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Showing most liked content on 11/13/17 in all areas

  1. 3 points
    'rank: imago' ????????? i googled it it's 'the final and fully developed stage' aka insects (the egg>nymph>imago ranks are kind of cute omg)
  2. 2 points
    im sorry, mom about your cyclamen-- i swear i tried to keep it alive, all vibrant ruffled pink and cool, white-veined green im sorry, mom about your burning bush-- i swear i tried to do it right, all beryl pointed oval leaves and dying, half-turned vermilion im sorry, mom about your hydrangea-- i swear i tried to water it well, all multitudinous blues and crisp, summer-dry brown im sorry, mom about your daughter-- i swear i tried to keep her alive, all vibrant ruffled pink and cool, blue-veined white im sorry, mom about your daughter-- i swear i tried to do it right, all ballet pointed shoes and dying, half-hearted magenta im sorry, mom about your daughter-- i swear i tried to water her well, all multitudinous ringlets and cracked, summer-dry skin im sorry, mom about your son-- i swear i tried to weed him out, all maple doe eyes and tenacious not-daughter vigor im sorry, mom about your son-- i swear he tried to prune himself back, all rosebush hands and unfortunate thorn-sharp red im sorry, mom about your son-- i swear i tried to love myself right, all the ways you wont and i lovingly chest-bind white i know youre not sorry, mom but this is the best i can do. Author's Note: ekphrastic poems are basically poems based on an image or work of art or something like that inspo: my mom's cyclamen
  3. 2 points
  4. 1 point
    the red string of fate... yes. but i have this Vision (TM) of a watercolor cover? and idk how i could work the red string into that, you know?
  5. 1 point
    a couple things, half based on poems i have written; hands, reaching and/or clasping. also thread. thread as what binds people together. the red thread legend. :)
  6. 1 point
    mouse i am so sorry... i love you so much.
  7. 1 point
    That's fantastic, honestly. :P I'm not exactly doing NaNoWriMo: I'm giving myself two months instead of one to allow myself occasionally prioritize schoolwork/other life things. Also, I'm not expecting to finish the novel in 50,000 words, so it may take longer than said two months to complete. Does that still count? At any rate, I'm writing a Sherlock-based fanfiction. Currently, I've got the intricacies of the foreseeable plot pretty much worked out; I just need time to write. (8,000 words and counting!) Will gladly post excerpts if there's any interest.
  8. 1 point
    i don’t know what you would have done, nothing really happened so nothing would be the appropriate response you threatened to kill him burn him beat him even though he barely touched me he failed to touch me in any way he could have wanted i was fine because nothing happened because he failed because i didn’t say anything because i was more worried about his size and his friend egging him on than his face i couldn’t read your expression but i could almost feel how you pushed the anger down feel the heat of your anger dripping into the words i’d never seen you angry before much less over me and my panic wasn’t for meant you i didn’t need your pity i didn’t need you to worry i didn’t need you to know if you treated me like i was fragile i might snap in two and pierce you with my sharp edges as you dropped me you might ignore the fact that i was okay as an excuse to rage against a system we knew was broken what you hadn’t heard was how i shoved past him out of the cage against the lockers past the eyes and hands past the friends who laughed at him as his shoulder hit the lockers and i ran how i had escaped safely with only their words their war cries of bitchslutwhoreprudedyke trailing behind me no knights needed just one where i could sleep
  9. 1 point
    Wow, this line. Well done. Also, you are loved and strong, and I hope you can continue to rage against this broken system.
  10. 1 point
    I used a three-hole pamphlet stitch (a fancy term that I just learned today), which seems to be simplest. A good tutorial for that can be found on page two of this document: https://www.loc.gov/preservation/resources/educational/bookarts/pamphlet.pdf . Alternatively, if you want to get fancy, there's a couple of good tutorials here, including how to print: https://www.pw.org/content/diy_how_to_make_and_bind_your_own_chapbook . (Printers are the natural enemy of poets and will always thwart your plans.) Pro-tip: Make a mock-up copy first. Print on paper you don't care about, and go through and catch all the mistakes (including the inevitable upside down page). Practice binding on this copy. Then go do the real thing. Bonus pro-tip: Have an editor. You'll need someone to give you sound feedback on your poems, as well as to proofread. (Plus, it's sometimes fun to have someone else make art for your chapbook cover based on their interpretation of your poems, not your own.) Um... I'm sure more tips and hints will come to me. Are there specific things you have questions about?
  11. 1 point
    Sometimes things fall apart or start to fade away, crumbling like concrete and sandstone, tumbling down cliff sides as I watch in silence and wonder what I did to deserve this. I don't know if this time is different; it's not the first time I'm losing someone I love, but someone I'll truly miss and I won't know what to do for a while after I'm alone again.
  12. 1 point
    Dammit I keep coming after people have said what I want to say. I’m really sorry, Logan. I also love you and your words, if it matters.
  13. 1 point
    And... this one's mine. I used an old newspaper page picture, because I generally scribble my poetry in the margins of things that aren't meant to be written on. (Hence the title of "margins".)
  14. 1 point
    hey logan? i love you
  15. 1 point
    Okay, chapbooks. Chapbooks are an incredibly cool form of low-cost publishing. Chapbook history here. Today, chapbooks can be collections of your best work, collections of work done within a certain time period of your life, collections done on a theme, etc., but they're generally small (think 10-20ish poems), produced in small quantities (I produced 50 of mine), and made with care (nice paper, hand bound, really cool covers, the works). [Side note: I honestly think my chapbook is cooler in the physical version because of these things.] At any rate, chapbooks are a really incredible medium, and I highly recommend this project. Also, a class that I took in college (Advanced Poetry Workshop) talked a lot about chapbooks, and then each of my classmates and I produced a chapbook of our own at the end of the class. If anyone wants me to post pictures of cool examples of chapbooks from aforementioned class, let me know!
  16. 1 point
    The scissors rested in a cylindrical container, crammed in next to colored pencils and a dull plastic comb. A dried fruit container lay on the floor next to it, it's apple contents long been consumed. The trashcan, hidden under the desk, had a grocery bag instead of a plastic liner. Thrifty, and easier to insert into the can than a manufactured bag. Oprah, the guitar, leans against the wall, watching me with non-existent puppy eyes, begging to be played. I look away with guilt; I hadn't touched her slender, pale neck since yesterday. Even then, I had only carelessly strummed out a few chords before replacing her in her resting spot against the wall. I reach past my guitar to push the power button on my computer. The pitch screen glows to a brighter shade of black as it hums to consciousness. I roll back onto my back, squishing my fingers between wooden slats and mattress above my bed. I stare at the tiny, Sharpie-inked heart directly above my pillow. The letter left there are practically illegible; R and J. The R is splotched with brown, the result of a by-hand removal that left me with splinters jammed beneath my nails. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath as I twitched my fingers jerkily. “Don't think about that,” I say, opening my eyes. “Think about Australia. Or the Moon.” I look towards my computer, the screen now lit up fully with the start screen waiting for me expectantly. Hello, why haven't you logged in yet? It seemed to say. “Because I'm amidst emotional turmoil.” There's sure to be something to distract you from your feelings here somewhere. You just need to look. The tiny bar blinks invitingly in the password box. What're a few minutes? You're not doing anything for the next few hours anyway. I reach for the computer. It appears to glow brighter as if my physical response to it perked it up. I smile, my lips feeling dry. I feel a headache coming on; probably result of my constant rebuttal of the emotions I should be feeling. I settle back down on my bed, the laptop resting a little too warm on my lap. The blue-hued screen aches my eyes. I begin typing in my password. I watch the home screen load, my countless audio files filling the screen with their icons. I click around, listening to clips of strumming and lyric here and there, selected randomly. I click on a file named J, and before I can close the program, the speakers begin playing the badly rhymed, oddly tempo-ed words. Little Bluebird haven't you heard I've caught a sickness maybe bird flu Little Bluebird haven't you heard I've got a sickness I think its the blues Little Blue Bird haven't you heard I've got a sickness I caught it from you I click away from the audio clip and close the lid. Despite my desperate attempt to not think them, thoughts invade my head. I see a too-white smile, feel too-warm touch, hear a too-loud laugh, all at once. I shiver, trying to rid myself of them to no avail. I look around my room, scanning for something, anything, to distract myself. My eyes land on my guitar, leaning against the wall. I toss my legs off the side of the bed, my computer falling on the floor, where it lands with a loud thunk. I hope that isn't broken, I think momentarily, before I reach for my prized instrument. With shaky hands, I quickly plug in the power cord to the wall. I flick the hard-to-reach switch on the back of the amp, and an electric buzz fills the airspace. A feeling of power enters. A presence of life. The speakers creak with every touch of my fingers to the strings. I strike a chord, nearly deafening myself to the sound of A minor. I pause, my ears ringing, to adjust the volume to a more reasonable level. Miss me? She whispers, through the hiss and pop of my old speakers. “How could I have ever left,” I say, gripping the neck softly. The ringing in my ears subsides, and I begin to play. All my troubles melt away. There is no past, no memory. No future, no anxiety. There is only the present, a gift; and I fill it with music.
  17. 1 point
    Hey! I have been on here for just short of 5 years. I don't write much anymore, but I really want to get back to it. Being a stem major in college has taken time away from my love of reading and writing. I love getting to read all work posted here, and will lurk for ever. Hopefully I can get back to writing before I age out!