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  1. 4 points
    1. make yourself look bigger than it. YOU are the predator here. YOU are the dangerous beast. 2. distract it with loud noises, bright lights. the beast is stupid 3. show little emotion. do not let it see you are beaten down by its six rejections. do not show your anger at its curving and elusive lines. but show just enough to pass the "I am not a robot test." show enough to remind people that you are still breathing. 4. yell. scare it away. make it hide and cry like you once did. like you still do. 5. try again. deep breath. do not let your fingers tremble on the keyboard. do not let the beast win.
  2. 4 points
    hello, my name is beaten (teacher, teacher, call roll last names only, please) shoes kicked off to dance floor edges one sock black one sock grey sub-basement floor to ceiling mirrors line far wall (and bare pipes line concrete hallway ceiling. to clint: that is a natural gas pipe. we are the canaries.) we face the mirrors. right jab, left jab, hook, knee. block. block. hands up, forearms pressed together. box block. hook. step, pivot, roundhouse. focus on the motion do not focus on the thing you are insuring against pair up. practice hold escapes (teacher, teacher, call roll last names only, please) he demonstrated the 'domestic violence choke' (aside, to me: what a terrible name) focus on the motion do not focus on what you are insuring against box block. twist. palm strike. try not to flinch when your classmate's cool hands touch your neck box block. twist. roundhouse.
  3. 4 points
    i. grey blue roses edged in gold he's standing there in the parking lot of bed bath & beyond just across from the sensible restaurant of the family, friends, and i. he’s wearing ratty old converses and his hair is recognizable and his eyes are those that i’ve missed. his shirt is clean, almost pressed, and it hangs off his gangly shoulders, the very ones i was once afraid of crushing. it's not different, in fact it has a startling likeness to his existence between white and yellow painted brick walls and overheated and overemotional glances. it’s his wings, small jumbled grey ones fluttering in the wind and damp from the rain that separates him from what i think is real and what i know isn’t. he sounds like a d minor chord on an old wheezing piano and sad laughter from an overfilled but too-hollow cafeteria. we stare at eachother, angel and mortal, till his lips part and he whispers a whisper that i can hear clearly in my head, open your eyes. and then the server is setting plates down of food and the angel shivered out of existence. the first time i saw him with those dapple grey blue wings was when i was asleep. he sat on my windowsill and helped me down, carried me over the red brick and shrubbery and smiled as i set my bare feet against the cold cement. it was too quiet, but he walked me to a mcdonalds anyway and sat me outside and told me he loved me in between bites of his chicken nuggets. this is how i knew he wasn’t really the boy i saw in my waking life. but i still saw the angel now and again. he reminded me of his grey blue traced in gold, small veins of something more valuable. i thought i saw him running on the field outside another building of yellow and white (this one bigger) but it was a different boy. still tracings of gold, melting and dripping, but on a backdrop of innocent and good intending white. nothing like the tired and weary blue. i'd gotten my closure, the day our eyes met through the bus door glass as he descended like a king to play peasant with a poor farmer boy. but the angel haunted me. promised me salvation every step of a tiring journey that only ended in me falling off of a cliff. ii. white and gold lilies golden flickering lights poking through the dark of a city, a violin singing middle, then high, then low like a backtrack, feathers dipped in liquid metal. he is an angel, with white wings and black hair and gold everything else, but he's not my angel. he's the innocence of a group of friends buying drinks and ambling down a sidewalk and giggling in the cubby of a large turning wheel. he’s the gentle hum of cars over a highway and the breathing of lover. he floats and sprinkles stardust and dotes over teenagers who think they're going to live forever. we wonder where his golden heart tipped arrows went. he was mumble rap with the twinkle of something lighter over the thrum of a beat, the cheerful whisper of sailor moon and sushi on a sunday. he was a party, confusing, wild, making your heart thump. seconds of something interesting and lovely, but days of that to someone else. someone who needed that. he could be a lion if he wanted to, walking into rooms with his chest out like he's daring lonely hyenas to snap at his heels. he doesn't wait for me in parking lots and doesn't pick white daisies for me but his eyes flash in between buildings and i’m certain the white and gold feather and drifted to my feet belonged to him. of course he wouldn't leave it there on accident, he was the type to pluck it off his wings and hover above me with his cheek on his knuckles as he flicked it from his fingers, smirking as i bent to pick it up. he wasn't my angel, neither was the blue one, but unlike the bluebird the golden cupid had someone (else) to protect, he just liked to dance around the rules. iii. crumpled chrysanthemums this angel was like turning on a spotlight in a dark room. it was inky and the grey blue rose’s hand was on my shoulder and the white and gold lily was hovering over me with a smirk. but then the lights flicked on. these lights are gold and orange. glittering faintly of yellow and radiating warmth. like tapping someone on the arm for them to turn around and greet you with a sunrise of a smile. he was a sunrise. i couldn’t move my thoughts through my mouth. this angel poured himself into my presence so unlike the others did. his hair was on fire and his wings fluttered excitedly. smiles smiles smiles. he told me my eyes were root beer and i wanted to tell him i was losing my power to drag words from my heart or else i would have showered him in what he needed to know: you are beautiful. you are worthy. you are everything to me. this angel sat with me in the park and bought me hot chocolate but his face crumpled, sometimes, too. just like the lily and the rose, this boy crumpled, and it was strange to see someone so alive have so many scars. i saw the other sides of this angel, too; how he curled his feather-down wings around his shoulders when he needed to and cried like any other human. i thought maybe this was the angel meant for me, but i knew this wasn’t the case and that was okay. this angel didn’t have the choice, he was the lion and bared his teeth in a smile that didn’t make people shy away but rather brought them closer. this angel hid things but talked liked he was freedom himself. this angel was terrified of the same things as i was. his wings were pale and freckled with orange, just like the boy. a proper weasley, you could say. and i could see the bravery. he was so mortal so much more living than the angels before him, yet so unafraid to hold me, to let me stutter, to sweep me up in his arms. he wasn’t lingering looks and building tension. he was honesty. when he told me he loved me, i knew it was him. his bravery leaked into my heart, like holding bright orange flowers in the rain and seeing the petals fall and drip over my skin. i wanted nothing more. when he touched my back, i felt something. i think maybe, this boy taught me that i had wings too. we protect one another, now. or at least we try. (note: i'm super sorry if this doesn't count as fiction??)
  4. 4 points
    heartbeats. if there is not room for all the things you need to say shrink down to the size of insignificance and pay attention to what you're made of. atrium. here you will find scar tissue and building block memories in a castle of too-sharp pain. there is something beautiful in broken things, learn to appreciate it and maybe maybe maybe some of the loose puzzle pieces will fall into place. veins. the things you tried to forget are here. when she doesn't talk to you anymore, come here. when you're afraid of losing him, come here. wrap your shoulders in warm-breathed nights of unholy confession, in arms covered in sharpie because we're too young for tattoos. live in the past for a moment or two while you still have the chance. ventricles. step inside and put your hands behind your back clasp your fingers like you're trying to keep from falling apart and watch. if depression is a chasm this place is a mountain dreams like blue-white water froth and your soul is an ocean. maybe if you squint your stained-glass eyes and hold the breath you're already losing there might still be hope. vena cava. fill your lungs with stale air and breathe out something fresh. don't shake too hard. take one last look at the twisted ground you don't understand. like preschool art or a homemade card it's probably worhtless but someone still cares. ________________________ author's note: i live for using different pronouns in romance-y parts of poems
  5. 4 points
    My boyfriend stalked my account on here and informed me I have 103 points and I screamed because I had checked literally 10 minutes before he looked and it was 83
  6. 3 points
  7. 3 points
  8. 3 points
    have you ever woken to a blanket-wrapped world? i have. there's a magic in the white light that streams through your window, a magic in flinging back the curtains to a frost-covered earth. everything's clean, in the snow. everything's silent. have you ever stood in a cloud? i have. shin-deep in sugar-spun-frost, staring up as the stars flutter down, as the sky breaks into pieces to dance on your eyelashes. we are not built for the cold. our skin turns pink and our limbs numb and our eyes water and swell and our breath is clouds. by all rights, we should fear it. but who could fear something so beautiful? and in the blanket-silence broken by shrieking, ecstatic laughter, it is easy to see that we do not. there's a magic to it, you know? there's a magic in the snow days. there's a magic in the snow. AN: I. Love. Snow. Okay? I love snow. So yeah it snowed yesterday and I haven't written anything in a while so here we are.
  9. 3 points
    Ladies and gentlefolk, my boyfriend can write better than I can.
  10. 3 points
    last night i woke up in a blind panic because i forgot i was in my own bed i felt myself in his again, felt his hands around my neck- and this is why i do not sleep anymore. exhaustion is a small price to pay for a fleeting feeling of safety in a world where every word and step i take is dangerous. my world is full of sharp edges and sirens, bright lights and warning signs. is this safe? am i safe? last time i heard his pet name for me i curled up on the floor and did not get up until i was my me again, my body is my temple cracked pillars supporting crumbling facades self care is a futile attempt at recovering something that is not mine and that is far too broken to be fixed. i feel like an anchor thrown overboard and sinking heavy dead weight which is funny because i am most scared of drowning water on me on my tongue in my hair on my skin sends me into a curl-cry-cant-breathe-do-not-touch-me until everything is so empty, i am his alice with her river of tears my hurt is so big that magic mushrooms can no longer shrink it and start, stop, breathe. breathe until my lungs are empty, full, tangible, until i am real again and feel the ache of holding my breath. wait that is not my breath i am holding it is my trauma, laid neat and clean in an evidence locker, organized and numbered in order of importance on a police report, in a shiny new complex-ptsd diagnosis that glows in the dark and does 17 various things like, start, stop. i am laid out on an operating table cold and bare gutted and dissected, when they tell me what happened to me like i do not already know when they whisper soft under breath that i still feel i am not breathing what happened to me, gossip in pastel tones, low-key, on the down-low i am not my own, i am empty and owned. full-stop. (wow that felt,,,, like feeling something again)
  11. 3 points
    I hope everyone who isn't in the RP threads is at least enjoying themselves reading them bc they're WILD and deserve to be shared with the world.
  12. 3 points
    she's compacted dust and layers of stratum she's pine wood and wicker and rusted bicycles left in the sun eyelids fighting sleep, her face like desert sand with its blotchy redness, terra cotta clay and deep purple, dry rivers around her eyes face under the faucet to wake up paint on your fake skin and delicate bronze shimmer, banish the arid wind far from this place work your magic veiling mud cracks and little pockmark hills make your eyes seem alive later water will erode the strata, driftwood and orangeade and mulberry stains on old wine glasses beneath layers of photoshop the grand canyon is breathtaking and beneath her foundation so is she ~~~ author's note: we're studying rock in science, this poem was inspired by that, and also the fact that i find people really beautiful before they do anything in the morning, no matter how dead they look lol also, hello! I'm amelia, and i've been reading your guy's poetry for a long time. (that's not creepy at all xoxo) i'm happy to finally be here, and to meet you all!
  13. 3 points
    I'm crying, literally every character in the RP thread I started is from a southern homophobic/transphobic rural town
  14. 3 points
    kicks m leg hiya !!! i'm izaak ?? i'm super new wheeze so a million apologies if i mess something up! um i like bears. as you can probably tell by my username lmao. i draw a lot and im super into green aesthetics (u can see all o' that over on my tumblr at bearajuana wink wonk) i write a lot of gay shit but idk if ill post a lot of it here? probably mostly just rambles or rps ?? i never have any idea what i'm doing i have? a lot of interests? anime and books mainly. hit me up with free / haikyuu stuff or six of crows / harry potter stuff because i'm aggressive eye emoji at that goodness i have a far too long list of bands and music that im in love with on such a high level its kind of concerning also im gay. really really gay. i love my boyfriend lastly: i don't care if this is wrong but i heavily believe that plural form of anus is ani and past tense of wink is wunk. fight me (don't actually)
  15. 3 points
    ok so i have no fucking clue the demographic here but the topic i posted in rp has 20 views and no takers so like idk heart this or reply if ur interested in a prompt-based rp with extensive worldbuilding and lore
  16. 2 points
    Howdy! With all this talk about RPing, I was thinking we could do an OC RP? Let's use @drowntown's bio format and tips. The prompt: Can I stay the night with you? My bio: Name: CaenusAge: 2 months shy of 21st birthdayGender/Pronouns (if applicable): male, he/himSpecies: humanHeight:5'5Appearance (plus a visual reference if youve got one): bright blue undercut, root beer eyes, trident tattoo on left shoulder, long legged, freckles. round, wire framed glasses.Applicable Quirks (accent, biases, languages spoken, phobias, etc) queer af, has anxiety around growling dogs, likes black coffee, doesn't like heights, prefers to be in the water but can't swim very well.Quick Backstory: Fell in love with a girl while working at a carnival ticket booth in the summers of his youth. Unbeknownst to each other, they transitioned at the same time. Grew up in a southern, mildly homophobic/transphobic rural town.Weapons Abilities (if applicable): knows how to fight in small scraps, but that's about it.Powers? (if applicable) none Caenus looks at the text with mild curiosity. Who would text him at this hour, asking to crash at his place?
  17. 2 points
    could you imagine that, if only for a second, everything you saw, said, read was filled with color? could you see your fridays as icy blue? shimmering to almost match january, february. the clare de lune starts off golden like C and Y, darker than dandelions, and shining. then, quicker than a 32nd note, it moves to friday blue. suddenly it’s indigo and the world sinks into its purple-ish depths. imagine being able to count the rainbow. imagine calculations in everyone else’s black and white, but there are hidden spots of color between your fractions. 2 blue, 3 pink, 44 double dark green. the ones without colors? you say, there must be some. the ones without colors feel like missing keys on a keyboard, like trying to write peach may without the vowels. author's note: just for clarification, this poem is about my experiences with synesthesia! i wrote it for an assignment in english class but i liked it so much that i decided to post it here!
  18. 2 points
    i feel super bad bc i am not as good at poetry as...some people...and i know comparison is. bad but i can't stop!!!!!!!!!!!
  19. 2 points
    i am a little girl and we are walking. 'i just don't know, daddy,' i say. it's a bright day, with the sky a bright cotton-candy blue and the clouds chasing each other across its expanses. the news is riddled with politics, as it always is, but i am only just starting to open my eyes to it. 'i don't even know if i'm a democrat or a republican.' he eyes me for a moment. 'ok,' he says thoughtfully. 'well, it should be pretty easy to tell.' 'ask me questions,' i say. 'and tell me by my answers what i am.' and he does. he asks me many things. he asks me about black and white and freedom and confinement. he asks me about the death penalty. he asks me about abortion. some of these things are easier to answer than others. there's one, though, that stands out to me now. we're three-quarters of the way home, and the hill is steep enough that the dog is starting to lag. 'what about gay marriage?' he says. this is before it's been legalized, and we are in north carolina where politics has always been a few steps behind. i think about this for a moment. i have an answer but i don't know how to say it. 'i think,' i say carefully, laden with eight-year-old wisdom and confining societal philosophy, 'that they should be allowed to marry. it's weird and i don't think it's...natural, or whatever, but it's not my business what they do.' we stop as the dog sniffs a spot in the grass. my father is frowning slightly, eyeing me with a thoughtful gaze. 'why isn't it natural?' he asks, and i pause. 'it just...isn't.' he tells me that it is. that it's perfectly natural. i'm troubled, and doubtful, but i am eight years old and i do not question the things i'm told. (he tells me i'm probably a democrat, based on my other answers, though it doesn't really matter at this stage in life.) homosexuality comes up more and more over the years and i start to warm to it. it's still weird, and unnatural, but i brush it to the side. if they're happy, then fine. i don't care. and besides, it's not like i'm gay. i've had crushes on boys, right? and, after all, you can't be gay if you don't want to be. that's what i think, ten years old and staring out the car window. you can't be gay if you don't want to be. you hate that, right? you hate everything i've said. it's funny to think you might have hated me, then, if i hadn't been kind and adorable and lovable in every way. i'm fifteen and it's dark out. i'm dressed in my dance clothes, almost bare naked in the winter; my dad and i have already had our argument about car temperature. i'm hot and sweating, having just exercised, but he's been sitting in the car for an hour and he's freezing. the overpass curves before us, lit only by the headlights of his blue jeep cherokee, and we're talking amiably. i don't know what leads to it, but he says something that night that lingers. 'and when and if you have a husband...' he pauses for a moment, and then says, gentler, 'or a wife, then—' and the rest is obscured by foggy memories but i remember thinking, 'thanks, daddy, but i'm straight.' but it stuck. i'm straight, right? what follows is hot showers and existential dread. i've since opened my eyes more to the community; i have queer friends. i know more. one of the things i know about is bisexuality. 'i'm straight,' i think, but then i think: 'am i?' it's mid-winter. it's freezing and i'm in the car on a way to an audition. everything is perfectly normal. my mom is beside me, the radio is playing soft music, and i'm texting my best friend. she's dating her first boyfriend and she needs advice: she wants to break up with him but she doesn't know how to say 'no' or 'i don't want this anymore'. she's afraid that it'll hurt him and his family, and so she's content to let this continue to hurt her. i have no experience with relationships but i give her advice anyway. the three little dots bounce on the screen and she says 'thank you for putting up with me. if you ever need help with anything, don't be afraid to ask.' and i stop dead. this is the worst timing possible; i'm in the car next to my mother, who does not know, on the way to an audition. i'm hopped up on anxiety: if this goes awry, my audition will be terrible. i will likely not manage a poker face in the small confines of the car. i'm not thinking about these things, though, as i text her back. 'actually there is something. i've been thinking about this a lot over the past year and i haven't told anyone but i think i might be bisexual.' there's a long pause, wherein i very nearly die. oh god, i think. she hates me. the three little dots are back. 'i'm back. sorry, i was walking into the house.' a pause. i'm trying not to cry, from anxiety and fear and relief and tension. 'oh. i'm so sorry i have literally the worst timing.' the little dots bounce like they're taunting me. 'ok first of all, know this changes nothing. i'm still your friend and i love you.' and suddenly it's real. but not...quite. two months later it's my birthday. i'm sixteen and i'm bundled with nerves and i sit my family down and i say, in many more words: 'i'm bisexual.' my parents tell me they love me. my dad says, 'i want you to know you can tell us anything.' my brother says nothing, but leans over to give me a hug. this is the first time i've said it aloud and it's the first time it's felt so real. i'm bisexual. i'm bisexual. now i think i may have been wrong. i may just be biromantic; i may be asexual or demisexual, i might even be aromantic, but that's not the point. the point is you would have hated the me from the beginning, who called you unnatural and thought it was a choice. the point is i grew. anyone can grow; it's easy, once you open your eyes. it's okay to make mistakes if you someday will learn from them. so do not hide people away; help them learn. help them grow. but most importantly: define yourself as who you are now: someone who has grown. someone who has learned. do not let yourself be defined by who you once were.
  20. 2 points
    Dear Dearly Departed, I'm not sure how formal this letter should be, or what will comfort you. I’m not even entirely sure how you’ve managed to die in an abandoned orchard of all places, especially with that much medicine around you, considering medicine is supposed to help humans and all, so I don’t know how to ease your worries there. The good news is, you’ll never physically hurt again! Say goodbye to all your mortal fears! The bad news is that you clearly have some unfinished business, so you’ll be trapped here until you figure out what said business is, and how to complete it. I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m lucky enough to have befriended a few humans over these years, so I can explain things as best as a random human can. Which is, admittedly, not very well. But I do hope I can help you, at least a little bit! The Unofficial (Though Official Due To Lack Of Other Options) Guide To Being A Ghost: Daylight fades ghosts. Think of it as a very, very slow eraser to your very existence. There’s a reason most hauntings occur during the nighttime. You can choose your haunting spots, I do believe! I’m not sure why ghosts haunt, perhaps you’re feeling a little bitter and you need to vent, perhaps it’s just a fun wholesome activity for the whole ghostly family! You cannot touch the physical world as you normally would. I’ve heard of ghosts who possess people just to eat their favourite food again. I’ve also heard that ghosts normally choose people who are extremely tired, perhaps they’re more suggestible, more likely to wave off strange happenings? Possibly because the dark circles under their eyes can look a little spooky. I’m not sure how into dramatics you are. And, an addition, just to ease your worries when you wake up and see a letter and not much else:) You will not be able to contact me in person. The nighttime is your realm, the daytime is mine. I hope after all that ghostly business this isn’t as much of a shock to you, but I’m a dryad, being out and about after dark saps me. Get it? Sap? I do hope you’re alright, I’ve left some paper and pens behind for you to both practice manipulating real world objects and for you to write me back, but I completely understand if that’s difficult for you at first. Have a great first night! dear someone (seriously, what am i supposed to call you? ash? oak? unnamed tree?) i can write. but its hard to. i cant pick things up, its all just thinking ridiculously hard about what i want to do and trying to get enough energy to do it. so just like i was when i was alive lol. i really want to swear but you sound like a literal angel and it feels all uncouth to. so like. what the fir. (see, theres a tree joke for you.) you seem sweet and all but its weird writing to someone i dont know, literally all the practice i got letter-writing was thank you notes to my grandma for a five dollar bill she gave me for my birthday or whatever. so i might be bad at this. im sorry. dont expect me to use a lot of exclamation points or make all the cutesy little quips you do, im not exactly hyped to still be up and kicking and its one extra line i have to write if i do joke around. im trying to write a lot, not write everything well. i dont want to know any more about being a ghost. i dont want to be here, i dont want to hear about it. i do want to know about you, though. are we writing on the guts of your fallen friends? you just left me a fir ton of paper and youre a tree? why are you so chill about leaving me ground up pulp of you? who are you? do you have a name? do you want a name? why is your handwriting so nice, who taught you that? the suns coming up. im hiding just in case itll just get me stuck but faded. like a really tight jean jacket. have a great three millionth day or however many!!! jamie
  21. 2 points
    after logan @drowntown hook punch. my father tells me when i am maybe 13 or 14 that he would love to sign me up for a self-defense class, but he’d have to get me a personal (& concussion-trained) teacher. this is a fact of my medical history. cross-body punch. my father continues, you might be in college, at a party, and a boy might say—this was before i came out—and a boy might say, “do you want to go upstairs and look at my Marvel Comics collection?” straight punch. he might pin you to the bed and leave you violated. empty. focus not on what is being protected against. focus only on going through the motions. getting these moves just right. and you’ll have to go to the police and let them probe inside of you, looking for the damaged points. uppercut. this is why i need you to be safe with boys, with girls, with anyone, really. fix your stance. i can’t make a fist properly. he gives up on the lesson. i know he’s too fearful of what lurks within me to ever successfully complete a lesson with me, anyway. too worried about me to ever put hands on me, even in a lesson. author's note: i have a crippling fear of assault/rape/etc., and i was in a situation similar to the aziz ansari stuff when i was 14. it's...not fun, hearing my own father say that what ansari's accuser reported trivializes "real" assault.
  22. 2 points
    iron & stone one day, i will ask myself why everything i am is laced with Blood, dark red like the moment despair turns into anger, like the instant before you die pour it into the hallow places in my collarbones, feed them hemoglobin; drain your veins, build up your marrow. paint my skin with it, open wounds in my metaphoric cardiac muscle, drink deep unravel my history like a spool of thread (with a skinning knife) spill my guts in crimson embroidered organs, unhinge your jaw, find my death-(rattle) at the end, (snake) teach me how to dance in death’s arms, i will need to at my wedding (father-daughter dance), should someone ever fall in love with Blood over bone, flesh over wire-frame-posable-skeleton tear off my cult-robe and peel back my skin all at once, rip from me Witch, and Queer, and Flesh, but leave me Blood, and Bone, and Death you can’t, you see. my Self is tattooed onto the surface of my bones: Blood runes when you kiss me for the first time i want you to taste the blood from my chapped lips, be disillusioned from perfection, be grounded, taste earth and take root behind my sternum one day, i will tell myself why everything i am is soaked with Blood, dark red like the moment you fall in love, like the instant you decide you want to live [Author's Note: Sorry about the Heavy Blood Symbolism I took a Homestuck Classpect test in like 2015 and have been hung up on my god tier (Mage of Blood) since then I just really love the Blood aspect]
  23. 2 points
    hello i am alaska, i used to post on the slam as collette and lee i believe. ive recently taken up mixed media journaling using pictures as a base to small lines of poetry. i dont tend to write anymore, but i guess i probably should
  24. 2 points
    bad news: woke up sore as hell, managed to work out for another hour to try and get rid of said soreness, but that just made it Worse so idk how i'm gonna do more physical therapy tonight :/ good news: accidentally came out to the dude who teaches me weight training and he was chill about it
  25. 2 points
    okay but june's concerns about this being a murder scene are V A L I D bc she might be a WOC that outclasses them all in self-defense skills, she's still the only WOC and that means "you're the first to die" in murder movie talk.
  26. 2 points
    little known fact that i just made up: the proper singular of beeves is boof
  27. 2 points
    First: awwww, thanks. Second: I mean, I like that y'all listen to/appreciate my advice, but... I am a fallible human being. Don't put me on a pedestal. Pedestals are distinctly uncomfortable places. (I'd rather you put me in a pillow corner like the kindergartner I can be, or in an armchair where I can be crotchety and tell you stories of the good ol' days of the Slam. That seems more appropriate.)
  28. 2 points
    yeah Aimn's like a slam veteran, but still around and wonderful. Listen to Aimn's advice. But yeah. The rules are basically there are none, just be supportive. Tearing each other apart with critiques is fine if it's consensual. Plagiarism's still not cool, but that's debatable. Don't worry about impressing anyone except yourself.
  29. 2 points
    it is absolutely proper etiquette and i give you my respectful FUCK YEAH
  30. 2 points
    @conradbirdie @drowntown still not sure if this is proper etiquette on this site but h e c k t h a n k y o u s o m u c h omg asdfghkl
  31. 2 points
    It's one of those days Where I can't get him out of my head Long enough to function
  32. 2 points
    the real question is "how obviously gay and in want of a shorter haircut do i have to be before whoever's cutting my hair stops asking if i'm sure a million times and then tells me i cant just shower and comb it and call it a day"
  33. 2 points
    Writing has been pretty slow this week, sorry for bein away a lot! I hope you all are doin alright.
  34. 2 points
    Strands of gold in the sunlight, pulled apart so you could wonder. So you could see your dreams unfold in all of the colors you could not see, and all of the dreams you say you don't believe in. Rumplestiltskin made the gold, but you found the golden in Rapunzel’s blonde. You found the light in the darkness, but saw the beauty in shadows. All that glitters isn’t gold, so you caught the sparkles in my eyes and gave them value. And all that shines isn’t sunlight, but my smile still brightened your day.
  35. 2 points
    Well, I just wrote a poem that sounds deep and meaningful, but it’s actually about my colorblind friend looking through my hair to find a proper shade for Legally Blonde.
  36. 2 points
  37. 2 points
    Okay I know we JUST started one RP thread and I still have NO CLUE what I’m doing at all but I have an idea for another one some other time. Hear me out: supernatural detectives. Like, a union of them with different specialties and methods for solving cases. Maybe one can talk to ghosts. Maybe another can see auras. Idk it’s magic. Anyone’s interested just like say something?
  38. 2 points
    Bless you Logan I have no clue what I’m doing but I also really want in so thanks
  39. 2 points
    If you can change the color of your room I can change the color of my hair to a brilliant fuck-you-blue What's wrong with claiming this body as my own? what wrong with making this body my home? The monsters used to be in my closet And under the bed but now I'm older and they're in my head and I'm cranking out push ups in my boxers every night so maybe I can get a few hours rest and my chest won't feel so tight I've spent years building up my pride And feeling ok in my skin is so rare that I panic in self doubt
  40. 2 points
    im fucking doing it here comes the magic lore rp
  41. 2 points
    hey, city girl, with your blonde-tipped waves and three dollar lashes, you're gorgeous. I hope you travel the word like you always wanted to spending your money on lipstick and sweet dark coffee and shining spray paint, I hope you turn that dusty alley into a work of art. dance like the leaves on the wind because one day you'll be dancing in front of millions people will line up to see you sparkling under the spotlights. swing your ponytail and keep doodling on those high tops, handmade earrings bouncing. I hope you realize you're a diamond in the rough I hope you get on your bike and pedal as fast as you can and pass all the buildings you've known your entire life belting off-key song lyrics to the starry heavens. I hope you ride right off the edge of the world and keep on going into eternity.
  42. 2 points
    @Short_comedian the real question is how the fuck @conradbirdie racked up like 135 points in one month
  43. 2 points
    me, wrapped in a fluffy white blanket, eating tomato soup: i like to live life on the edge
  44. 2 points
    I know the reputation points aren't supposed to be a competition but my competitive ass is seeing @drowntowns 233 points and screaming FIGHT ME, BITCH (love ya, bro)
  45. 1 point
    i like mornings because nooses of perfection strung around slouching spines are tossed aside like last week's newspaper in mirrors stippled with toothpaste little circles of translucent chalk-white and contact lenses stuck to the wall people look real beneath burned-out lightbulbs and five am semidarkness i like how tired eyes look heather-tinged and veiny indigo like the sky above the horizon before the sun rises and fog is lifted i like how people look before concealer dots and knotted nooses- stitches just to be taken out and resown ~~~ critique welcome! (also does anyone know if it's burned-out or burnt-out i can't english sorry)
  46. 1 point
    i don't write anymore because my words are twisted choked and strangled. i thought things could not get worse for me until they did my pen is rusted, my mind dusty and covered in cobwebs. what am i supposed to say when something so bad has happened to me, and i have become a shell of a human, depersonalized, desensitized. there are no flowers in my speech, only thorns. when someone hurts you until there is nothing left, letters twist and break and shatter. i miss myself.
  47. 1 point
    She sings and the cigarette smoke Floats out from her lips to make a halo Around her mouse-brown hair. Her eyes glitter in the dim light Of the bar but I see behind them; She’s tired of this, of dancing on stage, The chipping paint on her nails from Reaching out to grab bills from weathered hands, Standing alone and singing the same song Over and over again. I look out the window at the colored rush of chaos And wonder what the world has come to, To make this woman burn her life away, Inside to out, to turn on mile-high heels To the beat of too-loud, tattered black speakers. I want to shake her awake from the pattern And tell her to leave it behind, but I’m here too, so there must be something to say For the Godforsaken stage and blinding lights. Through the haze of poison liquor I think Of how this is probably a metaphor For something, like ‘it’s too late To escape the monotony,’ but then The song ends, the woman bows, And I forget everything but the pounding, Thrumming, drumbeat heart of the city.
  48. 1 point
  49. 1 point
    RP OC Update: just realized I roped me, a straight girl with no gay boy in person friends, into maybe writing a gay boy. Well, let’s hope I don’t get offensive. *throws confetti*
  50. 1 point
    I really like the spelling of your name. My aesthetic.