, & the swish and spit begat caffeine headaches pushing sharp behind my teeth like so many daisies & that's a kind of mourning too my fists hang heavy like summer peaches just over the fence a thing that ain't beautiful but deserved by those who get too close wasn't it enough? how i find you, thirst for something vermilion, fingers closing around soft arteries & pulling, always pulling pick a fight like an opium poppy & get hooked on the sting
  11. 4 points
    hey my phone died but voice chatting with yall was super fun!!!!! <3 <3 <3
  12. 4 points
    I never was the perfect child Not the daughter my parents wanted My mom isn't my best friend, My dad and I hardly speak My sister posts pictures of herself doing yoga on the beach, And I'm picking endlessly at my skin I'm not the perfect daughter. But I am building a life for myself. I'm becoming a man, Living up to my own standards. I'm teaching myself That life is meant to be lived That I deserve to breathe free I'm building my pride the way I've been building my muscle for three years now I'm breaking through the barriers I stand Bronze piston legs gleaming in the sun Wind whispering through my short red hair I'm the black sheep But I'm fucking glorious I am a majestic mother fucker This is my life to live And I'm gonna fucking live it.
  13. 4 points
  14. 4 points
  15. 4 points
    a text i never thought i'd receive
  16. 4 points
    i did a fuckton of art just now skdgjksdjfs (if u read the file names all may become....slightly more clear)
  17. 3 points
    You know those old farm houses? The ones out on Meadowbrook Road Behind the briar bushes and mulberry trees? There’s a couple buildings that have tumbled to the ground, But I’ve found some that still stand there, in the waving grass. They’ve lasted for who-knows-how long And the wood planks are rotting but something About the cracked concrete and shattered windows Makes it beautiful, in a woodsy, haunting sort of way. When it’s morning, or the middle of the day The sun shines on the little lake there And slants in through the holes in the sheet metal ceilings. I like to stand in the middle of the dusty floors And look at the paintings on the walls. There’s one with a mermaid, and another That says ‘find true love.’ I didn’t find it there, In the summer park with the rusting cars, The soaring, skylight silos, the eroded creek. I didn’t find it in the ancient trees Or the tiny hidden graveyard With the weathered marble stones carved with maple leaves, But I did find something close to home there, Beneath the pines and the strange circle of stones. I felt the ghosts of a long ago time in those fields And they weren’t lost or sad, they were just peaceful.
  18. 3 points
    for some a purgatory filled past eternity with infinite shades in the sea of greens that surrounds the thread of sun-bleached rain-washed asphalt that twists and swoops around hills speckled with salt-and-pepper cattle and yellow-gold flecks of tied-up hay pulled and braided like shorn hair and the single store across a red-clay-streaked street yellow lines so faded that we run on assumption the dog barks and chases every car that pulls in across from her once-white house wooden siding gray as the pavement where the paint has chipped and peeled her name is lily she defends the singular store with cigarettes behind the counter and pencils beside a child’s paradise in the form of a wall covered in crayola-colored candies the woman inside is older than anyone can remember and her hair is whiter than the house across the street her son is there too his name is mike when i was smaller he’d pick me up so i could reach the dollar ice cream inside the icebox and once he tolerated me when i climbed on the counter to braid his hair and two men sit in chairs by the door they have always been there too in the half-light through the paper-plastered front window and they drink coffee careful not to spill on camouflage jackets and well-worn leather boots red from the clay they’ve stood in they talk about the before and compare it to the now and they talk about how the now can be better how nice it is that their daughter can be in the military now and how the solar panels on their hot tin roof help so much and they talk about stamps and their guns in the back of their trucks and hunting the bear that’s been killing their salt-and-pepper cows they say that the past is nice too before cookie-cutter houses sprung up and chain restaurants forged their way in before a night-black road came in beside and the days when a president’s skin was not orange or black before when anyone could come in regardless of their skin and then we could hate them for whatever else they’d got and patriotism didn’t mean ignorant so we sit in the shadows of purple-blue mountains and watch as the wind blows through the trees that line the roads that may turn to gravel and we watch picket-fence perspective lines fade into the humidity the cardinals and sparrows fly and sit on the graves of names faded with indifference some kept in the best shape are of a different shape than the rest and the next church offers hope too, regardless of who you voted for when you last stood inside but eternity isn’t so bad and purgatory is my backyard Author's Note: okay so @thepensword directly inspired me with "American Purgatory" (go read it, it's gorgeous) to actually follow through on the effort I've been making to describe the small town in the American Southeast that I live in. I want to make clear that I am NOT mad at you/offended, Jess, I just wanted to show my corner of where she's seeing from someone who's lived here for a while. Second note: the lines in this poem "some kept in the best shape/ are a different shape than the rest" refers to how the graves of confederate soldiers are a specific shape. And we've got some of those around here. Most people can recognize the shape. That said, not a single person nearby me has a confederate flag displayed at their house.
  19. 3 points
    In case you didn’t know @drowntown is a monster
  20. 3 points
  21. 3 points
    I don't blame you For not liking me like I like you I'm a mess My life is a dumpster fire The only that could even mildly clean it... An atomic bomb And a couple extra nukes for good measure I would probably stay away from me too if I were not myself I am unatrualy forgetful Too into stars And I forget to brush my hair Often But I think I've been over that already All I'm missing is a death ray And I could be a mad scientist Let hope that doesn't happen... I'm sorry I like you too much my brain won't shut off I've tried But that's okay And I hope you understand I'm not your stalker Because Your to good for that ... IM BACK WITH YET ANOTHER TRIED TO BE FUNNY BUT ENDED UP WITH THIS SAD PILE OF YUCK. OH I HAVE CAPS ON. sorry.
  22. 3 points
    I want to be satisfied with what I have I want the whole glorious world in my arms I want to laugh until I can't breath and talk for hours without losing our casual flow I want to touch the hair he keeps shaking out of his eyes I want her curves against mine and no hesitation I want to do more than imagine and not be afraid that outside my head nothing grows I want the soft-blankets past and the open-air future I want confidence when I step with my eyes closed I want to cradle you in my arms and be reassured by the beat of your human heart I want the wind and the storm and pure power in my veins I want the gentle darkness under the ocean's lull I want to be frozen until I am ice immune to winter and to this illogical species I want to know everything including that I am right I want perfection that never stumbles though the way is bleak I want to be strong enough to stand alone until death welcomes me and I lay down in that good house
  23. 3 points
    dawn is an image i do not often experience. i am sleep-weary and bedridden by thoughts of what must i do today of can i make the deadline and yet there's that wren, outside my window singing her constant, consistent song. i wonder if she knows i can hear her. i wonder if she cares. last night, midnight hues and headache pounding footsteps on a carpet and my father's voice, goodnight children i have to go run before it's midnight one look at my face and forehead crinkles you look exhausted. go to sleep. there are not enough hours for all the things i want to do; my canvas is large and i am running out of paint. why must the stars be so welcoming? why must daybreak beckon with watercolor pastels? i am afraid of death but it's less about the dying— i am afraid of numb mind, eternal sleep. there's so many colors i'm picasso or kandinsky, tie-dye 80s craze because i can't choose an hour to wake in (instead i choose them all.) wake up, says the wren. you have so much to do. i am infinity, i am a mobius strip. welcome to my ouroboros.
  24. 3 points
    My parents tell me that when I was little, they couldn't understand me. My sister had to translate, saying with a sigh, "she says 'I want ice cream'" or whatever I was trying to communicate to my parents. How fucking ironic is it that, more than a decade later, we're back with the same issue, but this time speech therapy won't help. We can't talk about the things that are important to me without calling my other sister to moderate. The only kind of therapy that can fix this is family therapy, and god knows how that would end. I was in first grade when I first met the nice lady who patiently corrected my lisps and mumbling. We played games and I met some pretty girls who were in 5th grade. I was a chatty fellow, telling stories as they picked me up from my classroom led me to the lady's room, where we practiced breathing through our noses and played Heads Up! My voice got better through the 4 years of speech therapy, but it was raspy for years after. In 5th grade, I joined chorus for the first time, and I fell in love. I pretended to hate it simply because everyone else hated it, but I loved it. I loved the vibrations in my throat and the sounds that poured from my mouth. For once, I had a voice, and it was beautiful. My year of chorus ended, and I left for middle school, where my voice was ripped from my throat by people who thought that I was something for them to destroy. I couldn't even order food at a restaurant. My mom became my voice, ordering my food, talking to the principal, even calling the cops on this one girl who prank called my cell phone for hours and hours on end. She stopped being my voice when I came out. No, she didn't stop being my voice, she stole it. She read my texts and I never got to come out. I never got to use my voice to tell her that I like girls. That I felt more like a boy than a girl. I wasn't able to tell her. She found out. I don't talk to my parents much. Sometimes it seems like our relationship is irreparable. But I'm speaking out, I'm rising up. I'm using my voice again, and I'm getting stronger everyday. I've found a family, and I'm being the man that I needed when my voice was gone. I'm in chorus now, and my tenor is strong, vibrating through the auditorium. I sing, telling everyone that they are not alone. That they can always use their voice. I'm living proof that they can make it. My voice is strong, and I am brave. My voice and I are friends. Sometimes, when I'm speaking and I want to claw my vocal cords out, I sing. I sing, and I feel the strength and the journey that it took to get me here.
  25. 3 points
    this is part of an online quiz and my teacher gave me 2 hours to a) answer an essay prompt and B) write this based on a prompt.... you dont gotta know the prompt i just need help on whether this flows or not (yeah youve seen parts of this before. i reused it because i doubt my abilities to write a good logopoetics poem in one hour) your irises are hackmanite, and whites fall luminescent under UV and the people stand close like Oz munchkins it's too radiating hot where we're pressed together, all incandescent eyestrain purples dancing across the floor, music rattling our lungs and pumping through our ears; apple shampoo-scented tango, with caffeine sharp behind my teeth. your skin feels blurry. and im whispering clark, and you're whispering 'i can't believe i had my first kiss at a fucking wizard of oz-themed redmond high school homecoming dance. i dont even go here.' your lipstick looks so, so blood fuchsia in the dark, neon strawberry waiting by the water fountain, i got mistaken for a popular instagram blogger. i had to tell her no, tell her i aint the fleek-ass bae she's lookin' for she looked right through me, all my flash (bang!) matte glitter "my god, your dress!" comes from the bathroom. i am an underdressed glory the gold sequins of hourlong toil are little suns of the dance floor my shoes scream of the ethicality behind the millions of times ive jumped on them so far tonight as i gusted through your soul. the tension in the air is enough to hobble dogs with, my mouth will blink quietly. after poe: quoth the raven, birds in the weather die together eso si que es o dearest of the dance floor, my grammarian lion, i can bear your heavy heart and that neon lipstick looks like love smeared at the corner of your mouth
  26. 3 points
    are you happy? was it worth it? we cower and flinch, brother and brother, shoulder to shoulder under warning palm-striking wooden spoon, tyrant of mistakes. i remember the little things that shape me, like the enduring, ingrained compulsion to eat pizza crusts regardless of dislike after you made my brother eat his out of the trash in 2007. i remember when you beat him over and over for telling lies. i remember when you found out he hadn't been, and gathered his little body into your arms like you could undo all that hurt with a sorry or two. i don't think he ever forgot. i remember being young and criss crossing behind a chair in the corner of a hospital waiting room when my sister was born. i remember the first time you hit her. dad remains the passive one, too shy and mellow to lift a hand to anyone. you are a force to be reckoned with. the me that was yours is no longer the me that is. i fear making even the smallest mistakes regardless that i know i've grown too much for you hit me anymore; this anxious thrumming beneath my skin is a tenuous thing, and at the worst of it, two years ago, i found new ways to bring my life closer to the endless stratosphere. in the night i dream of being your worthwhile son. are you happy? was it worth it? identity is a fluctuating, neverending thing, one of constant ebb and pull that beckons me out to the wide blue river mentioned in passing by gretchen weirob within a dialogue on personal identity. the water within is distinct but constantly flowing through, and yet the river it is remains the same river it was. her metaphor stood on both legs but for twenty-four hours, kneeling then at the feet of philosophy and laying out to be picked over and strung up by the fingertips for examination by later generations. john perry begs me to find myself. timeline theory flows from between my teeth, each syllable dripping from a new reality; the one in which i was loved is not the one i inhabit now. the one in which i am yours is not the one i inhabit now. and as i step forward into this branch of here, this branch of now, the parameters that my identity operates within resets; the stars above my head shift just a little to the left, and polaris blinks openmouthed at me while my prolixity lapses into quiet rumination. i forgive myself. and when the garage door rumbles open i flinch and my heart kicks me into fight-or-flight, tying my vocal cords closed and bowtied and shuttering the reason behind my eyes. your first orders come at a shout like barking rottweilers through the door, and my sister flees upstairs. every quiet, circuitous sentence is a plea laid at your feet; asking anything of you outright is a struggle. a friend's house is water circling the drain. you scream at me for clarity, and my mouth sews itself shut, sutures all catgut and copper wire. are you happy? was it worth it? i cannot speak.
  27. 3 points
  28. 3 points
    jewel-garden flowers: daffodils of citrine, paper-thin a field of garnet blown-glass poppies cloistered in the shadows wait turquoise forget-me-nots and sailing sapphire irises, shot through with violet tourmaline pearl snowdrops, on malachite stems sweet blossoms, bobbing in the fragrant air glowing with soft refractions of soaked-up sunlight oozing translucent summer-sap from crystalline petals gold and copper bumblebees with tiny iron stripes and springs silver-veined dragonfly wings and the long-suffering monarchs with their rust-red wings they are less delicate than they look: a million tiny wingbeats adding up to a thousand miles they came all this way to see the ruby droplet flowers taste this amber nectar honey perch upon a swinging leaf with liquid emerald sun sleeping in its veins they bask in the brilliant days and glory in the dark nights quartz-crystal-stars sown in the new sky - still warm from the sun still glistening from the diamond rain they stay and then they leave again scared off by the ebony birds, those click-clacking jet starlings whose multitudes fill the sky with the noise of their wings or perhaps the creeping frost, calcite growing in cold fern-patterns made the monarchs' blood creep sluggish and so they flew while they still could away to different gardens, to sleep in multitudes of their own quiet rustling weighing down the deep jade pines * * * I dunno what happened, I've been writing realistic personal angsty stuff that I can't reread let alone edit, and then this happened yesterday. I'd love critique! (especially towards the question, do you think I went overboard with the gemstone-flower stuff or not?)
  29. 3 points
    what's being a teenager all about? that's right, drawing sexy planes with dicks for an audience
  30. 3 points
    It is silent But for the crunching of twigs under feet And the scrape of kicking branches across asphalt And the wind raking through the claws of the trees That dip and dive and swoon Cutting across the sky The ghostly rattle of wood on wood A dog barks Somewhere And a chorus follows it The hands of the wind fly towards us Grabbing at loose hair Strands of sunlight Too-big jackets that flatten against skin Two geese call to each other, Touching down on the lake And the wind pulls at them, too The rattle of metal and the need for power Hums from behind houses And the sky is too blue The sun too bright For there to be such wreckage We shatter the silence with more metal Which whines as it presses against trees Sap and flesh showering from the wound And the crunching and scraping Returns again And as we pull the carnage out of the road Into the woods The whispers of needles against asphalt rise again We return home from our adventure victorious In silence once more so this came out more angsty than I wanted but I might rework it later. so many fallen trees everywhere I mean lordy. also like the generators? they kept going so long we all stopped hearing them even though they’re loud as fuck
  31. 3 points
    We DID it, you guys! I went to the regional competition for NHD yesterday and my group won first in our category! We qualified for states! I'm so proud of us, and i'm glad all of that stress and tracking down newspapers on half-sketchy websites was worth it.
  32. 3 points
    Trans culture is finger gunning at the next trans kid in line for the school's one unisex bathroom.
  33. 3 points
    Aries: Prepare for a big surprise this week when a routine x-ray reveals what you have instead of a skeleton. Taurus: Watch your thoughts, for they become words. Watch your words, for they become incantations. Watch your incantations, for they become infernal summoning rituals. Gemini: It doesn't hurt to shop around! Don't just settle for the first cute person who inflates their throat sac and regurgitates a bit of squid for you. Cancer: It's time to tackle that big project you've been putting off forever. Get out the shovel and dig the well in the exact spot you dream of every night, to the exact specifications of the terrible whispers that plague your every waking moment. Leo: You chose your building materials well. Sure, it might not be as strong as bricks, but any big bad wolf would have to stop and wonder exactly what kind of pig lives in a house made of antique dental tools. Virgo: Usually it’s a bad idea to count your chickens before the eggs have hatched, but you appear to have somehow ended up with exponentially more chickens than eggs—all perfectly identical, perfectly silent, eyes gleaming with ancient hunger. Libra: You’ve got a lot on your plate this week, so it might be a good time to ask for help. Instead of getting overwhelmed, take a deep breath, write a clear and organized to-do list, and bury it at the crossroads at midnight on a new moon. Scorpio: You’re a huge sucker for the classics, so you knew from the moment she waltzed into your office with her Monroe smile and Garbo nose and Davis forehead and Bacall elbows that you’d do anything for her. And you have. Such terrible, terrible things. All for her. Sagittarius: Feel free to fool around until the cows come home, but you’ll regret it. The cows bring with them a terrible reckoning, and we’ll all pay when they come home. Capricorn: An astrologer read the stars for Capricorn’s horoscope, and they were SHOCKED at what they found! Aquarius: Some might say you’re looking for love in all the wrong places, but you’re pretty sure you’ll find exactly what you’re after in the peat bogs of Denmark. Pisces: Everyone remembers that thing you did and they talk about it all the time.
  34. 3 points
    i revel in my self-applied haircut and dye job feat. the stoner hoodie
  35. 3 points
    You’re tiny, eyes wide, Timid like a grey mouse, Small, sweet, someone I would normally never Fall in like with but Now? I’m a Deer in the headlights, Heart beating fast-bright With wonder and something strange. It’s like wind on the back fields Out the window of the Chemistry classroom, I feel like the hawks out there that soar In the breeze, But you are the bluebird, too delicate For me and my wild power. I wish you were strong enough to Stay still, but you might flit away If I tell, hide in the branches, Never come down, and I am afraid to lose you Still, I’m determinedly trying With you; shy, faintly smiling Next to me, to be brave enough To say that I might love you.
  36. 3 points
    On the first day of kindergarten I got into time out because I spat at this kid (who has always been a real jerk, so I'm not too sorry) because he knocked over another kid's block tower. I wasn't even playing blocks at the time, but I had the idea that kids would be more mature in real school, and he was really getting on my nerves. I tried to organize a "construction workers' union" where all the kids playing with blocks would protest their mistreatment, but it didn't gain much momentum. Then he insulted me (I forget how) so I spat at him. My mama was horrified.
  37. 3 points
    I just have to make it through the week I’m a vacuum with a full bag Full of dust, hair, and essential things I dropped them under the bed and then completely forgot about it I’m too full to keep sucking I’m burnt out I’m coughing on the dust Feel the tickles and I sneeze I’m tired, sick inside just want to close my eyes again clinging to my pillow staring at the ceiling sinking in…. sinking in…. But the light and the people Don’t listen to me That’s ok I have to do my part I’ve accepted that at least But there’s a little grain in my stomach that stings I don’t know if it’s dread or guilt I won’t do anything My body is used to “Oh pity me, pity me” but I don’t want to regress to homey helplessness and pointing my sword at my chest with the ravine behind me Author's Note: Critiques welcomed.
  38. 3 points
  39. 3 points
    i had an idea that sent me straight to bed eyes falling shut, murmur "i'll write come morning" woke up to searing pain lancing through my skull 'course, poetic line's flown away and left this behind "look at me," dad tells me in the car on the way home from drivers ed, where i left the bathroom smelling like acid. "smile." i do. "i'm pretty sure the statistical probability of a teenager suffering a stroke is mighty slim." "don't hurt to check." we get home, and the painkillers slowly do what they can. mom cooked lunch, a savory thing that bent me over the sink the second i stepped through that front door. (this is worse than double-dosing missed birth control pills and consequently replicating morning sickness from estrogen sensitivity) vertigo met me at the stairs, held out their hand salt and pepper dotted my vision, tangoing with the kaleidoscopic iridescence in my peripheral my god next time i'll write you down, i cry i'd rather hack off my own head than experience this loss again, my god
  40. 3 points
    You know, I was thinking about this the other day and @drowntown you reminded me. The main page says "it’s a space where teens can see their truths explored and celebrated." The Slam is, by Cicada's own description, a safe space for LGBTQ+ and other marginalized teenagers, and such spaces are frighteningly lacking. I'm lucky in that my parents are supportive, but I looked at the now-you-have-to-pay announcement and I thought, "what about the kids who aren't so lucky? what about the kids who need that safe space because they don't receive it in their home? what about the kids who can't ask their unsupportive parents to pay for a website that calls itself 'an intersectional, LGBTQAI+ friendly publication' on its front page?" It's not fair for those kids to lose that. It's not fair for those of you who need this the most to be cut off because they can't pay. It's fine to put a price tag on a magazine, but on a forum for us to connect with each other? It's just not right.
  41. 2 points
    I’m so sorry I haven’t posted anything in ages I just don’t have any new content and I’ve been really stressed and these sound like bad excuses but it hasn’t been a great week and I’m trying to keep up with discord too but I’ve only been there to like. Check on the chaos. For now I’m just appreciating everyone else’s stuff. You go, guys!
  42. 2 points
    note: so this is mostly unedited, i'm sleep deprived, and just came up with this garbage five hours ago.... its probably terrible and messy and idk what it is but take it bc i haven't posted anything in forever // also sorry abt my lower case aesthetic it most definitely makes understanding this worse note #2 because i wrote the first note at 1 am: I'm sorry if its a m ess ,, idk if i censored all the curses I'm so rry also the timeline is confusing but basically most of the events happen in his junior year but the present w the principal is in his senior year,,, thank you he really didn’t intend for the week to turn out like this. he even shocked himself. ✩ the thing about lincoln was that he was… a little on the weaker side. he had bleached blonde hair and a terrifying glare but despite the nickname link, he wasn’t good with swords and wasn’t exactly cool. he couldn’t even memorize the gettysburg address. he tried to spell the nickname as linc for a couple days but soon everyone was calling him lints and it sounded a lot dopier than he already looked, so he changed it. when he finally played a zelda game, a breath of the wild at a party with friends, he made jokes about link’s figure and underwear (“i swear he’s at least 17 in this game”) until people started poking at him to take off his shirt to see if “he matched.” he had the blonde hair. he had the mini ponytail. he didn’t take off his shirt then, but part of him kind of wanted to. ✩ the principle was sitting across from him. he wondered what she saw in the thin manila folder she was clutching in stony, probably cold hands. just another medium sized first gen chinese immigrant kid, probably, with straight A’s and applications sent to harvard and oxford and stanford? the only thing that really set him apart from his perfect brother was the hair. people liked to comment about his hair. ✩ "why?” his mother asked when he came home with his hair a sudden shock of blonde. "black isn’t my colour.” he’d responded. "how much did you pay?” "the thirty dollars ms. ‘ski gave me for mowing her lawn.” "it’s mrs.” his mother corrected. “and her last name is sadinski. learn it.” lincoln didn’t say anything but his head was singing stupid stupid stupid because what did it matter, if the woman next door named marla sadinski was married? it really didn’t. "someday i’m buying you majora’s mask.” was the first thing link’s best friend, mickey, had said. "someday i’ll buy you a bicycle with your name on it.” mickey punched him lightly, then continued to do so after link singsonged micycle over and over, which was, very unfortunately, mickey’s full name. link kept his roots though. he didn’t know if he meant it as metaphorically as he did physically - the dark brown of his hair remained, even if it was hugged by a yellow blonde. he grew it long, sometimes the strands tickled his cheeks when they were split in a smile after a long night of yelling with his friends over monopoly. ✩ "the colleges you’re applying too will have to be notified about this.” the principal says, finally, with a strangled sigh and a squint as if she’s trying to hide the displeasure of revealing a flaw in her tiled halls. link feels a sharp something in his gut, because she says this without hearing him out, hearing his side of the story. plus, he can just imagine the thin, information-less letters he’ll receive from the mail, which will reveal he’ll never be as good as his brother and reveal that he applied to the acting programs at every single college his mother made him apply to instead of the pre-med ones. link knows that even before his mother’s eyebrows will cinch in anger she’ll ask him if he’d rather wear dresses (but it always meant more than that) and he’ll have to lie and say no, mamma, i don’t, i just don’t like math as much as i like pretending i’m someone else. and it wasn’t like link would rather wear dresses, he just liked them and he looked good in them as he was so rudely awakened to the summer prior when mickey and their friends all thought it was a good idea to go shopping for formal wear. pepe, whose nickname was short for penelope and a “f*ck you to every white supremacist who thinks they can claim such a golden meme” had elbowed link and dared him to try on a dress. link was alarmingly good at taking dares in stride, and when he stalked out to do a twirl everyone just stared, stone still, because link was also alarmingly good looking in a dress. (and it never meant more than that.) ✩ link wore a skirt two weeks into the following school year, a yellow one that matched his hair and white pants that matched his white button up. his brother helped him pick it all out, helped him hide it from his mother. his brother, a much cooler senior walking into a high school building with his significantly less cooler brother under his arm, wearing a skirt, sent a bigger ripple through the kids their than link expected. not a wave, but still a ripple. he wanted to wear it at his brother’s funeral, too, but life didn’t work like that. ✩ "but before that, i’d like you to explain.” finally. the principle asked. except that link didn’t really know how to explain. “we see behavior like this in children who have had a recent death in the family-” was that in the thin manila folder? “-but usually sooner. it’s been more than a year.” link’s knees pressed together through his tights. his principal didn’t mention the yellow skirt he was wearing. "my brother used to call those ‘vanilla’ folders.” he said quietly, instead of explaining, because … well, because. the principal gave him a look. link thumbed the ace bandages over his knuckles. ✩ pepe had told him he looked beautiful, that first day in the yellow skirt. she’d sat with her knees crossed and a bright orange folder in her lap with the homework she didn’t have enough time to do the night before and she’d looked up as he stood there, about to sit, and said it. link couldn’t have kept standing, even if he wanted to. ✩ “you have really pretty eyes.” a girl, shorter than link by a good foot, said quietly as they walked slowly in the direction of the school’s exit. she had dark skin and too many freckles and her hair was coiled into to cute dark curls all around her face. they were both in ninth grade at the time, and lincoln did not know anything about this girl except that she was in his first period english class, her name was penelope, and that she was confusing him as to why she was telling him this. all of his question marks were italicized. “you do, too.” he said instead of no one has ever told me that before, or why are they pretty? or something stupid like that. she blinked at this response, looked down, and then said: “i’m wearing a jean skirt and a jean jacket as a joke today, this was the worst time to tell you anything.” ✩ “you’re wearing possibly the most beautiful red dress in existence, this is the perfect time to tell me something.” “not when you’d wear it better than me!” “red’s not my colour!” “why am i even wearing this! i was going to show up as a frog!” “pepe, this is the pre-halloween party.” mickey called from four feet away as he tore open a bag of chips, a full suit resting on his shoulders and over his chest. link wore something similar, plus an added bow in his hair, courtesy of marlow, a lanky boy who looked like he spent too much time on the beach and was very much in love with the world. they were waiting at his house, before they’d all go traipsing into the forest nearby in full formal attire like the hooligans they were. “doesn’t matter! my entire character is a joke!” her hands were in the air, and despite the vague panic on her features she was stunning. she had gold on her eyelids. “pepe, you look amazing, you chose your eyeshadow far too well because you have gold sparks in your eyes and they draw attention to it which is making you very extremely distracting so i swear to god please do not freak out and tell me what you need to tell me.” her eyes got impossibly larger, which didn’t look as bad or bug-eyed as people make it seem, and said: “it’s just that... you also look very nice in skirt. or dress. and i brought an extra, but i realized too late that it’s not your size, and that’s why i was panicking, because i wanted to tell you but i also didn’t want to get your hopes up.” something in link’s head pings. pepe is lying. but it’s okay, because they walk arm in arm into the forest, like some vague life and death brigade party as their entire friend group pile into a small clearing lit by little jack o'lantern fairy lights and a small fire caged in stones, and pepe nervously tells him that she was going to say something else, which gets swallowed up pretty fast because they’re kissing each other before pepe really finishes her sentence about how golden link’s skin is and how no one had told her she had sparks in her eyes. lucy, a small black haired girl who wore doc martens and vintage sweaters hollers and takes a polaroid of them (which is about as stalkerish as it sounds, both pepe and link tell her later) with the date - october 30th - scrawled in pen. ✩ link sees snow start to fall outside as the principle says, “lincoln, the only way you can redeem yourself is if you had a reason, a sensible one at that. neel thomas is a star player on the football team and well liked by students and teachers alike.” link scoffed. thomas was well liked by a certain kind of students and teachers. the kind who tried to shove link’s brother into the wall for existing but forgot that link’s brother was his own star, on the swimming team, and had significantly more muscle in his shoulders to pull himself to air than blubber that suffocated the opponents in a poorly strategized game. “i had a very good reason.” he said mildly, staring into the white snow filling out the edges of the world, as it did in February. “but even i didn’t really think i was capable of getting angry.” ✩ “rosy.” he whispers. he’s in his yellow skirt, this time, the december air tossing it, hoping for a game. but it’s dark, and link is so so tired. the tears on his cheek are freezing. he kneels, doesn’t give a damn about his white tights in the dirt, touches his gloveless hands to the cold headstone. he was there earlier that day, in something more masculine, as the headstone was placed, the carving of roosevelt choi shining in the chilly sun. it was at least one in the morning now. it was the first time he snuck out. the first time link tried. “rosy.” he says again, and he chokes, his other hand squeezing the thing box set on his lap. he sets his forehead on the gravestone, wishing his mind wasn’t freezing because of the cold but because his brother was there, he didn’t know, doing something. not being dead anymore. he puts the thin box down, under the roses and daffodils and lilies. but he doesn’t leave. link is waiting for something now. for all the church visits, link doesn’t believe rose is in the afterlife. or anywhere, really. it hurts, but he knows he’s right. rose is gone. he looks up, startled, when he hears footsteps. tall, a boy with a beautiful dark complection and curling black hair and teardrop shaped eyes stands a couple feet away. it takes him a second, but link understands. “jamie?” he asked the wind. the kid nodded. “link?” jamie questioned, so quiet link was afraid the cold would steal it. but he nodded. jamie walked forward, slowly at first, but then he was there, and he and link were hugging, eyes becoming storm clouds as they sobbed into each other's jackets. “you made him so happy.” link wobbled with his words. “he’d just… light up, when you were around, when we mentioned you.” something rolled through jamie’s body. a rack of something that emotion couldn’t really touch. “you made him so proud.” was his response, and link’s world started to tumble. ✩ pepe’s hand was on his shoulder. she was crying too. he turned to her. “one month?” she’d whispered. he’d nodded. she held him, then. her dad was gone too. she knew. for some reason, there was nothing more powerful than having someone hold him who knew. ✩ what hurt link the most was that he hadn’t known. it was a perfectly happy morning; he was used to his parents going to work early, or rose staying over at jamie’s. when his parents asked him to come to the hospital, he didn’t think about it. but then his parents had explained. how roosevelt choi, nicknamed rose by his loved ones, had waiting outside of a convenience store staring at the sky because “if you try, you can still see the stars” and was rammed into the brick side of the building by a drunken mercedes driver. link had sat so still, keeping his chest from moving. because they hadn’t announced his brother’s status yet. he was alive when they rolled him in. his jaw was still working when he whispered to the attendants that he loved his best friend, that his best friend loved him back, and that his brother was so so brave and if he could just stay alive for a little longer because he really needs to tell them both that he loved them and they could take over the world if they wanted to. they’d told him to breath, keep talking, because his head was untouched but everything was … everything else was … apparently roosevelt choi’s last words were, “i need my brother and my boyfriend to know that they are my fragile anarchies. they are my stars. they are my explosions. they need their own anarchies. they need to not be fragile anymore.” link had screamed into his sobs. ✩ “we need that ‘good reason,’ lincoln. you need it too. we’ll cross the anger bridge when we come to it.” she punctuated it with a sigh. her job must be hard, lincoln thinks with a tad of remorse. but he’s felt too much to act on it. “i was starting my own fragile little anarchy.” “that’s not an answer.” ✩ he was there, at rose’s headstone, in the morning. the morning part wasn’t entirely new, but it was fresh. the newest thing here was the sharpie one the shiny, polished stone, and rung alarms in link’s head. just a word. he shouldn’t be too angry about it. but it started with an f. it had two gs. he didn’t read the entire word, though, because he was speed walking away. he was simmering in the tiled halls. shoulders on fire and heart encased in ice. then he hears it. “what a fa***t. just like his brother.” link turned. it shouldn’t make him this angry. he walked, right there, punching distance from a beautiful person with sweeping, light brown hair and crystal eyes. he only smiled, albeit a little surprised, when link spoke. “his name is roosevelt.” he said. and then he swung. neel’s friends didn’t do a thing. they had their phone’s out, camera apps lighting the screen. and link was going at it. he had no strategy, but it’s hard to combat a kicking, punching, anger blinded kid even if he’s a good couple inches shorter and a couple pounds thinner. his clothes got ripped, his hair was pulled, he’s lip was bleeding and he couldn’t feel his face but he knew it was bloody, but when he stood up neel could barely groan and the crowd that had formed looked vaguely terrified of the looming boy, anger pooling his sense. he punched the wall nearby. he didn’t stop until he felt it. link walked himself into the principal’s office. ✩ “do you have any siblings?” link asked, already feeling himself choke, knowing he was going to cry again. he’d stayed chill for record time. “yes.” the principal said carefully. “have you ever visited one of their gravestones?” “...no, i have not.” link thought, for two sharp seconds, that he must look terrifying; talking quietly with his head down, about the one tragedy of his lifetime. “so you’ve never seen their gravestone vandalized?” he looked up then. “is this what this is about?” a soft, barely there stream pulsed through his head as a glow of anger reared in his stomach. “no.” is what he said. he took a deep breath, as he did right before performances. “my brother’s last words mentioned something called a fragile anarchy. i’ve been trying to find the meaning, and i think i did.” another, deep deep breath. “don’t get me wrong. neel called my brother and i a slur, and i gave what he had coming. instead of putting “anger issues” in my folder put “homophobic, probably racist butthole” in his.” lincoln didn’t miss the quirk of a smile. “you really just had to tell me that, you know? i can clear it on validation of hate speech. just... know yourself, lincoln. a punch doesn’t make a fragile anarchy. i knew roosevelt enough to know that.” know that from a sandy coloured folder? whispered a corner of his brain. but he knew his principal was right. link had figured out his fragile sort of anarchy. he’d put a wobbly sort of definition under its name. “it’s not punching.” he said to the air, later in the parking lot with pepe beside him. "keep it.” she said, even though she knew very well he wasn’t talking directly to her. “make it strong.”
  43. 2 points
    Also, am I the only one who wishes Thomas Sanders was cast as Simon in Love, Simon?
  44. 2 points
    HI i know i havent been here since friday and in that time i gave myself a snazzy undercut, bleached all of it, and went to comicon on saturday and sunday :0000 i spent 90% of my time there being a gross homosexual and the other 10% was trying to be cool....just be cool.... for my partner's friends skdgjskldfjs i think i fucked up the just be cool plan because our group of 7 was eating dinner and M was like 'o yah no milkshake im lactose intolerant' and i, a fellow lactose intolerant, responded by essentially saying 'i have pills for that'
  45. 2 points
    i. some days i feel like i'm drinking in the silence or more like it's being poured down my throat; sitting in empty cars, empty rooms all gray matter and cold air ii. other days it's breathing in noise like catching raindrops on your tongue-- only these droplets have a sort of bitter aftertaste that you'll forget maybe some day iii. but i'm running miles on an empty stomach till my legs give out and i fall iv. because pretty hollow things break every time
  46. 2 points
  47. 2 points
    Hey guys! Havent been on in a while. How have you all been? -Hydralio
  48. 2 points
    never did i think i'd spend an english/lit period walking around with a cape and fake beard on my head and then having to act the part of a tantrum-throwing three-year-old... (we're making 'book trailers' in class, it's great lol)
  49. 2 points
    ((ekphrastic poems are poems directly inspired by artwork or photography. im putting both the painting i did this on and the heavy Lore(tm) after the actual poem, tho)) take a picture it’ll last longer my dear, my love for you will die with the paint-scribed flowers i set riverside to write themselves light and perfect upon the canvas sticky with linseed oil, draping my fingers across the creek find yourself, dear. find yourself and the love comes after slog back, bare feet compare drybrush fragments (splintered, thin graphite feathery like lines written in ice after a blade) with petals and pit shade-protected from wilted sap-heavy gold bathing the brook clear and refracting sharp bent lyre strings ‘cross skin ‘cross canvas, paint, palette knife snarling beryl and vivacious orange into hissing sight line, into technicolor tango take a picture. it’ll last longer. my dear, read my love between the lines i may wither someday but these flowers are forever ((after this painting by Jules Medard the lore/overanalyzing:
  50. 2 points
    We never throw shade. We walk over and hand it nicely to the recipient like proper gentlefolk.