• ✍️ WORDS ✍️

    Welcome Guest!

  • Words Moderators: Mysterier

Share Write and share a micro-story, essay, or poem!

I have a route I love to take on my bike. I wheel out behind my neighborhood into a thickly forested older suburb, looks like a late 70s film set, and, blanketed in the shade of towering clusters of redwood, I cruise and start to look.

I gaze at the sky, chirp at squirrels and birds, wave and nod at passing women and men, some of whom respond in kind. I judge, in my shade, countless mailboxes, then critique the upkeep of lawns, observe the yellowing coats of paint/ a seasons' grip upon the paintwork, clockwork paws in decades count erode the front porch and shamelessly stain sickly columns. Giving character to this stretch of ordinary houses, sprouting spots of rust and birthing aged embittered shackles, here beside sweet friendly roads of a charmed neighborhood, I am noting great evidence of decay, pining over decaying homes that, I bet, shelter families and their spry wheezing little dogs. Kind of bittersweet, a bit cinematic.

Sun pours through tree openings and decorates the black streets and cracked sidewalks with alternating shapes in now light now shadow, figures in flux playing indecipherably patterned kaleidoscopic games under the coiled metal links of my smooth tall bike.
 
Blood is draining from my face
Keep my self safe in false place
Close my eyes till you aren't real
This is why, I just don't feel
I'm petrified.

What is real, and who am I -
More to the point now - who are you?
I have forgotten.

In this automata -
Of humanised guise
I just don't feel
While depersonalised.
 
Last edited:
A Creative Case for Unresolved Engulfment Fear

Ever feel like you're just a pseudo-intellectual, pseudo-literary psuedo-artistic pseudo-human?

Then remember they're the pieces
Which make your life whole?

You want to become them -
You want the pieces to engulf you until you are them.
Indistinguishable, inseparable.

The closer you get,
The more terrified you become
Of the fear of being buried -
Beneath your own solidifying identity.

Earning the achievement to drop the "psuedo-titles;"
Becomes the pursuit and purpose
Concerning most of our lives.
 
Last edited:
Addictive personalities do not have an inherent desire to be addicted; rather they take excessive pleasure from excessiveness.
 
Woman

I like butts,
And I like tits

I like lips,
And I like hips

I like hair, and
I like eyes

I don't like tears.
I don't like lies.
 
At first I want to say that I really enjoy reading all of your poems, they are all great! I wanted to write a poem for a long time, but your poems inspired me to write this. (Sorry for my possibly bad English, I’m still in school to improve my skills )

The cigarette
I stare at the cigarette
Burning to the tip
One puff, one step closer to death
And I ask myself is it worth the risk
While the smoke lingers around my head
Another large puff and the flash kicks in
I don’t like the flash at all
The feeling of sickness crawls upon my head
My heart is beating fast
And I break out in sweat though it’s cold outside
Why do I smoke?
I don’t know,
But I know
It’s not worth the risk.
 
This is a monologue I wrote for creative writing class when I was in high school.

To be fair, I HAVE posted this in here before, but as its own thing. But it was years ago, and it didn't get many reads, so it's probably new to you!

Keep in mind, I was in high-school when I wrote it, so if it seems all "emo," that's why.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Setting- A boy's bedroom. He is sitting on his bed. It is dark, and the clock indicates around midnight.
Erik hags up the phone and throws it across the room. He talks as though still talking to his girlfriend...
"What is going on?
(scratches his forehead)
Really? You know all I try to do is make you happy... What do you do?
Fight.
It doens't matter what I say or how I feel.
No, you say what you want to say and then shut me out.
(sighs)
That's fine, you know? As long as you're happy, and I'm sorry.
But I'm really not. You think I am. What do I have to be sorry for?
Telling you how I feel? I think not....
(pause) I'll just do like last time; pretend I'm sorry, let you sleep, and we'll be fine in the morning... again.
(stares at the ceiling, then gets a look of anger)
I hate it when you're mad. I hate it when you don't care!
You don't care!
I make sure when I get mad, you don't get hurt. When you're mad...
HA!!! Who cares about Erik's feelings?
The things you say tear me up inside, kill me.
Rape my heart.
You know this, and still, you don't care. You love me? How?!
You hurt me! I have cried every night for weeks! Because of you...
(face saddens) When I really think about it, why would you care?
I understand. I don't really deserve you.
All I do is try to make your life perfect. And I fail.
I fail at everything...
Life, school... Being a good son... a good boyfriend...
I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Valentine's Day.
(scoffs) Overrated... Again, I tried so hard, and again, it didn't work out.
(pulls out a picture of her and stares at it, he gets mad again)
You didn't make it any easier. You could have, but you didn't! That's just rude.
The things you said were so apathetic. Thanks.
You hate Valentine's Day? You have a boyfriend who doesn't care?
I CARE! You know I care!
Fuck you.
Swallow your precious pride.
You even called me Chris. How could you call me Chris?
I hate Chris.
You still talk to him.
(pause) Which is fine... but everytime you talk to him, things between us...
(voice softens) Go downhill...
You always talk about how you can't stand him. You sure are good friends for how much you hate eachother. Funny...
Now, I lie awake, staring at my Christmas lights, thinking.
Not sleeping. No, I don't sleep.
(he begins to cry) STOP!!!! All I want is for us to be happy!
Why can't you be happy?
We are happy, you just don't open your eyes and heart.
Let me back in! Please?!?!
(cries) I want this to end. I want to be happy.
I wish you could hear me right now. I wish you could see what you do to me.
You wouldn't listen anyway. You never do. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I tried so hard for you. I give up.
Goodbye Rachel.
(walks across the room, picks up the phone he threw earlier)
It's your turn to cry now. You'll regret being so rude and uncaring.
It's over this time. I don't even care. I don't.
(dials seven numbers, laughing to himself)
You had better answer the phone. I want to get this over with... finally.
(Rachel answers the phone... "hello?")
Rachel? Yeah, hi. It's me again. I've been thinking.
I've decided what I need to say.
(pause) Yeah, really.
(silence) I love you, Rachel.
I'm sorry.
 
Shy Love
I love you
But I’m too shy to tell you
Every time I see you
I want to tell you
That you are the most beautiful girl in the universe
That I fell in love with you since the first time I saw you
That I want to be with you
That I want to kiss you
Breathe your breath
Hold you in my arms
But I’m too shy
We are friends now
Chatting once in a while
Talking about insignificant things
But I’m too shy to tell you
What I feel for you
Every time I see you at a party
I drink in the hope of telling you
What I want to tell you so badly
But I’m too shy
Even when I’m drunk
So I drink like there’s a message in the bottle
Telling me what to say and how to act
But there's no message
Just a feeling of numbness
With every sip I care less
So in the end
I didn’t tell you what I wanted to
But I’m too drunk to care
In the morning
When I wake up
Totally dehydrated and hung-over
I regret not telling you what I feel
And think to myself
That I will confess my feelings for you
The next time I see you
 
Last edited:
this is a very short story.

i asked my parents to bring me imodium and little cuties.

they were gone three hours.

they brought me kaopectate and a turkey club.

o_0
 
Fuck life
Now I’m sitting in my room
With nothing but sadness on my side
And I think to myself
Fuck life
What did I do
To lose your love
Everything I wanted was making you happy
But I failed
Now you have a new boyfriend
Who is succeeding in making you happy
Lennart, what a shitty name
But you look thoroughly happy with him
And that’s all I wanted for you
So everything that remains for me
Is to reminisce in our halcyon days
And drink like there’s no tomorrow
 
Once upon a time, far away from where you're sitting, there was a psychedelic weasel named Cunt.

He was a happy weasel.

But the schizophrenic, and evil, King Slapper harbored various paranoid delusions about Cunt.

So one day, the King's loyal henchman - Florence Fist-Fuck - sought out the weasel.

Fist-Fuck found Cunt, dead in the forest, having overdosed on research chemicals.

And they all lived happily ever after.

THE END.
 
I stand in the shadow of my former self, squinting against the glare of a thousand waking lives.
These triumphant urban pilgrims: they produce deep scratchy sounds with the back of their throat.
They are busy, all of them, chasing dusk,
Winding their clocks forward.

This, expendable day:
It will not cease,
Until
My time
has expired.
 
Oil on Canvas in Zero Gravity

Ninety nocturnal neighbours, bathing in the moonlight
While voyeuristic stars gaze down at our muddy genitals
Heavenly ghosts, littered across the black velvet night
Reflected on this orgiastic collage of eager skin
We project lust skyward, like howling wolves
Harnessing the power of dead planets

Our celestial slaves, rising from the grave
Hurtling starlight across galaxies
To illuminate our entangled limbs
Our lips, contorting with pleasure
Snapshots of sexual satellites
Seeping through our pores

Saliva on skin
Our naked fleshy canvases
Glistening in the night sky
We are propelled, weightless, into deep space
Thick rubbery strands stretching between
Synchronized orgasmic constellations
We orbit each other, tickling stratospheres
Penetrating gaping holes in the thin ozone

Our probes, exploring alien surfaces
Laying claims and planting flags
Terraforming simple cellular landscapes into vibrant ecosystems
From dry river beds to gushing waterfalls
From cloudless skies to electrical storms
Our ravenous nerve endings
Devouring dead-skin deserts
As we impregnate
The rich soil

Ninety nocturnal neighbours, bathing in the moonlight
Muddy genitals broadcasting ecstasy into the starry skies
The black velvet night, draped across our shivering flesh
This eclectic combination of eager skin and starlight
Serves as a conduit for our interplanetary flirtations
While fingers of heavenly light caress our souls
 
ForEverAfter said:
Oil on Canvas in Zero Gravity

Ninety nocturnal neighbours, bathing in the moonlight
While voyeuristic stars gaze down at our muddy genitals
Heavenly ghosts, littered across the black velvet night
Reflected on this orgiastic collage of eager skin
We project lust skyward, like howling wolves
Harnessing the power of dead planets

Our celestial slaves, rising from the grave
Hurtling starlight across galaxies
To illuminate our entangled limbs
Our lips, contorting with pleasure
Snapshots of sexual satellites
Seeping through our pores...........
Click to expand...

Brilliant.
 
H.H.’s Polyommatus Blues

Finished admiring
the dark bracelet
on her waxen wrist
Enchanted
by his hand
he rubs the dust
and feels nothing
To have touched
butterfly wings
 
Last edited:
Dignity for Drugs

You, whose bodies are vessels for junk;
My chemical whores; My spread-eagle fiends;
My heroins/heroes; Methamphetamine punks:
I’ve done all that you’ve done,
And seen all that you’ve seen.

You versatile users; My pluggers; My chasers;
My bong-smokers; Beer-drinkers; Pill-popping freaks:
Selling harvested organs; turning profits to vapour.
An ounce for a kidney;
One 8-ball, one spleen.

You, whose habits are financed by sin;
My human-inhumans; my degenerate thugs:
My buskers/beggers: eating food scraps from bins.
Welcome to the bottom;
Trade dignity for drugs.

You, whose bodies are vessels for junk;
My hollow assistants, prostituting your souls;
My electrified tweakers; My invertebrate drunks:
Get naked, bend over,
And show me your hole.

Soon, you’ll be swollen and covered with cum;
My shameless; My dirty meat-puppet surprise:
To flag down a client, just stick out your thumb.
You’ll get used to it here,
It’s a good place to die.

Your dreams deceased, long before you were born;
My aimless wanderers, you belong to this scene:
I began as a rose and made my way up to thorn.
You’ll do all that I’ve done,
And see all that I’ve seen.
 
Fuck I hate TV, and I
Fucking hate advertisement.
I HATE Jason Bateman -
Your movies fucking suck.

Fuck I hate your money
I fucking hate your "stuff."
I fucking hate your passion
I fucking hate your progress.

Fuck your fucking business
Fuck your fucking goals.
Fuck your motivation
Fuck your swimming pool.

Fuck your fine attire
And fuck your bright white smile.

Fuck your fake-ass piety
Fuck your fucking life.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top