Palaver

Are you a writer or a poet? Come and share your creations with us, or discuss writing techniques with others
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Please only post your own original work, do not post poetry or stories which were written by someone else.

Hello, this is just so I know how many people have viewed this thread. Choose your favorite season:

Winter
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Summer
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Autumn
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Total votes : 21

Palaver

Postby adrian » Fri Apr 26, 2019 7:10 pm


    I decided to make a thread like my art thread but to share my writings. So here it is I suppose.

    Much of my writing is nonsense with little to no intended meaning. I just write out the words as they come to mind with little reason. It's cathartic.

    Posts are welcomed and very much appreciated. I am aware my writing skills aren't top-notch, but I enjoy it regardless.
Last edited by adrian on Fri Jul 12, 2019 4:59 pm, edited 4 times in total.
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╾╾╾╾ a single sisyphean dream

Postby adrian » Sat May 04, 2019 12:46 pm

    I never was one to dwell on the past; I always found ways to move forward and forget the times others would usually regret. But now I sit and ponder on what might be different if I had never spoken up, if nothing had ever happened.

    Sure, it would have ached more than anything for a while, but now it aches more than everything, and that ache doesn't go away because I'm trapped. I stare at my dainty hands and like to examine the tendons moving when I adjust my fingers. How far, I wonder, would I have to go before they could move freely? I think we are like my hands. Of course there would be terrible pain if I tore those tendons or broke my fingers, but then I could move them however I wanted. It's not entirely the same as a hand of course, but I think the idea is similar. I've spent more time bending my hand's fingers lately. I think there are more fingers I need to bend.

    I like to sketch your face on the tables in my home to pretend like you've become nothing more than a beautiful arrangement of graphite. I can smudge you, erase you, or I can give you more color, detail, life. You are entirely mine in this state. You don't have to care about me like this because I know that you are not even conscious. You are just an image. I think I prefer this version of you. It's here whenever I want it to be. I haven't seen your skin face in what feels like an eternity. I only have graphite you. Graphite you expresses more positive emotion than you ever did and it saddens me.

    I like to run my fingers over braille and pretend it's a stone. Of course I know it really isn't, but it makes me feel like a child again to close my eyes and feel a stone where there are none. Every time I do it, the stone looks different. Some of them are like chunks of ice while others are more rough and magmatic. It reminds me of you. Sometimes you are one way, other times you're another. I am in for a surprise every time I run my finger over my page of braille just like I am every time I greet you. I can never tell if you'll be gentle and affectionate or if you'll use me as a means of release.

    I look out and watch for your car sometimes. Will you come today? I can stand there on the balcony for hours. Many cars pass, but I know none of them are yours. You don't have a car. I also don't have a balcony. There also isn't a road below me and there is certainly no page of braille. There are no tables with sketches of your face and I definitely do not have hands with bones and tendons with the capacity to break. I am you, I think. What you were before. What you should be. I'm still here, hardly. You always seem so distant.
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╾╾╾╾ Touched

Postby adrian » Sat May 04, 2019 3:59 pm

    I grieve for what's not yet been lost; I grieve for the inevitable.
    But I cannot seem to grieve when the loss comes upon me.

    I remember vividly the morning of your ascent. It was clear to me many weeks before that you would not be around for much longer. You couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't speak. But you could feel. I speak with my touches. While everyone else grimly watched you worsen from afar and continued trying to communicate through words you could no longer comprehend, I used the tongue I am most fluent in to reassure you that you were not going to die without being heard.

    Then you couldn't move. Then I was lost as well. That is when I began to grieve, the moment we could no longer communicate. I did not cry because I lost you in that moment. I cried because you had no way to tell the world what you wanted. You were not granted the privilege of last words.

    On the day of your death, everyone around me sobbed incessantly while I sat, pensive. You were one with the Earth once again. I thought that was beautiful. They thought it was terrible. They thought I was terrible for thinking you were beautiful. Your cold hands didn't shake me like they did everyone else. They didn't summon tears from within. They intrigued me. And that was the beginning of that. All the deaths after yours have had little effect on my emotional state. All they ever did was arouse more curiosity. They tried bringing me to therapy; mother called me sick and cruel for not feeling sad about death. But I think you would agree with me, so I don't worry because you were anything but a psychopath. They called you an angel on Earth, but they just call me deranged. I suppose there is a glaring difference between us. You were a nurse, you spent 50 years of your life caring for and loving everyone you encountered. I beat demonic individuals in order to cleanse them. Our methods of healing others couldn't be any more different. They took me to my own grave that I am now forced to remain alive in for an entire lifespan. I'm excited to not be able to be excited. I wonder what it feels like to be sucked up by a tree and chewed on by vultures. I'd ask you, but, well, I can't!
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╾╾╾╾ Flavor

Postby adrian » Thu May 09, 2019 6:08 pm

    There's a flavor to their words that I have not tasted before. It's almost sweet, but not quite. I wouldn't call it any sort of flavor that exists. It's its very own.

    I sit on the sidelines rather often. I am never excluded by them, but, rather, I exclude myself. I am always so kindly urged to join, but I'm not sure if I like the flavor of those particular words, so I don't. Besides, I operate best as an observer. I like to view them from afar as though I am a suburban tourist and they are the fascinating and terrifying slums in my very own cerebral San Francisco. I listen to how they put together words. I take in the patterns they use. The words of their regional dialects taste like sugary cornflakes. I like it, but I don't think I personally find the flavor worth the cost of the calories. They keep turning to me and asking me why I stare at nothing. They don't understand how I focus all of my energy into one sense and move to a different realm when I am focused. My eyes are not staring at nothing; my sight goes to my ears, my fingertips, my tastebuds, whatever sense I am using.

    Although they fail to understand my habits (just as I do theirs), they do not shun me. That makes me feel safe. Much of the world thinks that words are just vibrations and they shut out any other possibility. When cruel strangers speak to me and tell me I am wrong or deranged, it tastes like my favorite fruits. Sweet. Special. I like to be told I am wrong. I love it, in fact. Especially when they have no idea what they are talking about. I can stare through them and they will never understand that I am not staring with my eyes. I have my own plane that I can escape to that they will never be able to comprehend. It almost feels as though I am cheating. I get two realities, they only get one. They get one that everyone can see. I have my own special one just for myself.
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╾╾╾╾ Avian

Postby adrian » Fri May 10, 2019 10:07 am

    Her eyes are always so wide
    Her gaze devours the sky
    And pieces apart every meaningless thing around her
    She has retained the spirit that all others
    Can no longer recall the feeling of

    She stares at a seed and wonders
    She ponders
    Her mind wanders
    She peels apart the casing
    She births a feeling, a nouveau manifestation
    Of the innocence we all once knew
    And then I awoke to realise
    She never was
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╾╾╾╾ A tarsier sort of day

Postby adrian » Sat May 11, 2019 2:48 pm


    I had something to say that day
    It was lovely, right out of a romance film
    There was hardly a way to verbalize how it made me feel
    It took me a while of deliberating, but I found the right phrase
    Tragically, words were outlawed four years ago
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╾╾╾╾ A letter for a shell of a man

Postby adrian » Mon May 13, 2019 4:25 pm

    Aha! But I do remember when you gripped my hand so tightly it turned a bright red out of fear that someone else might steal it from you and grasp it tighter. You do too, I can tell you do. You speak more with your eyes than you do with your words. What, you think I couldn't tell by now? Please, I've known you longer than you've known yourself. In fact, I'm inclined to believe you still hardly know yourself! You laze around in your room all day just wasting the hours and counting the days until you are taken by oblivion. You tell everyone you have no potential and that you shouldn't have made it out of that trench you'd fallen into. Oh, you'd fallen deep alright, but you came out of it. You weren't meant to drown. That potential is hiding within you just waiting to be explored, but you're so damn stubborn I could see you spending the rest of your days on a couch half asleep dreaming of such trivial things as who's going to die first. Well, I will tell you this, you are losing yourself and, consequently, you have lost me. How could I care if you don't? I can see that there is no true desire in you to get better. I can feel in your disgustingly apathetic utterances that you are going to remain the same if I stay. My love is holding you back. It's holding me back. I cannot say I love you any longer. And as soon as I pry your clammy hands off of mine I think you will realise just how far you have gone with this desolate parade of disappointment and despair. I hope you do. I hope that my leaving sends you into such a depression that you feel as though you'll never leave. Perhaps then you will try to leave. Maybe there is a chance you will get better. I know you will say "He did this! I did nothing!" in an attempt to paint me badly when, truly, the problem is exactly that: you did nothing.

    It is best for me and you. You hold me back. I hold you back. We say we love, but I feel love from neither you nor myself. We only stay together because neither wants to be the one to break it off. Today I pour the tea and set sail to find a new world untainted by the bitter leaves. I bid you adieu one last time.
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╾╾╾╾ Cumulonimbus

Postby adrian » Tue May 14, 2019 11:03 am

    I am humbled by your presence; you tower above and tear the atmosphere in such an elegant manner that it is hard not to stop and stare for a while. How is it, I wonder, that, with all of your immense power and ethereal beauty, you don't just envelop everything? You could ruin us all in an instant, yet you just float on. Humanity could learn a thing or two from you. I have a healthy fear for you, it is not so much that I hide, but, rather, I know not to underestimate you. You could so easily bear down with violent funnels of wind so strong it tears away everything we've ever known. You could erase all of history if you wanted. We steal your lifeblood for ourselves, but still you seem to only gently kiss us with your wrath. I know I may only admire from afar. Going to your heart would mean almost certain demise. That said, you are all too beautiful. I wish to reach to you and feel all of your contours, to understand your form. You are just like us, only more godly and forgiving. I am not religious, but if I were, I would say that your kind are the truest gods on Earth. I only wish my peers could be more like you and less violent and rageful. I only wish they would stop to stare at you too. It's hard I'll admit, but I must remember that not every cloud is a hurricane. I know there are others like me out there. It's a tragedy that we seem to be so short in supply.
    Next time you pass, I ask you this: strike me. I give myself to you. Release all of your pent up anger for our species in one massive, lethal blow to my puny vessel. Mark the ground where it lies with nothing more than a silent patch of sand where there once was whistling grass.
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╾╾╾╾

Postby adrian » Sun May 26, 2019 4:27 pm

    I cry out in agony for you during this stinging, cloudless afternoon. I lie in the grass and spew every word I can think of while I scream. Passersby sometimes run up to me in desperate confusion as though they might try to help me. I begin to laugh at them when they do. If I were to express my sorrow in cries made of tears, they would pay no mind. Their desire to help is a desire for peace and quiet. So I laugh. And they stop and stare. I laugh harder than I had screamed in those moments just before when I seemed to be dying of the most painful wounds. They discover the truth: I am in fact just yelling.

    And so they walk off. Some roll their eyes. Some ask me if I am alright. Some tell me to quiet down and label me a nut. I know no words. I continue my laughter until I cannot breathe, and then I begin to scream once more. I shall continue this cycle until either I or the planet comes to our inevitable demise. It seems only right, for, we have already met ours. It seems almost perfectly correct that there are no clouds today. I love the clouds more than I love myself, just the same as I had loved you once before.

    These are not screams of loss, I do not miss you. They are screams to you. A message. It is not fair for you to have stolen what you did from me.
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╾╾╾╾ Speak to this man, never

Postby adrian » Fri Jul 12, 2019 5:28 pm

    I go off on many tangents that no other man ever will hear
    My lips are chapped and swollen because I've kissed the savant, dear
    His mighty combs and empyreal head-teeth are filled with the most vile of substance
    Ask him once, "what is your name?" and that will not suffice
    He fears the mention of transhumanism like a child fears a midnight crow
    His countenance, brazen and cruel, still allows a crease to show
    Taste his breath, murder his voice, do what you may do
    Just don't speak long to the savant, dear
    He'd like to wear you, too

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