#creative writing Tumblr posts

  • touch the pen to your heart

    let it write you a song

    a melody

    a rhythm

    brought to you by the well inside your head

    where memories fall in and drown


    a spray of color adorns the bedclothes

    your invisible muse hums idly

    floating languidly about your work

    as you try to grasp everything they are not to you

    roses are red and violets forget me often


    the nightmare of logic

    existential crises

    eating your heart out

    you consider things not meant for you

    these puzzle pieces don’t fit together 

    but you’re tired of reshaping them

    and leave them to confuse the player

    with a note of apology



    the pen slips

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  • “We have no reason to be mistrustful of our world, for it is not against us. If it holds terrors they are our terrors, if it has its abysses these abysses belong to us, if there are dangers then we must try to love them. And if we only organize our life according to the principle which teaches us always to hold to what is difficult, then what now still appears most foreign will become our most intimate and most reliable experience. How can we forget those ancient myths found at the beginnings of all peoples? The myths about the dragons who at the last moment turn into princesses? Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses, only waiting for the day when they will see us handsome and brave? Perhaps everything terrifying is deep down a helpless thing that needs our help”

    - Letters to A Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke

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  • The fourth dimension daydreamer

    I am the grass
    I’m the tree
    pollen from
    widow of a building

    M Baumgart

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  • To the first person who listened

    to look and to live
    too late to trespass
    we ate paradise
    I’m happy that you were there

    M Baumgart

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  • The Many Faces of You

    All of these prompts should help you begin exploring yourself. The other chapters in this section will help, too, by focusing on specific facets of your background, your experiences and your personality. In working through these chapters, allow yourself to have fun and take risks. Enjoy the process. Be daring. Don’t worry about sounding literary or angry or weak or whatever tag you’re tempted to stick on yourself. In fact, avoid tags of any kind. The key is candor. You need only bring the courage to dig deep inside yourself.

    And learn the lesson of Popeye: Don’t worry about consistency. He is what he is, but you have many facets and dimensions. Need proof? Read your journal. Not only will you find yourself in many moods, your handwriting will change from day to day. Remember Emerson’s line about consistency being “the hobgoblin of little minds.”

    Source: Heffron, Jack. The Writers Idea Book: How to Develop Great Ideas for Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry & Screenplays. Writers Digest, 2012.

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  • The sky had two moons. Barely visible in the day, two plates dull and grey kept secret in the mellow blue. Lustrous in the inky night, commanding the stars with their godly gleam. One night, one vanished. Jack fell asleep beneath the bulbous twin moons that gracefully hung above, and woke up midnight to one missing, one mislaid by a holy hand. He gawked at the lonely moon. It was half-bright and half-full. Its brother taken, its joyous light thieved. For a long moment, Jack only stared. Then, he ran to his own brother’s bed. John would know what had happened. He stumbled into his room on his little, fattish legs, eyes wide and mystified. He took tottery step after step to where his brother should lie. The bed, however, was empty. John was gone.

    His diaper felt sticky. A dribble of stink a brook down his leg. He did not care. The little boy named Jack searched for John. Peeking beneath his bed, where the tousled sheets were whipped in a mess. In his closet, where he was known to hide when their mother raged. In the living room, where they would often play and watch cartoons. He was not anywhere. He was nowhere.

    “John?” he asked all the way.

    “John!” he shrieked when his search turned nothing but dust and lost pennies. He felt his little heart race, pump pump pump in the brittle cage of his ribs. He felt his eyes well, water spilling like the stream of reek pooling at his bare feet, leaking past his sodden cloth. He was about to scream for his mother, when a hand clamped his mouth shut.

    “Quiet, little one.” It was John. His touch, the scent of his dirt-ridden hand, the familiar feel of his brother calmed Jack quick.

    “Turn around, Jack. Do not say a word about this to anyone.”

    Jack turned. Before him, his brother. The same spindly frame, all bones and body starved. The same curly hair. The same wild light in his brave eyes. Something, however, was different. Jack could tell. His body was held tighter, higher, his chin tilted up. His curly hair curved unnatural. The light was a storm in his ashen eyes. His smile the lightning, electric and brilliant. On one hand, his fingers glowed. Jack could only stand dumb. His heart still pump pump pumping, his tiny head struck thoughtless.

    John uncurled his fingers. John held a ball of bright white. John held the moon in his hand.

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  • “How many times do I have to tell you, you can’t just kill everyone we have a problem with.”

    “But he insulted your dress!”

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  • Alone in his bedroom, Joey sat on the edge of his bed, dressed in a rented tuxedo. It certainly wasn’t the last time he would ever be in that room but it was the last time that this room would really be his room. From now on, he supposed this room would be referred to as his childhood bedroom.

    Is that what I’m doing today? thought Joey. Am I leaving childhood behind?

    Looking around, the room now looked to him like pieces of a story. The curtains on the window were made of red cotton printed with multi-coloured trains. Joey’s mom had made them before he was born and, even though they had now lost almost all their colour, he still remembered them as bright they had been back then. On the windowsill, stood a dozen plastic dinosaur toys. All the figurines were covered in a thick layer of dust and the utahraptor’s tail was mangled by teeth marks. Joey remembered the day he had caught Artemis chewing the toy under his bed. He remembered how sheepish she had looked when he had yelled at her.

    Joey’s desk sat directly beneath the window. There were two computers on the desk. The first was the laptop that his dad had bought him when he started university. He still used that computer almost every day. Joey remembered setting up the laptop at the foot of his twin bed and watching movies with at least two different girls. It was weird to think about his old girlfriends seeing as today was his wedding day.

    The second computer on the desk was an old desktop that was at least as dusty as the dinosaurs. It had been the very first computer that they had in the house. Joey’s dad had gotten it for work and Joey could remember sneaking down to the basement with his brother to play games on it early in the morning. When Joey had been in high school, his dad had gotten a new computer and this one had been moved to Joey’s room so that he could use it for homework. That hadn’t really worked, however, because the computer had even then been too old to connect to the household printer.

    Other than the two computers, the desk was also covered in stacks of paper. These were papers leftover from university and possibly even high school. Joey could make out a syllabus from an English Literature course and two different chemistry assignments. He had been meaning to throw away those papers for some time now and felt a pang of guilt for having put it off for so long.

    Under the desk, a large number of colourful boxes were stacked. This was where Joey kept what he considered to be his rather impressive collection of board games. These games had been his life throughout high school. Lunch hours, evenings and weekends had all been full of gatherings with his friends to play these games. The entire group had been passionate about tabletop gaming but for Joey, it had been and still was more of an obsession. He had even specially ordered games from Germany and Japan that had not even been translated into English. He had spent weeks translating the rules as best he could and teaching several of his friends to play the games.

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  • I wonder what it would be like not to have a linguistic distinction between “sun” and “star”. what would that language be like? what kind of people would speak it?

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  • Yes

    There are things deep within me

    Things breaking the surface wanting to be seen

    I submerge the best of me

    Hiding from the prying eye

    Hoping to remain anonymous

    Lost in a crowd of wonder



    That is me

    My light seen

    A beacon drawing more than I need to me

    Who is to say

    Who will walk my way

    Destined to linger amongst trees ancient

    Loamy scents my friend

    The green of it


    I have walked long miles

    Dancing through minds

    I have sought inspiration that way

    Buying what others had to say

    It feeds me

    My need great

    Do you complete the same way

    Making songs of experience

    Longing for diverse existence


    I was seen

    Basking in the richness of it

    It is the things that make me believe

    Wonder grown on sweet dense silky trees

    Their softness the comfort

    Their fruit the dessert of a life deprived of true meat

    I hunger for the protein of it

    My diet lacking


    I have always dwelled in madness

    It is how you defined it

    Who was I to see your lie

    I will be

    You have never defined me

    All I need

    My words forever incomplete

    Giving ultimate meaning

    Blooming flowers of true hope

    Their hue living to rise and consume


    It is all new

    I began merely to stir you

    And as all things brand new

    Forget what you have seen

    Allow the truth of it to swirl into your existence


    I am real

    Ever dwelling in mist

    Truth clear

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  • Dialogue Prompt #6

    “Listening to other people lie about themselves helps me relax.”

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  • There is wonder in found hunger

    The yearning the teacher

    The need the lesson given


    We walk through grasses meant to cushion disasters

    Hoping for survival

    Never trying to overcome

    Do you seek dreams

    Do you destroy the things of meaning

    Waking to worlds lost within a cosmo of lie

    It is the beginning of it

    The end unthinkable

    Can we move in unison

    Creating things that make dreams

    Bringing wonder to the

    I hunger for it

    Waking in need

    Having to

    Can I begin

    Longing to dive in

    The want intense

    The need dwelling deep within

    I am the cloud upon a sky of blue green

    How else can I be

    Meaning residing within me

    Inspire me


    You were always in my dreams

    Hungering with me


    Green fields

    Blue skies

    All between dominion

    My words clean

    Hear me

    Be with me

    Close your eyes

    Finally see

    The dream the reality

    #poeticstories#writerscreed#twcpoetry #my current mood #my current truth #creative writing#word play #playing with my words #word art
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  • There is a love in you,
    as of yet unanswered;
    unfound in another.
    You used to exude it from
    every pore.

    It opened up a world of hurt,
    till you supposed you
    for a thing non-existent.

    And so
    you stifled the whispers
    whirling in longing
    by compressing your rib cage
    and all that sought expansion
    imploded within.

    Supernovas turned black holes,
    and light faded to this darkness.

    Wasn’t it supposed to be
    easier when you started?

    But the void aches more
    in its ever gnawing

    Scoff at the irony of this
    self-imposed emptiness:

    How can nothing hurt more
    than anything?

    The whispers
    now cut like razors,
    escaping the harsh vacuum
    caused by clenched fingers;
    wrapped around a heart, still beating.

    Resonance escapes
    no matter how hard you try
    to prevent it;

    seeking that which will amplify it.

    And you feel incurably diseased,
    when you look over to your lover,
    once more wanting
    to leave.

    26-5-2020, M.A. Tempels © “… complacency kills.”

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  • image

    a new wip

    ↳Genre: Fantasy

    ↳Themes: Betrayal, Fighting, War, Romance, Royalty, Magic, Elements, Kingdoms, Blood, Princesses, Servant Boys, Spies, Guards, Swords

    ↳Warnings: Theres fighting and mentions of blood, might throw in an execution

    ↳Pov: Third Person

    ↳Age Range: 13+


    There was never a moment where Pangoniá and Lavira weren’t at each others throats. It was a never ending battle, only, there had been no fighting. Until now at least.

    Lavira and Pangoniá are tired of arguing. The two Kingdoms are finally ready to end this. Lavira makes the first move and declares war.

    With the King of Pangoniá on the brink of death, his daughter, Princess Elowen is the only one who can take over. But he refuses for her to do anything unless she gets married. But the King doesn’t have a say if he’s dead.

    Elowen takes matters into her own hands. And with the help of the new servant boy. Magnus, they gather allies. But it comes at a price. Leaving Pangoniá behind and risking getting caught in the woods.

    As stakes rise and friendships are made, there is only one thing—person—who can break it all. In the end it all leads to a battle. Sides must be chosen. The two kingdoms can not escape this fate anymore.

    It’s time for war.

    ↳Main Cast:

    •Elowen Fairbane

    •Magnus Blanche

    •Genevive Rose

    •Azrael Dianno

    •Alina Vilet

    •Wendy Mills

    •Silas Saulot

    •Maya Gilton


    “A true spy never sticks in the shadows. He blends in with the people, unsuspecting.” —Magnus


    Lmk if you want to be added!

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  • Wrap around!

               curtains tumble at ears

                           pins poke

    thread woven peacock beaks fleur-de-lis

               scrunches at

    neck, swaddles

               safe – but

                           worn in mirrors


               twirl cotton dyed green

    The cloth

               is only cloth!

    Chatter on TV

               bald grey

                           men red faces

    spit fire

               word-sparks false flames

                                                   does not burn

    Incinerates only

               ivy abstractions

                                       for printed havens


               naked without patterns

                                                   sketched empty –

    blank forbidden to paint. I

               hold it,

                           cotton fingers,

    dream of determined eyes

                                       secure in headscarf.

    -Tribute to the Scarf, Kelsey Ray Banerjee

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