Writing Prompt #3

The prince never saved the princess because he fell in love with the witch.

A pesar de que me dijiste lo que quería oír, igual me siento como la Mierda, y creo que eso volvió a activar mi modo “sadboy”, al decirlo así me da un poco de risa, pero es la verdad.

A veces creo que aunque lo intente, jamás podré ser feliz, siempre me vendrán esos bajones en los cuales pienso que soy la mierda más grande del mundo, que soy un hipócrita, que debería morir solo, ¿y a que se debe?, no lo se, quizás sea un trauma de la infancia o algo parecido, a veces solo me gustaria estar solo un día, y la única compañía que tendría seria un poco de mota y un par de cigarros que me hicieran poder pensar mejor…

First freewrite of 2020! ✨ Ended up posting it over at The Junction on Medium just a couple days later. Hopefully this creative spark continues for the rest of the year.

just something to think about:

a lot of writers seems to compare negative feelings— such as heartbreak, grief, bad days, loneliness, etc— like FALLING. falling, falling downward, falling from grace, falling in the wrong direction, falling again…catch the lyric references…

consider this:

what if the negative feeling feels like it’s on a loop? like a slow-motion explosion as all of the disgusting emotion(s) erupt, for example. only for the bits, the pieces, the shards to pick itself up at the end of it and return to its normal position as a whole. and it just starts happening once more without any break. and again. and again. it seemingly never stops until the feeling INSIDE happens to the OUTSIDE too. and boom. you’re just a bunch of pieces— just like you can mend a mirror, put yourself together again, but you can still see the crack.

—bri

the bright fire is crying

with red tongues of rust,

tasting the cold air

when reaching out to us,

warming our hands

and our frozen eyes,

kisses of sparks fade out

as soon as they ignite

we look at each other,

hearts freezing as well,

we are both suffering

when on past we dwell,

but maybe this fire

will melt us both,

molding one shape,

molding one soul

~Agath.

I grow older & don’t lose touch with any of my friends, I don’t face hardships in my romantic relationships & my family and I get along every day and they become immortal. No one ever dies, there’s no more accidents, and I finally see a world worth living in. The air is clean and there’s more animals than trash. Fires don’t rage and neither do I. I’ve never been more calm. Every silent internal battle I fought, I won. I don’t feel like I’m being split in half every waking moment of my life, no one else does either. Pain is gone, physical and mental. We’ve never had more energy. Everything is perfect. But some how things still fall flat. Art is wispy & whimsical, but it’s empty. The songs we hear don’t invoke emotion. Hard work doesn’t offer that same uncomfortable but some how rewarding burn. You don’t need me to comfort you because we are all eternally comforted. In a world where everyone is happy, everything is perfect & right, where am I needed? Do I need to be needed to feel whole? What is my purpose in a world that doesn’t need heroes or friends or doctors? I feel drowned and lost in an imperfect world, but in a perfect world I have no niche.

Writing Prompt:

“Despite your great efforts to hide your hair and your chest, you do realize you’re in type A uniform right?”

“what?”

“you’re still wearing a skirt”

So I have one ex, I can’t seem to get past, I love her. It seems like an impossibility, that we could ever make it back to each other. I feel a very real pain when I think of her, and the separation between us. I swear if I stopped fighting it for even a moment I would break down in tears. There is another, an ex, that I think actually wants to get back together, she loves me, I’m rather sure; and I love her, but it’s not pain I feel when I think of us being apart. I don’t think we could make each other happy, even though there is love. I think she feels the same, but we’re both lonely… It all sounds so cliche, so insincere, like platitudes. My heart knows it to be true. It is the ache and pain it has carried all along, never stopping to rest. My persistent weary heart.

They say our bodies are temples

and as I knee before yours

dear god,

I’ve never wanted to

worship anything more.

Blookenine - 157

quiet, quiet in my life

my thoughts are racing

losing track of time

silence, silence is so loud

oh when will i come back down

i dunno what’s wrong i dunno what’s right

the clock is ticking and i’m out of time

i put a brave face on and try to smile

but nothing seems worth my while

darkness, darkness, i don’t like it

i’m trying to find the light

trying to make things just fine

closing, closing my eyes

imagining myself in a different time

This time don’t listen to other people, ignore their opinions. Now, listen to your heart, what do you want? What does it say? What makes that beat again? What makes that happy? What makes you feel alive again? It’s your life, it’s your decision. For now, choose yourself. Choose what makes you genuinely happy

Note: Um, hi. So this is kind of something that I wrote because I cannot draw really that well so I vent in other forms. This is one of them. If anyone sees this please let me know and let me know if you like it or if you want to throw me down the toilet! 

We live in a world where we must be put in a box. 

Boxes are dark, I don’t like them because after some time I feel congested. 

Please don’t make me go back in there when I just got out. 

But they forced me back with words of hate and stones of stereotypes. 

They told me to pick a career, but do something you love cause’ you won’t be able to get back out. 

I shout to them, “Tell the ambassadors of society that they were wrong! To watch me and I will be the outlier!”

I love a thousand things and will love a possibly thousand or more before the gates of hell open for me.

Mom, I am sorry that I was not the one to get the right things. 

I was on the other side of the store and then did not double-check the cart even though the man is over half my age. 

I make mistakes sometimes even though I am still going through the pages. 

Please forgive me, but all of this hate and things that you are bring upon me are starting to hurt a little too much. 

Dad, I am sorry that I was not born a boy and that out legacy of our last name shall now carry on. 

I tried my best to be the kid that you always wanted. 

But mom told me about the fire-truck onesie that you got when you first started to try to bring into another life. 

I think they have been donated to the women’s shelter or they were the ones that I found in the back of the closet not too long ago. 

I am sorry to the ones that have tried and failed to mold me into what is considered right

Mom, I will try to do better

Dad, our legacy will still carry on

For all of those that are looking for peace, there is an end to the suffering that you are feeling and you are not alone. 

I felt inspired and I started writing and I’ve just written two pages and I have no idea when it happened or how

O QUE É O TEMPO?

Muitos procurariam definições no dicionário para solucionar esse enigma, mas a verdade é que não há uma resposta absoluta. Tempo é relativo. Alguns dias passam mais rápido que outros. Geralmente, quando sentimos vontade de permanecer eternamente naquele momento, sem ter que abandoná-lo, é aí que ele é arrancado de nossas mãos, mais rápido do que podemos assimilar. Ele não espera, não se cansa, não pede licença, apenas se vai…

Cabe a nós tomarmos a decisão que mais importa: iremos usá-lo com sabedoria ou apenas permanecer presos em um passado que não pode ser reconstruído?

(Carolina)

The only thing better than a Super Villain with a villain lover, is a Super Villain with a completely sane, generous, charitable common person as a lover.

And the only thing better than that, is a Super Villain with a Super Hero lover.

And I’m talking in a non-abusive, everyone’s-consenting-and-in-their-right-minds kind of way.

Like no one is a spy infiltrating the enemy– They are both in real love.

I stans this concept in its totality

Those aren’t sparkles in your eyes, they’re warning lights telling people to keep away from you.

Reading Sylvia Plath is a religious experience. In the flashes of images conjured as my eyes read and reread across the page. I liken it to as close to reliving a memory as I’ll ever get.

Like this is a piece of me I’ve forgotten. A life I have no business remembering. Ghosts of people have never been as clear in my mind.

These are words, poet-to-poet. I understand and understanding is something I covet zealously. I imagine what our conversations would be like regarding soulmates. If she’d agree upon the beauty of the platonic. Lust and what it was to be of womanhood inspired her. I know the third-eye took her home at 30. That dreamy world she circled in lines of poetry. This is as close to reincarnation I’ll ever come—walking her parallels between the moon and sun.