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WanderingMonster last won the day on September 1

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About WanderingMonster

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  1. I don't wanna go

    I've never quite... belonged anywhere. Even here I was a little bit distant, on the edge of something bigger because I was too shy to talk to you. (I'm sorry) Even so, this place was like home, wild and weird and wonderful. I'm trying to write something final, worthwhile, but all I can think of is that I never cry but sometimes, almost... I know everything comes to an end, I just wasn't prepared. Sometimes I wish I'd been braver, been here longer, said something nice. I guess I wanted to say thanks for having me, it's been fun. I got to write what I wanted, (or needed maybe) learned to love poetry even more than forests or stars. I've said goodbye enough times, but I'm still not sure what to say. I'm not sure if anything will be enough. So. All of you are amazing and I'm glad I found you, Cicada. I'll miss this strange, lovely place. farewell then, Wandering Monster
  2. My South

    My South is an old tree in the cornfield, getting lost between the ears, My South is bumblebees and those gnarled willows that overlook the creek, it’s butterscotch pie and s’mores on the back patio, the cool lake water, the broken bridge pylons. My South is a crackling fire on rainy days and cold peach iced tea, the crumbling barns, the cows and dusty hay bales in far green fields. My South is not your South, red confederate flags raised high, My South is not shotguns over the door and angry, bitter words, it’s not barbed wire fences and blatant mistrust. No, my South is confused. My South has been hurting for a hundred fifty years and every day it fears that it will be forgotten. I watch my town die; I watch stores go empty, hospitals close, churches fade away. I used to hate my South. I was afraid of it’s ancient, stormy thoughts. I forgot that I belonged in the hills as much as everyone else here. (Or maybe I just never believed that this place could love me.) My South is broken, and instead of trying to fix it, I’ll be leaving it behind. Sometimes I think about coming back, but I know I never will. I wish I could stay, keep My South the way it is now: old and lost and home, before it’s gone forever.
  3. Overheard Quotes

    “YOU KNOW NOTHING OF THE OCEAN” “God, it’s painful being stupid.” ”..then you gotta hit the porcupine with a 2 by 4 piece of plywood”
  4. Going

    I know from experience that the going is almost always easier than showing up unannounced, unplanned, even unwanted. (They didn’t expect you, and their discomfort showed) So. I’ve learned to slip away after a little while. Enough time has gone by and I detach myself again, become a recluse, drift with the thistledown and hide in the cornfield. I am disguised by bumblebee wings and sticky spiderweb, pale and confused in the middle of the unforgiving river. (I perched on a rock and watched the fireflies blink and noticed that no one ever comes when you don’t want to be alone) When the sun rose I was gone again and maybe then the people I loved left their burdens behind. They feel lighter in my mind now. I remember the stories - the monster is the villain in the end and I’ve been the weird one for a long time. I decide to leave the broken promises, let my words drift off into the trees and be forgotten, find myself lost in a waking dream. And just maybe, when I haven’t seen a familiar face in days, I’ll turn back towards my dying town and wave goodbye.
  5. Overheard Quotes

    “Individually wrapped M&Ms”
  6. Beautiful

    I know a dragon dark as carbon With blue eyes like bilberries That shine in the blackness. She’s beautiful, slender, Delicate fingers reach out to me As I trace her soot-streaked sides. She’s quiet, too, soft in a way, And her billowing wings unfurl gently Each time she glides towards the sky. Sometimes I try to follow her but I’m heavy, iron-plated, steel talons That scrabble across the cobblestone And I can never lift off. Sheet metal wings could never fly And she’s so scared every time I throw myself off the cliff again Just to see if I can reach the upper atmosphere. But she’s always there to catch me When, inevitably, I plummet back to the ground. She sighs, then, and it sounds like Angels, or maybe the very first dragons That walked the earth four million years ago. She tells me that even though she’s bone and breathing And I’m bubbling magma and embers, Copper scales and built by other hands In some forgotten forge, I’m beautiful too. On those days, when she takes my dented hands In hers, the rust fades from my tarnished heart And perhaps I’ve started to believe her.
  7. Writer's Block

    I want to write something real, Something worth more than Dark doorways and empty rooms, Broken light bulbs that will never glow again. I’m stuck in the gear rooms, The wheelhouse and all the springs and screws Are rusted shut, but it’s like I thought I could keep them turning. We’re both running Out of time and memory and the words Are only echoes now. I know time weathers all things but I thought that my parchment Would never turn yellow, curl up at the edges, That the ink would never dry. I’m trying too hard To bring the words back, make them sound good Against each other and flow like rivers Or maybe magic, until they reach an end. Then maybe I can rest, assured Because I’ll have written something That has a meaning And isn’t only soulless noise.
  8. Lighthouse

    I want to be a lighthouse, to look out at the sea, To stand at the edge but never fall in. I want to call you home with glowing eyes, Tell you I’m here, I’m here, In golden yellow blink-rhythm time. I want to be tall, something steadfast That won’t ever crumble In a thousand years of storm. I’ll wait by the water for lost souls like you, Call out over the tossing waves, say Hold on, because I am a sentinel, Guardian of the wind-swept and weary And my light will bring you through The jagged rocks without a scrape. If I was a lighthouse, I could bring you back Safe, steady, protected from the wear and tear Of life on an angry, unforgiving ocean. Green, foaming waves would turn Into dry land and gentle rain, Smooth sand and windless calm. And if I was a lighthouse, I would still stand there, Over the cliffside, waiting as the years, Like gulls, flew over my rusting, red tin roof, Eyes wide and searching, hoping To rescue the wanderers, and even If you are beneath the blue sea now, Perhaps lighthouses can lead ghosts Back to shore, too.
  9. The Storm

    The lightbulbs flickered. I jumped and stared out the window of my flat. The sky was heavy and dark, filled with ominous purple clouds. Distant ‘BOOM’s echoed faintly through the air. The wind picked up and I watched it tug at the brightly colored flags that hung from the buildings. The buildings were tall, taller than baobabs, and brown, the color of desert monuments, conical in shape with a plethora of circular windows. They were laid out in a seemingly random order, with the streets winding confusingly in between. I wished I didn’t have to live in this ugly city, but my new job demanded it. The wind picked up its pace, howling and hissing through the electrically charged air. The people below me on the streets disappeared into doors, leaving colored cloth and market stalls behind. I shuddered as the sky split open, sending bullet-drops of rain at the window. The wind was gusting so hard now that flags flew through the air and lantern posts on the streets below crashed to the ground. I hoped my window wouldn’t shatter. A knock came at my door then, calm and sharp. I opened it to see the apartment complex’s owner, a thin man with purple robes and a curled mustache, standing at my door. “I wanted to welcome you to Windy City.” He smiled, as if nothing was wrong. “Oh, and a slight storm is coming.” I stared. How was he not afraid that this building would crash down around us? “You’re new to this city,” My landlord observed. “Do not be afraid. The storms come and go and are a part of our life here.” I looked through the blue-glass window. The wind swirled around the irregular buildings and out of the city. Their conical structure kept them from moving even the slightest. The rain ran through the pathways and pooled in wells and gardens. The thunder resonated with the movement of the trees. It was beautiful. After the landlord left I watched the storm intensify and then fade away. Soon, people surged back into the streets and resumed their lives. A rainbow painted itself over the purple sky. I cracked open my window and hung a little flag of my own over the sill. Windy City was wild and wonderful and interconnected and I was welcome.
  10. On the weight of my words

    I want to say something important, something that belongs with all the wondering, questioning eloquent words in the world, but all I write is monsters and trees and it seems childish now that I think about it.
  11. lost monsters

    The monsters under the mountain are angry tonight, Calling and wandering and lost, Wondering where their souls are. I want to bring them back, I think, Into the grass covered hills and standing stones, The ancient, rune carved rocks and foggy moors. Like ghosts, they don’t belong here, but They don’t deserve to drift into the darkness. Just like us, they need to be found and remembered. If I lay my hand flat against the stones I can feel them humming, Thrumming with underground mystery. Under the mist I can hear the monsters And they want to get out, tear their way Up from the caverns and look at the stars Because they’re less far away if you’re free. So I sing a song I was taught once About light and leaving the dark behind and then The monsters crawl out of the mountains And into the trees, hiding away from a world Neither they nor I can understand. I can’t call them down So I climb up the bending branches and Hook my claws into the bark, curl my tail Around the trunks and stare up at the sky We all wish we could reach. I don’t find the monsters around me Strange anymore, we’re too similar For nervous fear and mistrust; We’re all motley, colored and confused, A mess of paws and wings and ink. Our eyes glow at the edge of the blackness And we watch the world turn below, Without us, because up here We’re not monsters anymore, just alive.
  12. Stuck in Possum Springs

    It’s like being stuck in Possum Springs, In a changing town and a dying church, A fading life and an aging world. The stores on Main Street are closing, Have you seen it? It’s all small here, hidden away, so There’s no escape from the people; They all know me, They all know what I’ve done. They won’t forget and I won’t leave Because I love it here, The childhood I never outgrew. And we’re all broken here, Together and alone, The dust swirls as everyone moves on, And I’m too naive So I keep hurting them, Saying the wrong thing. It’s precarious, walking these telephone wires, Looking up at the stars. And Mae, she was a violent child, And me, I was a monster. Bea, she can’t see a good future anymore And I can’t find hope. And Selmers, she writes the empty away; We are poets, the both of us, Writing about this weird Autumn Where I came home for a while. But it’s night in the woods now And there are spirits in my dreams, A Whatever-god who tells me It’s too late for us because The forest god is gone. It’s the end of everything and I’m trying to hold on. So Greg, you get out while you still can But I don’t think I will die anywhere else. Author's Note: This is a poem inspired by the indie game Night In The Woods. (It's a story-based game with lots of dialogue and it's art. Also it's kinda heartbreaking but it's so good) Also it relates to my life a little too closely so I wrote a poem about it
  13. Overheard Quotes

    My friend works in our town's rescue squad and her team says some pretty random things so here are some good ones: "Why do you have a cow spine?" "You're not in squad issued uniform!" "I don't care, it's dysfunctional Thursday." "Do fish hibernate?" "Bacteria can be male or female??" "Kroger starts with K. I find that morally wrong." "You can't control me! I'll come at you like a spider monkey!" "Want some vomit pants?"
  14. Lioness

    I’ve never written you a poem. You don’t lend yourself to words, you see; You’re too strong, an oak To the little willow tree I am And I don’t know how to write a poem For a silent, seething mountain, A girl who could go volcano And fly in a fury to send vengeance Upon those who dare upset Her scattered equilibrium. No one writes poems for the lioness, Headstrong and stubborn And already too proud For calming words and coming into being. You’re the protector, the badass, the ‘I’ll drop kick you across the whole city If you mess with my sister,’ Who can still be a warrior While wearing a dress. I can’t be eloquent about A lightsaber fighting spitfire, Grumpy in the mornings And spouting sass all afternoon. It’s too hard; my poems are supposed To be soft and gentle but you Have always been powerful, Serious and stoic Until suddenly you say something To get us all laughing. And my poetry, too, is about eloquence But you and I don’t often talk with words, We speak with expressions and thoughts and hands, With random inside jokes and stories. That’s why I’ve never written you a poem before, Because you’re more important to me Than any words I know.