Poetry and short stories :) Feel free to post your stuff

[TheMikimouse123]

The vampire shook as they rocked back and forth on their bottom. Their eyes quickly looking around at the people passing by. The sensation grew. The burning, spreading more and more. Holding their breath, he tried to stay calm. His body reeked in dead corpse. He gritted his teeth. "Control yourself.." He muttered to himself. His fang caught a chunk of his lip. Blood pooled into his mouth. Finally after his mouth was filled up to the top of his molars he swallowed in disgust. A shiver ran up his spine making the hairs on his neck stand up.

[Connor.Deviant]

Well, honestly, this is based off of the 'Epilogue by Amelia Williams' thing from 'The Angels Take Manhattan'. It's a short story, so maybe some feedback? c:
Here we go....




Every night since that one fateful night, I've stared up at my ceiling, wondering if anything will ever be normal ever again. My eyes quietly scanned the room as the lights from outside my window flickered and danced across my carpet. "One in the morning, I still can't sleep." I muttered, standing up. I walk over to the window, my pajamas rustling as I move towards it. As my hand gently skimmed the curtain, I peered outside, down the street. Something appeared to be moving in the shadows. As I tried to look closer, it stopped. I sighed, walking back to my bed, when suddenly, I heard a knock on my door. My eyes grew wide with shock. Nobody ever knocks on a door at one in the morning! I quietly stood up, then looked out the window with caution. There was a man standing there. He appeared to not be armed with anything, so I brushed my auburn-colored hair out of my face and gently stepped out of my bedroom and towards the door. I looked out the peephole, wondering who the man was and why he was here, and I quickly unlocked it. I didn't open it all the way, just enough so that it was cracked and I could partially see him. "Hello? Why are you here?" I question. The man just simply handed me a note through the crack, then walked off without saying a word. I watched him with suspicion, then quickly closed the door, locking it again. I walked into the kitchen, grabbing an apple and opening the letter the man had given me. I took the small letter out, holding it gently as I ate the apple. It read,


To my dearest Erin Halloway..

I'm sorry for interrupting your sleep. As you can tell, this letter is very old. But, it should have reached you by the date of the 14 of July, 2014. You must be wondering who in the world wrote you this letter, but you may remember me from a long time ago. If you don't, well, obviously I remember you. But, anyways, the young man you just met was my son, Arron. It's quite weird, having a son who's apparently older than you. Anyways, just remember that I will always remember you, and I will always treasure those times.

I will always remember, E.P.



I stepped back, my mind puzzled. Who was E.P? Suddenly, something else fell out of the envelope. I bent down to pick it up, my fingers holding it gently. I read what was one it, written messily.



Erin -

Do me a favor, will you? Take the soft feather in the envelope, and wish upon it. It will take you back to one of your favorite childhood memories. Go to yourself, and tell her a story, a story she'll never forget. One she'll dream of every night. A story of adventures to have, tears to cry, and enemies to battle. Tell her this story, one she'll always remember and treasure, for this is my story, and perhaps the last I'll ever tell. Just beware. Tomorrow, when leave for work, nothing will ever be the same again. That is why you must tell yourself the story tonight. Just don't tell her who you are.

E.P.




I sighed, taking the feather out of the envelope, and muttered something under my breath, closing my eyes tightly. When I opened them, I was back in my room, but twelve years ago. Little Me was looking at me, her eyes wide. I smiled. This was the night that the strange woman had come into my room. The night that changed me forever. Suddenly, I understood. I, myself, had changed it all. I sat down on her bed, and quietly told her the story. A story of heroism, bravery, love, and sorrow. Finally, I stood up, rubbing my head as she quietly fell asleep. I took the feather back out again, and, suddenly, I was back home. I sighed, wondering what was to happen in the morning.


I finally got to sleep. I woke up at seven in the morning, got dressed, and ate breakfast. I walked outside, and climbed in my car, when suddenly, I felt something gently stroke me. This is it... I thought. I closed my eyes, and suddenly I saw a bright light. I opened my eyes, and I was laying down on what seemed to be a cloud. I looked around, tears dripping down my face. I stood up, realizing my left hand was bleeding. Not terribly, just slightly. I put it in my shirt to help stop it. "Help!" I cried. "Anybody, please! I don't know where I am!" I sobbed. I walked what seemed for miles, until I finally came upon a small patch of land. A man was lying there, and I looked at him. "Excuse me, do you know where I am?" I said quietly. He looked at me, and frowned. "You're where you've always been." he answered. "Home." I looked around, sighing. "This isn't home.." I muttered.



The man told me his name was Harold Patterson. Soon, we got married, and had two children, a girl named Elizabeth, for my mother, and Arron, for Harold's grandfather. My name is Erin Patterson, and this is my story. A story filled with bravery and heroism. I never saw my family again, but I lived a good life. To this day, in my death bed, I don't know what had happened to me. So, I wrote my past self a letter, telling her to tell herself my story. Two days later, I died, and they buried me where I should be.


Home.

Dude that's amazing

[belos]

Thank you ;u;

[Princess Finaqua]

Partners, I love what I read. The story had enough detail to understand what was going on and really see it but not enough to slow the story. However, I was wondering if you would describe, however, where Erin was when her present changed?
Keep writing, all of you!

[[Braveheart]]

I came up and held out my hand,
where you looked at me curiously from within your band.
You step closer to where I stand,
staying at the edge of your land.


You nuzzle my hand, like looking for food,
in a peaceful and happy mood.
I blow into your nose to show
that I'm your friend and there's no need to go.

You blew back three times in a row-
and shake your head because now you know.
You know that I'd love to stay with you,
and ride your back, covered in a lovely dappled hue.


I tried and failed to climb across to kiss your cheek
and you flee, causing me to color and turning away, meek.
I pick up my bike and pedel away,
but not before watching your tails sway.

Feeling sad and dissapointed I ride back,
my feelings heavy on me like a sack.
As I pull my bike inside once more,
I wondered when we'd meet again as I close the door.

[Tanetane]

Sometimes i say it can't be
because it can't

but sometimes i say it must be
because it must

I must be
Therefore I can't be

Do you ever wonder if the cup you're drinking from has a bottom?
You see it has a pit - rather, a stomach - and how it ends to fit in your palm, but do you ever wonder if you're seeing everything?
It makes sense, to assume it has a bottom and to assume it must be able to be filled and emptied.
But what about the ones that sprung leaks? What about the ones who broke in all the wrong places?
You know what's going to happen to them. Cracking. Trashing. It's a death sentence, for something that cannot experience death. You must do something about it.
You pitch the worthless cup.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be be the worthless cup?
Do you think about it daily? Does asking the question, "Am I a worthless cup?" haunt you?
Do you live in fear of that question? Do you live in fear over what you could be? What you can't be? What you must be? Are you ever confused over the difference?

I have to lie to myself. It works. I go on weeks at a time, maybe months, blissfully living an empty life. I'm content with empty, until I ask that question again.

The question hunts me down, attacks everything I've done and makes me fear my own self. My emotions become invalidated. Even as I cry, I know it means nothing, so I cry harder because I'm merely fake. Then I start to argue with myself.
I search through everything. When I find proof, I dispute it. When I find evidence towards the contrary, I deny it.

It goes in circles, and I always come to the same conclusion: Therefore I must be, therefore I can't be. Therefore I can't be, therefore I must be.
Sometimes I merely nibble at myself, amused with the debate going on in my mind. Most of the time, I eat away. Sometimes, I greedily tear chunks away from myself, even from my flesh, and deny all the missing emotions and every single shred of sadness.

No matter how much I chew at a time, I always become tired with the taste. The topic becomes plain, like a medicine that was bland at first, but became increasingly nauseating in it's tastelessness the more you swallowed it. I then have nothing else to do but force the topic away whenever it arises, until I forget.

Eventually, my quest to forget becomes so successful that I force feed myself the same poisonous question yet again because I don't remember why it ever lost it's flavor.
Like a serpent eating it's own tail.

The passage of time makes me a fool.

If you tip me over, I feign unhappiness.
If you fill me up, I feign satisfaction.
If you press the right buttons, I become a doll. You can never play with that doll, it can only play with you. But it can do anything you want it to, until you push that button too hard.

It's a very easy button to press.

If I'm a doll, I'm a heavy one. I'm a burden. I never want you around, and your only purpose would be to protect me.
I'm vulnerable. I only love you when I need to love you.

I wish you well because I think I should wish you well, because I think I need to. Because it's a requirement to being human.
It's never because I feel the need to.

I don't deserve anything.
If you dropped me, I would break easily. Nothing inside. Hallow.
Shallow emotions, shallow life.

Why do I think I'm an useless cup?
What else do you call something you can never fill or empty?
You certainty don't call it human.

You call it manipulative.
You call it fake.

[Night Ember]

Any feedback here?

He comes
Taking what he wants
When he wants
Wherever he wants
Anytime
Anywhere
He roams the world
Taking
not giving
Filling wishes of some
Destroying the wishes
of others
Ignore the weak
Take the strong
Make them insecure
Make them powerless

Death's cruel hand
Takes what he wants
When he wants
why he wants,
nobody knows

He steals your passion
He manipulates
your happiness
One moment
is alright
The next
is in a box 6 ft under
Under the ground
Under a stone
a Stone that says to "Rest in Peace"
But how do you rest in peace,
When resting is for the
living
And Death has made you
your soul
your life
your emotions
Dead?

Death's cruel hand
Takes what he wants
Because he wants
to diminish you
To take your soul
To take your heart
To test you

I know Death
I know his plans
I know his actions
I know his doings
Death is not my friend
Death is my demon,
my past
Or maybe not my demon
Death isn't my accomplice
Because Death is
Me
I am Death
I take the living
I take them Home
Where they belong

My "Cruel" hand
Doing what I want
when I want
Wherever I want
Because I have to
Because it is right
I deserve no punishment
I deserve no pain
Because killing the healthy is
painful enough

[AzureMoonx4x]

Any feedback here?

He comes
Taking what he wants
When he wants
Wherever he wants
Anytime
Anywhere
He roams the world
Taking
not giving
Filling wishes of some
Destroying the wishes
of others
Ignore the weak
Take the strong
Make them insecure
Make them powerless

Death's cruel hand
Takes what he wants
When he wants
why he wants,
nobody knows

He steals your passion
He manipulates
your happiness
One moment
is alright
The next
is in a box 6 ft under
Under the ground
Under a stone
a Stone that says to "Rest in Peace"
But how do you rest in peace,
When resting is for the
living
And Death has made you
your soul
your life
your emotions
Dead?

Death's cruel hand
Takes what he wants
Because he wants
to diminish you
To take your soul
To take your heart
To test you

I know Death
I know his plans
I know his actions
I know his doings
Death is not my friend
Death is my demon,
my past
Or maybe not my demon
Death isn't my accomplice
Because Death is
Me
I am Death
I take the living
I take them Home
Where they belong

My "Cruel" hand
Doing what I want
when I want
Wherever I want
Because I have to
Because it is right
I deserve no punishment
I deserve no pain
Because killing the healthy is
painful enough

Whoa wowie I really like it! I love how the verses are mostly consistent, they double back on each other and keep the rhythm going, but the words subtly change and make an awesome transition between the beginning and the end - third person judgmental to first person. Great theme of death and how it's necessary in nature.
Nice work.
~Azure

[AzureMoonx4x]

Sometimes i say it can't be
because it can't

but sometimes i say it must be
because it must

I must be
Therefore I can't be

Do you ever wonder if the cup you're drinking from has a bottom?
You see it has a pit - rather, a stomach - and how it ends to fit in your palm, but do you ever wonder if you're seeing everything?
It makes sense, to assume it has a bottom and to assume it must be able to be filled and emptied.
But what about the ones that sprung leaks? What about the ones who broke in all the wrong places?
You know what's going to happen to them. Cracking. Trashing. It's a death sentence, for something that cannot experience death. You must do something about it.
You pitch the worthless cup.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to be be the worthless cup?
Do you think about it daily? Does asking the question, "Am I a worthless cup?" haunt you?
Do you live in fear of that question? Do you live in fear over what you could be? What you can't be? What you must be? Are you ever confused over the difference?

I have to lie to myself. It works. I go on weeks at a time, maybe months, blissfully living an empty life. I'm content with empty, until I ask that question again.

The question hunts me down, attacks everything I've done and makes me fear my own self. My emotions become invalidated. Even as I cry, I know it means nothing, so I cry harder because I'm merely fake. Then I start to argue with myself.
I search through everything. When I find proof, I dispute it. When I find evidence towards the contrary, I deny it.

It goes in circles, and I always come to the same conclusion: Therefore I must be, therefore I can't be. Therefore I can't be, therefore I must be.
Sometimes I merely nibble at myself, amused with the debate going on in my mind. Most of the time, I eat away. Sometimes, I greedily tear chunks away from myself, even from my flesh, and deny all the missing emotions and every single shred of sadness.

No matter how much I chew at a time, I always become tired with the taste. The topic becomes plain, like a medicine that was bland at first, but became increasingly nauseating in it's tastelessness the more you swallowed it. I then have nothing else to do but force the topic away whenever it arises, until I forget.

Eventually, my quest to forget becomes so successful that I force feed myself the same poisonous question yet again because I don't remember why it ever lost it's flavor.
Like a serpent eating it's own tail.

The passage of time makes me a fool.

If you tip me over, I feign unhappiness.
If you fill me up, I feign satisfaction.
If you press the right buttons, I become a doll. You can never play with that doll, it can only play with you. But it can do anything you want it to, until you push that button too hard.

It's a very easy button to press.

If I'm a doll, I'm a heavy one. I'm a burden. I never want you around, and your only purpose would be to protect me.
I'm vulnerable. I only love you when I need to love you.

I wish you well because I think I should wish you well, because I think I need to. Because it's a requirement to being human.
It's never because I feel the need to.

I don't deserve anything.
If you dropped me, I would break easily. Nothing inside. Hallow.
Shallow emotions, shallow life.

Why do I think I'm an useless cup?
What else do you call something you can never fill or empty?
You certainty don't call it human.

You call it manipulative.
You call it fake.

Holy gods above, Tane! (Ha I remember you) But this is so SO good. It hits far too close to home, in fact it's gone straight in the front door. Incredible work, the phrasing is spot on, everything in it is something I have thought before (well not the cup thing specifically but also by the way the cup thing was really cool.) I just, afjkdsj it's REALLY good ok.

[AzureMoonx4x]

Humans have a way of putting things
Like no other creature can.
Like burying their garbage
Or polluting ocean sand.

They slaughter poor animals
Merely just to please.
Their way of getting around
Dirties up the breeze.

Yet they care for their family
Unlike some species do.
They love, smile, and have emotions
At least that much is true.

They create masterpieces
With their own bear hands.
Help the world around them
Although most don't understand.

I've given you this poem
Now you decide which is right.
Are humans kind and gentle?
Or do they doom Earth into plight?

Whew, very nice. The structure of the rhymes is great in itself, but the meaning in it is just so good. I've often thought about how humans are the worst thing and the best thing at the same time? We have so much awareness, can think existentially, have so much creativity…and yet it seems our core instinct is to destroy. For some people it is to create…Idk it's just nuts, disappointing and wonderful at the same time.