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s63omu

I (20M) have been writing for over a year now. My hands seem to fail to keep up with my mind, I get consumed into the story and character that my mind produce many ideas and references like I'm watching a movie while trying to write it. Anyone have faced a similar challenge and how do I beat it?

My mind races when I write

s9hs2v

I want to get into writing more short stories and was wondering what are some of the best you've read that you would recommend? Mainly looking for dramatic short stories but any is fine

What are some short stories you think every writer should read?

nyezfc

The beauty of the stars pales in comparison to yours. When you are around the painting of my world becomes complete. Intoxicating is the best word to describe that feeling, because when I you are with me, there’s nothing else I’d rather see.

Intoxicating

lfrku8

It isn’t about you! Okay?! It’s not about you. The world doesn’t revolve around you and your wants. Don't you... Can’t you understand that for once in your life? You stand here before me happy as a clam, telling me all the details of a wonderful day you just had. Slurping up drinks and gobbling down food without a care in the world. Without a second thought. You laugh and you run and you feel so grand because you can! Don’t you see it? Look out your window for Christ's sake! People are falling as thick as leaves from autumn trees. Their families weeping and begging God for another chance. Hearts breaking because their leaf is laid to rest and all they can do is watch behind a pane of glass. Their mothers scream in agony and cry silently begging and pleading! Their words still ringing in my ears, do they not ring in yours? No? Probably because you lack a heart. I’ll tell you what I hear every day, the reason why I don’t take two steps out of my house most days... The voices they scream and they beg and they beg and they beg and they beg and they beg, “Please... Not my baby! Not Mine!” And all you can do is sit there. As if you have accomplished something. As if the bodies lying in the morgues were nothing. As if they aren’t people too. That child whose asthma caused them to suffer, and they cry and cry and cry to their parents in a raspy voice “Mommy? Why is this happening to me?” The wife who has a small minor issue who is forced into the hospital because of what others do. The elderly couple who has never been apart now separated because of your selfish choices. A child whose cheeks were once red from running against the cold wind on a winter morning. A wife who looks forward to the next time she can see her own sister. A couple who... who just wanted to stay together. They were more than just a number on the list of the dead. They had life, they had warmth, they had love. But you just stand there. Go on then. Go! I’m sick of looking at you! What? You ask me why I am so mad at you? Because people are falling as thick as leaves from the autumn trees. And you ask me why am I mad at you? What does it have to do with you?! Don’t you understand? Haven’t I been clear enough? It’s because it isn’t about you.

It isn’t about you...

x39wri

I’m looking for a writing partner/ someone I can work alongside with each week… I’m thinking maybe picking a brief and both of us writing a couple thousand words and exchanging our work for mutual feedback EDIT: wow I can’t believe so many people are interested! This is fab! I’m thinking we make some sort of social media group?

Looking for a writing partner/ pen pal

hfb23f

I can't kill your demons, But I can support you. Stand on the sidelines of your battles, Shouting at you to never give up. Celebrate your victories with you And give you a shoulder to cry on whenever you fall Before urging you to get up and get going again. I can't kill your demons But I can distract you Make you listen to something else than those thoughts Give you moments filled with laughter and love Cause that's all I have for you. I can't kill your demons But I can raise my voice to be louder than theirs Screaming out "YOU MATTER. YOU'RE WORTH IT" Tell you everything you need to hear to keep on fighting Even those things I can't say with words. I can't kill your demons, But I refuse to let them kill you.

I can't kill your demons

l7a79r

The smoke dances in the rosy air, People call to talk and not to hear I stare at those sunflowers outside my window Am I nothing but your crying pillow, Don’t worry I am not complaining Just wondering If anyone actually knows me.

People call me a good friend

ogsp66

It might sound like an unconnected thing or even paradoxical, but it is not. As Stephen King wrote, in *On Writing*: 'If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.' And: 'If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.' Worse -- or better -- still, you need to read *well*. In order to write, you must first understand what it is you are writing, both implicitly and explicitly (meaning, the content ought to be both within your subconscious (rather, the Freudian 'pre-conscious') and your conscious mind). There are a number of books to help you write better, but few to help you read better, and, more importantly, understand more. Ryan Holiday (Daily Stoic) has an excellent video on his three-step process to reading, absorbing, documenting, remembering, and, ultimately, understanding novels and non-fiction books. It involves what is known as a 'commonplace book': a location for all the things you have read and wish to remember and use. They have been used for thousands of used, most notably during the Renaissance and throughout the 19th century. Some people today use little cards or a large binder, others use a 'wall of ideas', and some use a virtual folder. Unless you are a hyper-genius, you will never retain volumes of information in your head, either of your own making or from your studies (Tesla, for example, was known for this feat, as was Nietzsche). Of course, even geniuses struggle with knowledge retention, memorisation, and citation. The best way to recall information is to be capable of retrieving it at a moment's notice -- and that is why I suggest a 'commonplace book' of some sort. I use the latter; in fact, I use many folders within many folders (each filled with individual files). I will read a book, next to my laptop, and stop whenever I see something I really like, then I will type it out into the assigned file. Ryan's three-step process revolves around reading hardcopy books, taking notes, then writing them out onto cards (longhand), then filing them away in a large box. Using cards is a common method for modern writers and readers, more so in the context of writing novels. Indeed, a few famous novelists use this method for their novel-writing. If you write longhand -- which I do not -- then this method is highly suggested, and it may even be the best way to reinforce the information since you are forcing yourself to read it and re-read it as you write it out. Second best, then, would be my method of typing it out (by hand). Copying and pasting information from a virtual book works great for quickly storing information, but it is not as good for memorisation. Further, you need to be capable of thinking, really *thinking*. Nietzsche and Jung and Aristotle, among others, will aid you in this. 'If a writer of prose knows enough of what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing.' - Hemingway, *Death in the Afternoon* 'Since reading of any sort is an activity, all reading must to some degree be active. Completely passive reading is impossible; we cannot read with our eyes immobilized and our minds asleep. Hence when we contrast active with passive reading, our purpose is, first, to call attention to the fact that reading can be more or less active, and second, to point out that the more active the reading the better. One reader is better than another in proportion as he is capable of a greater range of activity in reading and exerts more effort. He is better if he demands more of himself and of the text before him.' - Mortimer Adler, *How to Read a Book* **Books & Resources to Help You Read Better:** Ryan Holiday's 3-Step System for Reading Like a Pro (YouTube video title) How to Read a Book by Mortimer Adler The Well-Educated Mind by Susan Wise Bauer On Writing by Stephen King Maps of Meaning by Jordan Peterson The Sense of Style by Steven Pinker The Psychology of Creative Writing by Scott Barry Kaufman

How to Write Better: Read, Read, Read...

mjkf7e

i hate love, but ​ some days, i fall in love with your eyes violently, getting swept up in those deep dark oceans who told you how to hide the pain the trauma the mournings of innocence lost the yet inextinguishable passion and desire in those smiling eyes ​ some nights, i go mad for your body the warmth of your skin the bewitching scent of lust show me where on your body you remember the scars were and I will kiss it make love to it i want to love you fully and heal you and know you more than I ever did before ​ i hate love but darling, don’t we overdose on it all the time we are user and abuser we love and we love and we fall and we fall we give and we grieve our time our energy our body our mind we romanticize… we antagonize… ​ at the end of the day, let me look into your ocean eyes in the mirror, let me see you, stripped of all clothes i hate love, but let me try to love you with all my might.

i hate love, but

uzph87

TW: Suicidal thoughts, depressive/manic episodes, derealization, mention of sh All alone again On this lovely Friday night You can hear the parties rage On and on all night. But there you sit, All silent and alone. Feeling nothing, Just on your phone. Tear drops never fall, For who is there to wipe them? You get that call, But oh, it’s just likely scam. You wanna pick up your controller, But don’t have the energy. You wanna go for a run, But don’t have the energy. You wanna go and workout, But don’t have the energy. So you just sit and sit, Wondering if this is the last night you’ll feel the pain. Feel the hopelessness. Feel the loneliness. Feel the waves of looks you get everytime you go in public. They just keep looking. And looking. And looking. You toss over to your other side, Where you scroll for a few more hours. You drop your phone. Everything stands still. The jarring noise of parties pipes down, Like your head just got submerged underwater. It’s hard to breathe. You realize how truly pathetic your life is. You realize how much of your life is missing out. Your windpipe is slowly closing in, Getting harder and harder to breathe. You realize how many friendships you’ve broke. You realize how many people hate you. You realize how much your life has changed. Your windpipe is slowly closing in, Getting harder and harder to breathe. You look around for that knife. The special knife that takes the pain away. The background noise is silent now, the only thing left is the ringing in your ears. Maybe, just maybe, you can take that knife and end it all. For whos gonna care if you do? But no, you can’t do that. You’d be sleeping into an unknown pit. Who knows what’s on the other side? Is there a God? Or is there nobody? So, you put the knife back in its spot. Massage that aching head of yours. Hop back into your warm bed, Vowing to get better, Only for it to be repeated, Next Friday night.

Friday Nights

l336iu

Through my most trying times, words have been my solace in where I can find peace in making my own reality with a string of words. Who are we? Who are we if we are not what we create, what we put into this world. When pen touches paper it’s as if a careful dance of ink and pain has taken place, intertwining to toe the lines of reality. Whatever I have written becomes an extension of my mind, of my soul. My transparency on paper becomes the only way I can bare the deep sadness that sits inside my concaved chest. When did I notice something was missing? Has it always been gone?

Hi! I am new to Reddit. This is something I wrote awhile back. Hope you enjoy fellow writing lovers.

j1i4io

I think I’m finally brave enough to share this, I hope you enjoy. I hate the stars. I use to think they were so breathtaking, but now they’re a reminder. A reminder of that night. The night where I changed. The night I became more insecure than I’ve ever been. The night where something precious was stolen from me. The night where no didn’t matter to him. The night I was too drunk to stop it. The night I almost jumped in the river to die. The night I walked in the woods half a mile barefoot back to the car. The night I didn’t sleep. It reminds me of the next morning. The morning driving home, silent. The morning when I took a shower and had to get back in the clothes he stripped off me, because I didn’t have any others. The morning where I still felt his presence. The morning where I cried with my friends. The morning my mom found out. The morning I went to the hospital for a kit. The morning we went to the police. The morning when I realized; I hate the stars.

I hate the stars

t896id

I created a story about a 700 year old vampire who survived the Black Death at 9 yrs old, became a veteran of the Hundred Years Wars, the American Revolution, killing off Jack the Ripper and Dracula, and helps the human race survive the Flu, COVID, and other stuff. Sounds interesting, right?

mn7ecj

Hello there. Yes, you. The person whose reading this reddit post in the dark under their bedsheets. I hope you ate something today. I hope you spoke with someone you love. I hope you smiled. You're a lot like me. You want the same things I do, strive for the same goals, wish to be seen the same way. For wonderful dreams and true love to be real. Wish for dependability, but also spontaneity. For traveling the world, but also netflix and pajamas. Whatever you're wishing for now (I know you're thinking of it), I truly hope you'll achieve it. If you don't, I hope you'll learn something and materialize a new dream. Like me, you're a wonderful, flawed, beautiful person. And there are many ways to a beautiful life.

For You

f6sx9t

I am not a jealous person, but sometimes I envy the others who get your time. I am not suspicious, but sometimes I wonder who you think about at night. I am not ashamed, but sometimes it’s hard to be fully honest. I am not a writer, but sometimes I put words on a page, and hope that you might read them some day.

I am not a writer

x8ahdp

I’m in high school, and this year i’m helping run the creative writing club, and I would love to get any ideas on programs that would be good in a group setting!! for example, some ideas that were done were - take a line from a story, write a poem out of it - unsent letters to inanimate objects

advice!!

mi8bnn

[Writing Prompt] The demon stands amid your destroyed kitchen screaming, "How? How were you able to summon me?!" You're standing in the corner flipping through your grandma's cookbook as fast as you can, screaming back, "I don't know!! You were supposed to be chicken soup!"

qsiacq

I like sunshine and rainbows, Glitter and pink, I like kittens and puppies, Yes, I'm as cute as you think. Bubble gum, candy, I'll dance in the rain, See the world through my eyes, You'll never be the same. Then I blink. I like darkness and stormclouds, Crossbones in the night, I'm your Manic Pixie Dream Girl, You know you want to spend the night. Drinks, drugs, and strip clubs, You can choose my name, See the world through my eyes, You'll never be the same. Then I blink. I like flowers and cookies, Stuffed toys and Disney, You'll fall in love, With how adorable I can be. My smile, my laugh, You think I'm innocent as can be, I try to warn you, But you think this is the only me. Then you blink. I like danger and lightning, Risk and the rush, You say I'm worth fighting for, Did you mean this much? Adrenaline, sex, You're drowning, too deep, I try to tell you, This isn't the only me. Then you blink. You're hurt and in love, Lost and confused, You'll finally realize, You can't see this through. Fighting, crying, Where did she go? Your perfect dream girl, That you loved so? She's still here, Hiding inside me, Lost in the turmoil, Of my emotional sea. Do you like sunshine or darkness? Crossbones or pink? Just tell me who you want, I'll be her until you Blink.

Blink

sj2gwb

what do you say when people ask about me. do you call me a past love, the woman who ruined you, the girl who made you want to live again, the bitch who made you want to die. or do you look them in the eyes take a sip of your drink and say “i don’t know her like that.”

who am i to you

kane2a

[Godland (Pilot)](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1aI0no7hYx8yFqHNx_qX29_yH_0pzLfLJ/view?usp=sharing) ​ Edit; Thanks for Silver, stranger.

Back in 2008, i wrote a pilot about America splitting into two separate nations. Everyone i pitched it to called it 'unrealistic'

mshcgl

TW: Depression and su*cide I loved to read and write as a child. Friends and family loved my stories, poems, and plays and always tried to nurture my love of writing. So many awards, future author praises, and contests won from my imagination. When I was 16, I was working on co-authoring a book with my uncle who was a published fiction writer. However, not long after we started, he took his own life after a long battle with mental health and his deteriorating physical health. It wasn't long after his death that I was applying to college. While college, I always took some sort of writing course, even though I didn't have to. Although most of the classes I took were more focused on analysis or writing about my content area. I'm 31 now, and I love reading (especially fantasy). Ever since I was a child, I have wished that I could write a fiction book someday. However, every time I sit down to brainstorm or think of new ideas, I am overwhelmed with the thoughts that what I'm writing is too dry, analytical, and just isn't interesting to other people. I feel like there's just not an ounce of creativity in me, or I feel like any ideas I think of have already been done before. Has anyone ever been through something similar? Should I just write with reckless abandon for practice? I feel so discouraged.

[QUESTION] I feel like academia and depression has ruined my ability to write creatively?

pbmlez

I have been a creative writing student for many years and teaching other subjects related to English and Writing Concepts for fewer years, but my passion is creative writing. I run a Discord server for writers and want to practice my teaching skills there, but the server isn't too active. Are there any creative writers who would commit to joining the server learning from an amateur? I would teach concepts on "writing short" and "short story writing" which has different structures from long form writing. The Discord server itself is just a place for writers to hang out and chat with other writers, and we also have weekly events like flash fiction and worldbuilding prompts. If you're interested in either the creative writing lessons or the Discord server, drop a comment here or send me a message! ​ \*Edit\* This post really blew up! It's awesome so many people are wanting to learn creative writing right now. If you leave a comment below, I'll work on getting back to you with details on how to be involved, but feel free to send me a DM as well!

Any creative writers interested in learning from a new teacher?

o8wnpn

Hello! New to this thread and to reddit (hope this is ok to put here, if not delete it!) but I've got an idea for a p r o j e c t and I'm interested to know how people feel about it/ if you'd like to be involved? I'm a graduate in philosophy, I write philosophical essays in my spare time and short stories. I'd love to get any job where I am paid to write, or even volunteer just so I can get my foot on the ladder, but I have been really struggling to find anything as it's so competetive. (I have a job at the moment it's just not ultimately what I want to do). I am building up content so that I can make my own website and showcase my work, and so I can give a link to potential employers to show I am serious about writing and dedicated and (kind of?!) published. But it occured to me this might be a really fun thing to do with other people. I am going to set up a website with a space for non fiction writing where I will put my essays, and a space for fiction. Would anyone else like to be part of this venture? Fiction or non fiction or poetry writers welcome! It's so hard to get published/ put your work out there, this would be a really cool way to meet new people, read new things and help each other out. If anyone wants to send me anything please feel free! And I'd edit and sort the website and obviously credit you for your work. At the moment the website isn't live, I'm just trying to get a feel for whether people would be interested in being involved/ how many people. If you'd like to send me anything/ chat about it please email outside.publication@gmail.com Thanks everyone!!! xoxo EDIT: Just to let you all know the site now exists!! (After a big delay and some unforeseen life stuff 🙄) it's pretty empty right now as it's just a couple of us contributing but I would love for more people to get involved!! If you want to take a look at it first it's currently password protected until I get the go ahead from another contributor, but send me a message/ comment and I'll send you the password. Thanks everyone!

Anyone interested in joining this project?!

hk7qsf

The man I loved told me he loved me. If only the story began and ended there. If only it was truly that simple. He told me he loved me shortly after midnight on New Years. We were drunkenly making love. He paused, caressed my face, looked me in the eyes, and told me those three words. We’ve always had great sex, but god, how long had we gone without each other this time? We were desperate to feel each other. The chemical pull between us was as strong as ever. We were always better at physical communication. With the alcohol, we were finally able to talk. I liked him when he was drunk. He was so easy to be around. We could talk about us, normally a taboo topic. He called me beautiful often. That never happened when he was sober. He spilled his heart, his dreams, his regrets. I loved learning more about him. I loved being able to tell him how I felt. Normally, emotions were never discussed. That night we fell asleep in each other’s arms on a tiny couch. It was the best feeling in the world. I felt like I was glowing from the happiness of the moment. I wanted to stay in that moment forever. Of course, it was temporary. It was January. We’d only seen each other twice since we’d broken up in May. Rather, I should say since we’d broken up for the second time. The first time was after we’d been dating for a few months. One morning, as we lay naked cuddling, he decided we needed to only be friends. He’d fallen in love with me…as a friend. I stormed out, my final words being “Oh, I fell too. But it wasn’t as a friend.” We got back together a month later, and this time it felt steady and real. It was great….ish. I loved our weekends together. We fell into sync. Whether we were cooking a new meal or doing something epic, everything was an adventure. I admired his strong drive to pursue his passions. I loved our time together. I loved how he felt. I loved him. Love makes you put up with more than you should. Our entire relationship was plagued by building anxiety. I’m a talker. I’m a listener. I’m an over thinker. But we couldn’t communicate. I’ve never journaled more than I did in those months. I was desperate to let out everything I felt, thought, and wondered. I tried to hide it from him because I knew he hated it. I just wanted to refer to him as my boyfriend. I knew he wasn’t telling others about us. Trust wasn’t the issue. He just made me happy, and I wanted to share my happiness. I couldn’t help but wonder why I wasn’t worth texting back during our time apart. I wondered why he couldn’t compliment me. I wanted to be able to compliment him without it being weird. I couldn’t ask him about his moods. We didn’t share any of the mundane with each other. I cared so much about him, but “how was your day” was never asked. I kept telling myself it would eventually change. We would open up and be brutally honest, weird, and gross around each other, like my previous relationship. Like couples should be. Once, he asked if I still loved him. I said of course. He never said it back. It couldn’t last. Finally, I asked. Sleepily, post lovin’, wrapped in his arms, and sharing a sleeping back in our cozy tent, I asked. My world turned upside down. No, he didn’t love me. He didn’t even know if he wanted to be with me. He didn’t know if he wanted me to be his girlfriend. He didn’t know if he wanted to date over the summer. He didn’t know. I finally realized that things had always been on his terms. He had me where he wanted me, but he would never commit to me as I had to him long ago. I left. I traveled during the summer. I wouldn’t let him visit. I healed. But he was still my weakness. He showed up at my door in the fall. I let him in. Part of my heart still belonged to him. And then he left. Again. Three months later, our paths crossed at a New Year’s Eve celebration. Drunk, the man I’d been so incredibly in love with, told me he loved me. I didn’t say it back.

The boy I loved finally told me he loved me

ohficp

**Monochrome.** My life, a haze of grey. Never changing color, never changing shade. Dwelling in the blankness of pure existence. A void, timeless. A dull, dreary, monochromatic space. Isolated, trapped in a daze. Lost in silence. *-S.M.S.*

A poem inspired by boredom.

n19fjd

What is written about or what is written of whether it be on social media or literature. Every single word should be thought of for every word has a meaning and a power to heal or destruct!

Think before you talk or write..

m1ntzi

In love, but unable to talk, Like a person with legs unable to walk. Thinking of them, Unable to feel. A person with stomach No daily meals. Smiling at them Unable to see. A lover inside Unable to be. In love, but unable to heal. Was I dreaming, or is it real?

Unable, Me, 2021

fdjqot

If I had to rewrite every word every word I ever spoke to you to bring you closer to me to keep us locked away in that cabin I would write until my hands broke until there were no words left until every language was exhausted until the space between us closed I want to hold every part of you every thought that crosses your mind every feeling that fills your heart every desire that drives you every chance that I could If I was half the man you deserved I would pull words from pages and apply them to actions I would stand with chest open exposing everything I am I would burn the secrets kept I would bury the lies told I would move the mountains that keep me from you If I had it in me to make you mine I would no longer bleed on paper for all the world to see I would fold the note neatly To meet your hand every morning

Closer

lvwpkq

It’s 1:45am and I miss you. Do you miss me? ​ I love you still. Do you still love me? ​ I don’t know how to do this without you. How’re you without me? ​ I miss your laugh. Your smile. I miss your love. And I miss exchanging “I love you”’s. I always wonder if you miss my laugh. Miss seeing my smile. Knowing you’re the cause of them. Miss my love. ​ Do you hold yourself back from saying “I love you” like I do? ​ Are you thinking of me? ​ Do you miss me? ​ I wouldn’t know. You sound okay without me. You make it seem like my absence doesn’t bother you. Or maybe thats my mental issues talking. ​ Do you remember 3 days ago when I had told you I’ll always love you? Even if my words and actions don’t match up. Even if my mind is slowly working it’s way into turning me back into someone I don’t want to be. Someone who will ruin us. Though I guess I already did that.

Do you?

y1q0w7

Backstory: I have a storyline in which requires one ship to be toxic—this is to sort of make character A’s perspective on love a little distorted. So, here’s how the relationship works: A is into B for the longest time and they’re also great friends; at one point, B starts showing interest too and confesses to A. I want B to be manipulative in a way that’s subtle enough to pass as them being nice or whatever, but also toxic enough to make A uneasy. Some tips might be nice! Like what actions could I add, what quotes, what tone of voice. :D Character reference: A - Biromantic, demisexual male, usually considered a ‘bottom’, has childhood trauma, ANXIETY!, kind of picked on by the popular boys B - Sexuality unclear male, acts nice to everyone, one of the popular boys, lotta mood swings Thank you for dropping by!

What are some tips on writing subtly manipulative characters?

g4hfl5

The year was 2012, and we were all supposed to die in December. It was my freshman year of college. I was settling in quite well. I made friends with a bunch of people in our residence hall, we hit it off immediately. We started going out on the weekends, starting with thirsty Thursday, which turns out is actually a thing. I had more than one room mate. We lived in a four person suite with two bedrooms. I had a full ride to my University, so I had a lot of extra money to spend on my living arrangements and meal plan. Oh yeah, I was also a huge pothead. I made friends with the dealer on my floor and started buying him extra meals in exchange for weed. That's when one of my room mates came to me with a proposition. He asked me if I knew what bitcoins were. I did not. He explained the virtual currency and how it worked. Then he really laid it all out. He told me that he had quite a lot of bitcoins and that he wants to get into selling weed. It all sounded great, but I wasn't sure what he needed me for. He then told me that he doesn't really talk to anyone and that he always sees me with people and going to parties every weekend. Okay, this makes sense. He told me how the operation would work, and it sounded swell. For the record, I was eighteen and very stupid. Anyway, he would purchase the drugs from the Silk Road, a dark website where you can buy literally fucking anything. Our friend Noah would then get the goods delivered to his apartment, which had a mailroom with hundreds of mailboxes. This was good because it would be just a little bit less suspicious, also his apartment was not on our campus. Then we'd package everything there and move it to our dorm, which had it's own security. We lived in North Philadelphia, so the security and police were always looking out for the students. After we safely had the products, I would find the buyers. Our first shipment went well. We ordered a half pound of weed, a gram of hash, ten hits of LSD, a small bag of opium (for us), and 1000mg of Alprazolam extract for my room mate's personal anxiety treatment. We got into this business to become weed salesmen. That weed took forever to sell. Everyone who sold weed already had good connections from their hometowns. The LSD though, that sold in five fucking minutes to one buyer who was interested in buying much more than ten hits. He asked us if we could sell him a couple hundred tabs. He said he'd pay $350 for each sheet of 100. We looked at the price per sheet on the Silk Road. It would cost us only $80 each. Yes sir, we can absolutely sell you a couple sheets. We told him we'd call him when it arrived. Later that night we brewed some opium tea and celebrated entering the LSD business. We bought the sheets for him, and we also bought two extras in case anyone else wanted some. The next shipment came with no problems. Our friend came over and bought the sheets we had promised him. We made nearly $800 on that deal. We thought that was a lot, so we celebrated. Later that same day, while smoking a blunt in our courtyard, I made friends with some art students. They invited me to their dorm on the third floor. I agreed, went with them, and we listened to music and painted the walls of the dorm room which was super against the rules. They started talking about how they had taken magic mushrooms two weeks before and how it was life changing. I told them I had two-hundred hits of acid in my room. I've never seen people get so excited in my entire life. They bought all of it. They paid $400 for each sheet. Seemingly out of nowhere we made $600. Again, we thought this was a lot. My room mate was really happy with my networking abilities. Dude, I was just getting high with some hipster art students. I didn't really possess the "networking skills" that everyone thought I had. We went online and purchased another five sheets. We started getting a bit more confident in our ability to sell this magic money making paper. That week I was in one of my classes and had to do a group project with a kid named Eddy. We went to his apartment to work on the project after class. Eddy had an apartment off campus because he was an upperclassman. On the way he asked if I smoked weed. Of course. He said he had something to show me. When we got there he showed me a small weed plant he was growing. It was an adorable little plant in a flower pot by the window. I asked if he needed any weed and he said that he did not. We smoked a bit and then her offered me a Xanax. I had never taken Xanax, so I googled the pill he offered me. Alprazolam. Huh, that's funny. I told him I had 1000mg of alprazolam in my room. This excited him. I asked my room mate if he was willing to sell some of his private stash. Eddy only wanted to buy around 100 milligrams. He agreed and I brought Eddy to my dorm. We gave it to him for the cool price of $150, a slick markdown from what he was paying. After all we hadn't even planned on selling that stuff. He asked how we got it so cheap and if we could get anything else. We told him that we sell LSD. He said he loves hallucinogens and would love to purchase a sheet, so he did. Four sheets left. If we sell them, we can get a new and faster computer. The weekend came and I was hanging out with two of my friends from our residence hall. Joe, who was really chill and loved smoking weed as much as I did. And Bianca, who was so cool that it frightened me. She was really intimidating. I had a huge crush on her, but she was "talking" to a kid that lived in Johnson and Hardwick hall. Bianca was the type of person you see in movies about cool kids doing cool things. A character who has a lot of depth, but it takes nearly the whole movie to slowly peel back the layers, and by that time you're in love. I told her if we sold the rest of our acid I'd buy her a new tattoo. She was covered in them. That night Joe was going to take us to his friend Jamie's house. We were going to try cocaine for the first time. I was terrified. Not only was I terrified about trying cocaine, but I was scared of doing it with Bianca. I just didn't know how I would act, and I didn't want to do something stupid. We arrived at Jamie's house. Jamie was also intimidating. His house was what your typical trap house looked like at the time, with a bunch of really expensive music equipment. Everybody wanted to be a rapper or a D.J. that year. He introduced all his friends and offered us lines of coke. Here we go. Joe went first, he'd already done some before. Bianca went next without hesitation. Now it was my turn. I remember my hand shaking with the rolled up bill between my fingers. I chose the smallest line and sniffed. It did not taste anything like I expected. Five minutes went by. Oh, this is what cocaine is like. It was so underwhelming. It was also some thoroughly stepped on shit. I know that now because since then I've done some foreign blow that literally almost made my heart stop. Anyway, Jamie and I got to talking, mostly about his "music career". Jamie told me if I ever wanted to buy cocaine in bulk to hit him up. I laughed and told him if he ever wanted to buy LSD in bulk to hit me up. I was half joking. He looked at me with the straightest face and asked if I was serious. Honestly, this Jamie guy really scared the shit out of me. He was a good ten inches taller than me and the whole scene was really starting to freak me out. I told him I was serious though. He told me to come with him. He brought me into his room and closed the door. In the room it was quiet. The walls were sound proofed. I looked around and the room was full of money, cocaine, and guns. Okay, he's probably not going to kill me. I hope. He then asked about my LSD connection. I told him I could get sheets for $350. He said he wanted books. Books? This guy wants books? I didn't know this at the time, but a book is a thousand hits of LSD. I told him I had to talk to some people and I would let him know the price, but that I could definitely make it happen. We went back into the party and he gave me line after line of cocaine. Joe offered him money for the lines, but Jamie told him not to pay. He said your friend here bought you guys as much coke as you want for the night. Honestly, that made me feel really cool. After the party I talked to my room mate and told him what happened. We looked up the price of a book on the Silk Road. $300. Not only could we have saved a lot of money if we had just bought a book from the start, but we were going to make a lot more money selling by the book. The days of getting excited over $800 were about to come to an abrupt end. I talked to Jamie and asked how much he would be willing to pay for each book. He said he would pay no more than $3000 for each book. We decided we would sell him the books for $2,800 each. He agreed and asked how many we had. I said we can start with five books. He agreed. This was perfect. Not only were we about to make more money than we had ever expected, but acid was incredibly easy to ship. They were basically sheets of paper. Our supplier used to send it to us in between the pages of large children's coloring books. The books, or prints, as our supplier called them, blended with the kid's books very well. Our prints consisted of a large picture of Bart Simpson, The Grateful Dead bears, and a double rainbow portrait. If you didn't know what acid was, you wouldn't know these were drugs. We made nearly $14,000 from that first deal. Over the course of a few months we would sell close to thirty-thousand hits of LSD. We had $75,000 in cash sitting in an empty bedroom at Noah's apartment. I stopped going to class. My room mate had filled his entire room with computer parts and instruments. Noah, well we didn't really see him much, but he was always present when we needed a shipment. We broke our cardinal rule of not getting high on our own supply. We took a lot of acid that semester. It was an extremely enlightening period for us. Things in my world began to take on entirely new meaning. I had a newfound appreciation for things I had never noticed. The connections with my friends became very strong and we talked about a lot of stuff that was just too deep for my other peers to even scratch the surface of. It was nice. By my birthday in February we had over $200,000 in cash. We didn't die in December, not that I thought we would, but some people were legitimately surprised. They were mostly art students. Things started getting a little crazy. My room mate and I were taking a lot of Xanax by this time and a lot of nights celebrating were never logged as memories. We always told ourselves we would only sell LSD. We had sparked a huge psychedelic scene in and around Philadelphia. There were literally parties where everyone was tripping acid. Many groups of people began taking acid and doing really creative stuff that I admired so much. So much good music and art was around during that period. I felt like I was living in San Fransisco in the middle 60's. It felt like we were part of this incredible scene that nobody outside of the city knew about. Of course every wave has to break and roll back. It was getting close to the summer. I hadn't been to class in months. We hadn't seen Noah since the previous shipment about a month prior. It was a regular weekday, but I wasn't going to class, so I took two hits of acid. I spent most of that evening and night writing and yapping into my tape recorder. I was on the subject of togetherness and how there are so many things that are so incredible that we never notice even though they're right in front of us. Acid talk. I was looking at a glass of water, thinking about its importance, and how so many of us take it for granted. That's when my room mate came home. This was *my* room mate though. Remember, we had a two bedroom, four person suite. *My* room mate, who was never involved in our operation. He was obliterated, and not from alcohol. This was something else. He limped into the room and collapsed on the bed. I immediately got the rest of my room mates together. That's when Christian told me what transpired earlier while I was locked in the bedroom tripping acid. He told me that my room mate had broken up with his girlfriend, took an entire bottle of lorazepam, and tried to cut his leg open with my biology scalpel. What the fuck. I examined his leg and he did not *try* to cut it open, he succeeded. He had a gigantic cut all the way down his lower leg that was fixed up by his father who is a surgeon. His father then brought him back to the dorm. The condition he was in was terrifying. He was breathing, but not well. His heart rate was also very low and we had to monitor him for the remainder of the night, taking shifts to make sure he didn't stop breathing. I couldn't believe his father had brought him back in the condition he was in. The next morning I was exhausted. My room mate and I, the one with the bitcoins, left and went to Noah's apartment to relax for an hour. While we were gone Bianca was to watch over him with her room mate. When we got to Noah's we had a new problem. Noah hadn't gotten out of bed for what looked like weeks. He had ran out of his antidepressants and was in bad shape. At this point I checked out. I walked into the living room and opened a bottle of champagne. I poured a glass, popped a Xanax, and sat on the sofa. I was still a little foggy from my acid trip and I hadn't slept all night. That's when my phone rang. It was Bianca. I answered the phone and her first words were: "Your room is full of police.". Well, it's been a good run. On my desk were a couple thousand hits of LSD and a handgun. In the other bedroom were numerous unopened box's of expensive computer parts, scales and drug paraphernalia galore, and a large pile of white powdered alprazolam. That room also smelled heavily of weed because there was a half pound out in the open. We had gotten very sloppy. I asked her if my room mate was okay. She said that's why the police are there. She said his mom was trying to reach him and he wasn't answering her, so she called the police for a wellness check. Bianca then started talking to someone and hung up the phone. We pondered whether or not to flee the country and become outlaws. We did after all have all the cash here at Noah's. Close to a million dollars. Maybe more. Because we were getting sloppy, we had also started selling hash, Xanax, LSD, 25i-NBOMe, 2c-b, 2c-i, 2c-E, Mescaline, cocaine, MDMA, MDA, LSA, clonazepam, ativan, and other various designer drugs. We were going down for a long time. I started thinking about my life. It literally was flashing before my eyes. I thought about my high school crush, and how I should have been more upfront with her about how much I liked her. I loved her. I thought about the time we slept in the same bed and I couldn't fall asleep because I couldn't believe she was really laying next to me. I remembered how I never wanted to wake up next to anyone else. I thought about my trivial crush on Bianca and how shallow it really was. I thought about my parents and how they'd raised me better. How they did so much for me so that I could go away to college and have a better life than they had. I thought about sitting on the beach last summer without a care in the world. The "problems" in my life that seemed hilarious now. Will I go to prom? Is my car cool enough? My k/d ratio in Call of Duty. How could so much happen in less than a year? That's when Bianca called me again. I was terrified to pick up that phone. We looked outside to see if police were surrounding the apartment complex. They were not. I answered the phone. She said the police were gone. She had put my gun and LSD in my desk drawer. The police never entered the other bedroom. It was just a wellness check. An ambulance came and took my room mate. He was going to be okay. I hugged my partner in crime and we cried. I wish I could tell you we cleaned up our lives after that. My room mate with the bitcoins developed a really dangerous drug habit after that. He spent most of his money on drugs over the next few years. I went back to class after that summer, but stopped going again because I wanted to party instead and start a career as a writer. I failed out of college. Throughout the years I went on numerous adventures all around the world. I have hundreds of stories, I just have to write them. Oh and I have to learn how to write properly. I don't use a lot of drugs today, and I don't encourage people to use drugs. I have unfortunately lost many friends during the opiate epidemic. Weed is cool though, I like weed. I wouldn't tell people to smoke it, but I'll never shame someone for enjoying some cannabis. Actually, I don't really shame people for anything, it's just not my place to judge anyone. Feel free to judge me though, about how my dorm room became a drug superhighway. ​ \*\**For more stories please head on over to* r/BartardStories \*\*\*M*odified versions intended for non-drug enthusiasts can be found on* r/stories

How my dorm became a drug superhighway.

qqk0ni

You get a hankering for a hamburger, so you go to your favorite burger place, Burger King. You’ve been in (Benin) Burger King so often you consider yourself a Burger King fatso (Burkina Faso). You order your food to go (Togo), and once you get your order, you’re gone (Ghana). You coast away in your ivory car (Ivory Coast) where you’re at your liberty (Liberia) to meet up with your date, Sierra (Sierra Leone). Sierra is really high maintenance, so you try to impress her by buying her a guinea pig (Guinea). Unfortunately, this guinea pig be a salty mother fucker (Guinea-Bissau). You’re starting to think it was a gamble (Gambia) buying that thing. In fact, you’re cynical (Senegal) this relationship will go past the first date. And you’re right. Sierra dumps you on the spot, but don’t worry. Your friend sets you up with a girl named Sarah from out west (Western Sahara). Sarah tells you she likes tunes (Tunisia), especially rock. In fact, the more rock the better (Morocco). She introduces you to her friend/drug dealer Marijuana-Town Molly (Mauritania) (Mali). Molly owns two pet tigers and allows you to pet them, assuring you they are nice tigers (Niger) (Nigeria). Unfortunately, you can’t stay long because Sarah is allergic to cats (Algeria). In fact, the LESS time she spends around those tigers, the better (Libya) (Egypt) (Sudan) (South Sudan). Things are going well with Sarah, and you want to take your relationship to the next level, so you visit your friend, Chad (Chad). Chad is a photographer who likes to take pictures with his camera (Cameroon) of CARs (Central African Republic). Chad is a ladies’ man, so you ask him for the key to getting that booty (Eritrea, a key shaped country) (Djibouti). He tells you he learned everything he knows about women from his good friend Dwayne the Rock Johnson (DROC or Democratic Republic of the Congo), or the Rock for short (Republic of the Congo). You go to see the Rock to get his advice, but all he wants to do is talk about breakfast and gabs on and on about his EGGs (Equatorial Guinea) (Gabon). Eventually, he tells you you’ll find what you need in his DESK (Djibouti) (Ethiopia) (Somalia) (Kenya). In his desk, you find an URB (Uganda) (Rwanda) (Burundi). Dwayne tells you this is some Spanish Fly shit he got from this tan, zany guy he met in the jungle (Tanzania) and that the only side effect he’s noticed is every now and then he gets some bad owies (Malawi). You go back home, and after taking some Ambien for your insomnia, you catch a couple of Z’s (Zambia) (Zimbabwe). When you wake up, you go to seek this tan, zany dude to get some more herb. You mosey on down to the jungle where birds with amber beaks live (Mozambique). While you search, you’re constantly swatting teeny mosquitoes (Eswatini) and find yourself wishing there were less mosquitoes and other types of bugs in the jungle (Lesotho). After all that trouble, you find out the guy no longer lives in the jungle but is working at a robotics factory back home. You visit the factory where you run into a man and ask if he’s the zany guy, but he says, “Nah, me be a bot!” (Namibia). He turns out to be a love-sick robot and asks you for some money. When you ask him what he wants the money for, he tells you, “I wanna buy a ROSA for my girl, Angela” (Botswana) (Republic of South Africa) (Angola). You give the bot some money, but can’t find the dude anywhere, so now you’re mad you wasted all the gas in your car (Madagascar) looking for the guy. And to add insult to injury, you’ve caught a malicious infection (Mauritius, pronounced merr-i-shuhs) from cutting your foot on some dirty seashells (Seychelles) that cause you go comatose (Comoros). When you wake up from your coma, you discover to your dismay that not only did some pig tow your car, but your girl Sarah moved on and married a prince (Sao Tome and Principe). Feeling dejected, you to grab a green cab (Cabo Verde) to Burger King for some comfort food while you contemplate your return to the single life.

A Story To Help You Remember The Countries of Africa

oq2nxi

I can’t say what prompted the idea but one day recently I decided it was best for me to stop breathing. Oh, it was a short-lived rebellion the first few times, but eventually I built up a considerable tolerance to the mindless act of respiration. Like a bolt out of the blue I came to realize my unrelenting addiction to oxygen was the root of all my problems. Frankly, it wasn’t just the cause of my own. Everyone knows the truth about the toxic air we inhale. The unapologetic need and continuous consumption of this primal element is behind everyone’s personal woes but we must arrive at that sobering conclusion for ourselves. Every chance I had, I held my breath for intermittent fasting periods. The goal was to fully wean myself from this chronic dependency until I no longer needed it at all. I built up my endurance at a steady pace but it has been discouraging at times. Just as I started to believe I’d beaten the crippling dependency, my lungs would demand another breath to ‘save myself’. With every new iteration however, my ability to go without air has increased a little bit more. Over time I started seeing things in a whole new light. The golden periods between breathing and exhaling my spent carbon dioxide changed my entire perception of things. There were longer and longer times where I’d drift into a hazy realm of nothingness. It was just a different state of being. The pale world I knew ceased to be in those brief flashes of alternate existence. In its place was a celestial plane where all problems I had in life were insignificant. I came to crave the peace and tranquillity I experienced there but all too soon; I was returned to this depressing version of reality. Each time, Tell-tale tingling of my extremities signaled the toxic opiate had reentered my body and renewed my addiction. Reoccurring headaches grew from the extended periods I was oxygen free. Only a lingering lung addiction kept me in this world. Others tried to tell me it was from deprivation itself but that was only half true. It was a lifelong dependence on respiration which created the heaving pangs of withdrawal in the first place. The addiction tried to hold me back. It didn’t want me to escape its fickle chains. The closer to freedom I got, the worse my headaches became. It was a cycle of biological slavery to breathing and I was determined to break free of it. As my resistance grew, the longer I remained moored to the other side. I no longer felt a burning ache in my lungs demanding I give in. I rapidly approached a tipping point where I spent more time in there, and less in this dimension. Bystanders saw me gasping for air and tried to offer aid, not realizing my asphyxiation was a deliberate attempt to free myself. They meant well but were unable to understand it was my intention to stop breathing and permanently dwell in the beautiful place I’d only experienced in fleeting glimpses. They labeled me mentally ill and a grave danger to myself but they were philosophically wrong. To be suicidal is to want to harm oneself. I only want to break free of my lifelong dependence to breathing. Dozens of times I’d almost escaped the limiting bounds of life but I was unable to permanently let go. At the last moment I’d panic and swallow a breath of air through my parched lips. A lingering fear of the unknown and superstitious doubts prevented me from permanently crossing over to those cerulean skies and lush, rolling hills. At last, I’ve found the perfect solution to stabilize my faltering faith and do what is necessary to achieve my goal. To your ears this request may appear unorthodox or against my own self interests but I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. This is the only way forward for me. Please understand that when I stop breathing, it will be when I actually start to live. Do not let me back out of these sincere intentions. It would only be from primal fear that I might beg you to stop suffocating me but that’s not what I really want. No matter what I do or say from this point on, please do not give in. I am not conflicted. My final wishes are to cease breathing and permanently deny my lungs of their toxic drug. Help me escape the mortal slavery of oxygen and be free at last.

‘When I stop breathing’

odk0cs

Life is a gift that takes. Time was always on my side, but the angel has fallen. I only realize now that a perfect picture is flawed. My madness was a naked mantra. Everyone close to heart had been distant in my mind. Life is a perfect gift.

No idea how to write poetry but

uv2eqk

Helloo! So I'm writing a bunch of different and more gory stories for my English class, and my teacher wants me to post them to platforms so people can read my writing because she likes it so much. If I was to post it on here, would some of you all be interested in reading it? They're fiction and typically touch some sensitive topics, but never too bad. Edit: I messed up the title- I'm sorry I'm running on an hour of sleep rn

I want to start posting my stuff somewhere, but I'm unsure if people here would want to.

10wniny

I’ve experimented with different writing prompts in my spare time and I’ve found one that I see a lot of promise in: I start by writing a scene with emotions and setting as blunt as possible, then rewrite and make the emotions subtler, before finally adding description to the setting. {EXAMPLE} —“Something’s not right.” Bob said, very scared. The graveyard filled with mist. —“Something’s not right.” Bob’s words became a whisper, it didn’t feel safe to speak up. The graveyard filled with mist. —Bob leered at the scene, searching desperately with his flashlight. “Something’s not right.” His words became a whisper, it wasn’t safe to speak up. In the gloom of the new moon wisps of fog fluttered from the ground veiling the tombstones into broad shapes drifting into darkness. So far it’s been really fun to write out. I have been thinking of applying this to the novel I’m writing and I was wondering if any other writers had done this before and what their writing experience was like. Is this something new, or is this a natural way to try it? Is this a good idea or a terrible one? Feel free to let me know.

Discussing a new writing technique I’ve discovered.

ivcc46

When I was twelve, my English teacher decided to educate the class on life’s inescapable expiry date. She began snapping her fingers in a steady rhythm, speaking light heartedly; ‘every time I click, someone has died’. She talked as if it was no more than an interesting headline in her morning paper. ‘Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.’ she chanted, before continuing to lecture us on some insignificant verse, clicking all the while. Something about her breezy demeanor didn’t sit well with my younger self, like I couldn’t quite bring myself to whittle down someone’s final moments to the snap of my fingers. And now, as I plummet towards the approaching concrete, I wonder if someone, somewhere, will click for me when I hit the ground.

Click

gucrg7

Don't you understand? There weren't supposed to be corporate offices, that's why earthquakes destroy them. We were the mistake, fossil fuels weren't made to be burned. I'm sick of everyone saying that nature is horrible and destructive when it wasn't made for us, we were made for it. Our planet has done nothing with malicious intent and I hate that you all think it has.

This Earth Wasn't Made For Us

qmbw79

We say things like, "It's so great to see you!" "I've missed you!" and "How's your job? How's your mom? Read any good books lately?" You haven't, but you watched a movie recently - you think I would like it, maybe. We don't talk about the movies we saw together in the theater, clamoring for the middle row with the extra leg room. The seats there are further apart though, so The Thing waits there - folded neatly into the narrow void. Our arms don't touch as you tilt the popcorn bag to me. We take turns, one hand reaching at a time. Shared, but separate. Safe. On the couch now we sit together. But not too close, or else The Thing might become too weighty, too full of the gravity it holds. We toast to our friendship, share stories from another lifetime, then compare biceps - and my lack. We take turns playfully poking at muscles through textile armor. We count pushups between traded sips of beer. I try again and again to compose the right words, how to broach The Thing. I compliment your sweater instead. I don't smoke anymore, and you know you should quit too, but we'll take the excuse to move outside. We talk about the day behind us. The day ahead. How to stop a sunset. 15 minutes burns down between your fingers. It's your cigarette, then mine for a moment too. The Thing waits while an empty soda can swallows ashes and wasted time. We lounge closer again at night, knees turned in and, this time, almost touching. We sing along in poor harmony to favorited songs, trying to best each other with the next title queued. We waltz around landmines that might provoke The Thing, but I'm tipsy and careless. One refrain sucks the air from my lungs, but I'm careful that my face doesn't betray the sudden tightness in my chest. You add the song to your playlist. Your plane will be here soon. From another room I imagine you packing your suitcase with worn shirts, socks, a toothbrush, confessions unspoken. You'll carefully pick your way around The Thing to check the folds of the sheets, beneath the bed, in closet shelves. I hope you might forget something, but I know you too well, and you won't. It only takes twelve minutes to erase four days, or a decade. Try not to flinch as you rip The Thing in two; your final chore. Leave behind half, press the rest into your bag as far down as it will go then further still. Zip it quickly, or else.

The Thing Between Us

qnmlq6

We hide our faces and dry our own tears, as we sit crying in the cold rooms of our empty homes. Wishing to be understood but not wanting to explain ourselves, wanting to be held by the softest of hands yet wanting to be invisible to the whole world. I lie in my bed, wanting to cry so fucking hard and yet not one tear can I shed. Staring blankly at an empty wall, my back turned to the world, in a house full of people and yet so alone. Don't let the demons inside you shame you for what you feel, for being human. Embrace your emotions and let the whole world hear your cries.

Men don't cry...

11wnne6

i'm writing a story involving a smoker, and while i've obviously smelled cigarettes before, i cannot seem to find a good way to describe them in my story. help please :') edit: thank you all for the responses! you've helped more than you know. for context if anyone was wondering, my character was having a friend come over and she had sprayed air freshener in attempts to cover the cigarette smell, but i wanted to go beyond "the smell of cigarettes". this isn’t a key detail in the short story, but i still desire to be detailed

what do cigarettes smell like?

12pj95q

What are some seemingly small things a writer can do in their book that completely takes you out of the experience? I was once reading some book from the school library and the female lead's gay friend said something along the lines of "honey, of course I can cook, I'm fruity". I tried to read past it but I couldn't. Completely ruined it 😂 had to put it back.

what can a writer do to make you walk away from a book?

ukux72

"I mostly wanna be free of myself. Return my consciousness to a place outside of my soul. Put back on the shelves to be discarded into the cosmos I crave nothingness in its purest form. Nothing..."

A quote from my old journal..

i7sjum

To you, wherever you are, I love you. I know that you are there, cold and alone, needing me. You feel as I do. You look up at the vast emptiness in that dark, night's sky and want it to be filled with meaning and purpose. To fill it with love and radiance that is our sun, and with all that makes life worth living. But right now, it's empty, twinkling with possibilities that are lightyears away. You constantly reach out and try for one, hoping it's me, as I do, but always falling short. I hope that one day, that we both reach out into that vast, blue, melancholic sky and touch upon each other, expanding the universe with the joy that signifies that we have found each other. I love you and I haven't met you yet. I can run my fingers through your beautiful hair, like the flowing silkiness of stardust, even though I haven't felt it yet. I can feel the magnetic pull of your intoxicating presence, even though I haven't been around you yet. In the end, I know that I'm just shouting into the void of space, hoping that there is actually a you out there. But if there is, I'll know you already because I've already met you.

To you, whoever you are

vl2r58

TW: This is about different experiences of homophobia, transphobia, and other discrimination against the LGBTQ+ community. This text addresses topics like religion, violence, and generally poor experiences of being queer. If this is not something you're comfortable reading, then this might not be for you. Otherwise, please enjoy :) ​ ​ **A straight man** ​ I want to someday see a straight man experience what it’s like to be gay To have the queer experience Of having your whole identity Be something bad To have to justify your entire existence Every time you meet someone Who doesn’t even see you as a person Who questions your moral Your character And your entire being Soley based on who you love Or don’t love ​ I want him to see the world through our eyes Our eyes who have seen all the looks The little actions people take to make themselves feel more “comfortable” More “safe” Around us when they think we’re not like them The way they shield their children from having to gaze at us Protect them from our existence From our supposed corruption So that they, too, won’t have the misfortune of turning out gay ​ I want him to have to feel the way we feel When we have to mute ourselves Our person To not make others uncomfortable Because other people’s comfort has a higher value than our integrity And if we dare be ourselves We deserve the highest, most brutal form of punishment Take away our rights Take away our safety Take away our expressions and sense of community Take away everything we are and have Because we don’t deserve to be people We are just filth We are impure We are ungodly Regardless of whether or not we believe in your god We are unworthy We are disgraceful We are the monsters that live under your bed Who defiles you and your kin Who forces our disturbed morals unto you And make you sin We are sinful Unlike you, who created our sins to commit ​ I want his life to be controlled by other people’s views In the way that other people’s beliefs Regardless of whether or not they have anything to do with us Get to control what we can and cannot do People whose views mean nothing to us But who, somehow, get to control us Choose to not let us have the same opportunities The same choices Same freedom As the rest of the world gets Just because they don’t “agree” with us As if our existence is something up for debate Something people can disagree with But it’s not about them Or their views It’s about the fact that we don’t get to love Marry Adopt Simply exist Because people who don’t “agree” with us Decided that their views get to control our lives ​ I want him to feel out of place Like he lives in a place not designed for him Where he has to live his days never seeing someone else like himself anywhere Because that’d be “too much” for some people Having the audacity to show two women holding hands Non-platonically Planting little kisses on each other's knuckles, palms, and fingers To show her that she really does love her more than words can describe Having two men love each other in the purest of ways No jealousy No hate Just a look in his eyes that says “I want to spend every day with you, my love” “I want to hold your hand, kiss your lips and gaze into the endless galaxy that are your eyes” Being able to see people who may not look like you and me But who are unapologetically being their truest selves Never covering up their prideful colors Or their desire to tell the world “We are here” “We exist” “We matter, and you will not extinguish our bright flame” No matter how many daily battles we must endure alone Fight and win, and win and fight To not have our rights be ripped away from us like a prize we have earned for behaving Earned from years of hiding and minimizing ourselves just to please you Rights any one of you can, and will, attempt to take from us at any chance you get ​ I want him to grow up the way we did Never seeing anything but straight relationships on TV Because that’s the norm Anything else would be odd Even if He would be far more compatible And happy With His male friend Even if She won’t hurt Her But He will And in those rare instances where he does see something comparable to himself That person still doesn’t look like him Act like him Have similar interests or views as him They act so differently That even though they are, in ways, the same They are still nothing alike And all that person gets boiled down to Is them being queer So we’re still the odd ones out The ones who get taught meaningless lessons about embracing our differences Because it’s what makes us unique Like that’s supposed to be a good thing Like we are meant to have some supposed pride in being alone In never getting representation Never being seen ​ I want him to be in our situation Where our simple existence is seen as a threat to others Us being able to exist as us Is seen as a war crime The biggest of sins So we must be irradicated Killed at all costs Never spared So we have to hide in plain sight Or hide away if we can’t Being warned by loved ones that our person needs to be toned down for our own safety To not be targeted to be harmed, harassed, or killed Or be told to hide away when certain relatives visit Because they make us unsafe in our own homes What is meant to be our safe havens Our sanctuaries to be our truest selves Has to accompany their needs Because their comfort seem to matter more than our safety So we have to be shielded Not unlike how parents shield their children from us However The big difference is that they shield their children because of their hatred for us Because they don’t want their children to be like us They don’t want us to cause them discomfort We have to shield ourselves Or be shielded by others Because of our safety Because we don’t want to be assaulted Because we don’t want to experience aggression against us Because we just don’t want to be murdered ​ I want a straight man to know what it’s like to be us Not when we show our pride Not when we get to be wed Not when we celebrate our small victories But the stories behind why these things are so important to us

A straight man

10boqdn

Sean Bailey gazed out of the window from the 362nd floor and scowled. All he could see was steel and glass in every direction, all the way to the horizon. He hated Earth. I've heard many times that the opening of a story is supposed to grab the reader's attention. Did I succeed?

How's this for an opening sentence?

og0ks6

I daydream a lot. Sadly more than I'd like to admit; I envision my partner who gives me lots of love, and sex. It's been awhile since I've felt loved, really loved..but I miss loving. I miss caring and wanting and longing and touching. I miss long, strong hugs. I think of my partner and how he would love me. I just envision you, but why you? why does he look like you smell like you talk like you? They say that your brain can't imagine someone you've never seen before, that even faces in dreams are faces you've seen before. I still think, out of everyone I've ever seen, strong men, confident men, incredibly smart men, why you? Men who have respected me more than you. I think I've come to terms that the daydream isn't you. I can't change you and I won't try. You wrote me off before you gave me a chance- I can't stand this fact. I can't stand that you wanted to get to know other women but skipped me. Wait, is this my fault? (I think when I start to get mad at you). The beginning I remember you tried, but a lot of men tried. This was when I was freshly single after almost 5 years, first step of recovery was downloading all the apps. I recall you being kind to me, and wanting to I think, do something active? and/or go for a drink? I vaguely remember. I've grown so much since then. I am a new woman, a lover, learner. I want to be kind to myself. I've changed because I love life and I want to live. I've always had a fire or spice about me. I'm intense and I mean that in a good way. I'm sure of myself and I will stand up for my beliefs. I know what I want and I'll go for it, I'll try. I know that trying is an intervention in itself- I used to never try, I used to think things were too good for me, or me not enough. I'm sure of this I'm sure of this: I am not a backup plan. I am not an afterthought. Yet still, I wonder, "how is he doing?" and most days I think "but why not me?" I can accept not working out with my exes, but this doesn't work for me. I don't know why we didn't even try. Is it because we had sex more than I'd like to with flings? Is it because I saw the look in your eyes and got lost in the moment? I get lost in your eyes.. they put me to my knees. Brown eyes I can't look away from. Your bright and warm smile, like the sun. Your cheeks blushing red as you look at me. I see this image of you in my mind all the time and it's no wonder why I can't let go. You're also fighting with yourself, or have some wall up. The healer in me wants to understand your soul, wants to be a solution. You deserve love and I think you're waiting for someone to tell you it's okay to let go of your past and your fears and your failures. "you're safe here; I'll be the one to love you." I'd say that to you; I'll be the one. My mind brings me back to you rejecting me. I get brought back to earth. Repeat. (A post from my blog which I never made public. I want to start writing more. Please be nice :) I wrote it when I felt it a lot of pain. Completely raw)

I’ll never attract more than just your eyes.

irv8b9

We don’t write about love anymore It’s always the same and makes us bore, We only write about pain nowadays It is something to which everyone can relate, Besides we don’t think love actually exists It probably died last century Like we just don’t talk about God anymore, With the rapid dying faith Atheism is the new way Besides if we discuss it we might hurt someone’s sentiment, So we save our ego and loose the chance to be intimate. It’s very similar with love; I believe But why am I wasting my time on talking about things that don’t exist.

We don't write about love anymore

e8wfb0

When I have told stories of my life, those listening have told me I am fucked up at best, interesting as a consolation or at worst, a liar. I would say I’m a combination of the best and worst responses, and I suppose I must view myself as interesting if I am writing this at all. Or maybe, you’ve just read my first lie. I’m twenty three years old. Female. And maybe I’ve lost half my audience already just from declaring my sex. To those who remain I will ask you anyway; have you ever forced yourself to throw up the contents of your stomach in a homeless refuge's shared bathroom? Did you keep the wretches quiet and afterwards swallow quadruple the dose of over-the-counter sleeping pills knowing it'll be all the stronger now that your stomach is empty and you can feel a little less guilty about all those calories? I am young, middle class, postgraduate educated, well mannered and largely a respectful individual. I look it too. I am small, wide eyed, smiling. I do not appear as someone who shop lifts habitually. And I didn’t, until in the summer of 2015 I met the most intelligent man I have ever known. He was gifted, psychologically paralysing and we played a cat and mouse charade of indefinable torture with each other. Memorably in December, in the bank by the extravagant Christmas tree display I told him to steal a bauble for me. Twisting and testing and daring him in his actions all the same as he was me. He plucked it from the tree without hesitation and I gasped. It was a small thievery but committed by hands of an academic, a respected individual of society. My naive little head fractured and the idea of law now held all the weight and strength of rodent bones. What was right anyway? Because I felt my infantilsed age when he touched me, and when he hurt me the pain made him salivate but I was years over eighteen and I was drawn to machoism. So what was wrong? And if he was the only one that was there unconditionally by my side wasn’t this love? Morals in my head had began to bleed into each other before I met him but by now they had become indistinguishable. Oh what a monster! A sweet innocent girl was claimed by a monster disguised as a good man! No such story here. For I was and am my own monstrosity. I craved the dominance and pain, I feigned loyalty to him while I crept around with other boys my own age, swearing a virginity for him for in the beginning it was me that led him into intimacy. Just like in Lolita, those that remember it for its controversial reputation don’t tend to recall that it was Lolita herself that led Humbert Humbert into intimacy. I encouraged him all the way up until it became real and when he declared his love it was not a typed confession but spoken words, clutching my hand in the University Library cafe I felt distressed at what I had done. I wanted the vain ideal of a university romance. I fetishised it and decided to take in in whatever form I could play. It was only play after all wasn’t it? I did not know, besides my own, that hearts were real. Or maybe I did but I just refused to believe it. That was the past. It has it’s own long story but I’ve never been for for working chronologically. I stopped writing after the university turned me away from its creative writing course. I was dwindling before that with snatches here and there of pieces that meant very little and then all my originality dried up. Now, so utterly uninspired I’ve turned to honesty. Here is my life story. ​ This is not creative, imaginative or designed. I gave up writing about fantasy. This is my life. Every word is raw and disgustingly true.

I had completely given up writing utterly convinced that no one would ever want to read my work. This is my first time showing anyone to see if I should pack it all in or continue.

n4m3z9

i think the way you look should be illegal i get inebriated, from just a glance your steady grace, the way your hair hides your face hands look so ready to hold but not just yet because times a toll it doesn't mean i won't be wishing maybe soon your hand will fit in mine and if not i guess it has to be fine metaphors like you're the moon and im the sun, my conscious plays with the idea too much night and day, day and night a bundle of playing cards to make things seem right guilty for the way i think of you i think too much maybe it's an issue this body is longing for somebody with a body like you mind is mine mine mine mind like yours interlaced , sticky gums and pink tongues your mind is not corrupt the flowers i bestowed at your grave post, carnations with the nations best ...whatever I didn't think of whats next craving to know your living breathing, soul the words you swore to me you'd show time is awfully real , im decaying as i think each time with a new wrinkle i blink the wall is white and new air is inside i only know now, now is all i am my body doesn't exist in a tomorrow-land my vision has seen through a dogs command see soon, with eyes in front of you see now , gleam in solitude all this to open a land locked, sky bound heart shaped )treasure( box an attempt without the secret key

you

i8fm03

Have you ever said 'I love you' and as you hear those words echo around realise that you didn't mean it? That a phrase you once said to the one person who was most important to you now echos around meaningless and sad. Have you ever noticed the way they say 'I love you too' afterwards? A slightly hollow causious love. One that knows how it feels but suddenly doesn't quite feel the reciprocated feelings that they once knew. Falling in love is scary Falling out of love is terrifying Especially when you don't know why I once loved someone more than I thought a person could love anything. I would wake up happy I would go to sleep happy. It was wonderful. And then It Stopped. Not all at once, no, never so dramatic. But day by I felt less and less and suddenly began to panic. Because the one I had once loved was falling away from me and it was all because I was scared you see? And the more scared I got the further they went until it broke me and I couldn't help but vent. I told them everything, I made my feelings clear. And they said, "well I can change, I can be better for you my dear" And I said "that's not fair, we have to leave this here" And so we parted ways with a teary goodbye And the flame of our relationship Was left To die.

Have you ever said 'I love you'

r1qae2

I am abandoned in the bloody heap of history I am thirsting after the echo of evening poetry I am a blighted reaper A crestfallen jester A bitter reminder I cast aside my banners My waywardness My aching breathlessness My furrowed brow in the face of ageless wonders I would trade it all for a spell To lift me out of the reach of time's lustful cloying maw I read the book of love and I wonder aloud about the future I will miss with you I ponder our children and their laugh I ponder our home and the memories I will never make with you I gasp and sob and tear at the pages I want them to tell me I am long for this wretched rock I want them to bring me closer to you so I may weep upon your chest until the Raven leaves my chamber I want the book of love to never end for us I will miss you and love you Because all of the beautiful things in this world tell me I should

Loving In My Final Age

g93ogg

I hate to admit but writing felt easy with a broken heart.

jquaub

Weed is not for everyone, It's not the miracle drug people always say it is, but it's sure a hell of a lot better of a drug of choice than Alcohol is, and that's a fact (Rest In Peace Bill Hicks, 1961-1994). I am saying now, If someone Proudly Supports Alcohol Legalization, and not only disapproves of Marijuana Legalization, but also argues that anyone who "partakes" in the usage of the substance, or possessed even the smallest amount of it, should get criminal penalties, fines, and even jail time? Then that person is wrong, and they can suck a ding-dong with a confirmed location (in my pants). Also, many Hypocritical Bastards are often quite unpleasant to quite pleasant Cannabis Users, while they drink Budweiser excessively, and abuse prescription meds. I've also got these really cool suppositories, with their shit anti-weed opinions written on them, they can take them and shove them right back up their ass. My Reasoning/Logic to support My Opinion on this particular topic/matter (The Legalization Of Cannabis). Zero people, ever, since the beginning of time, have ever died from weed directly, but every year, a range between 50,000 to 75,000 deaths worldwide are contributed directly to Alcohol annually. Theoretically Speaking, in a Statistical sense, in the past 16 years, about a million people have succumbed to Alcohol Abuse (approximately 62,500 annually) Even If it has only been 999,999, I very well could be the very next one. And sooner rather than later if I don't keep my shit together, my life literally depends on it, and I am 25 next month. Because in all reality, I consumed alcohol very irresponsibly in my late teens, as well as my early twenties, but I cannot change the past, I can only move forward at this point onward. Also living in The New York Metropolitan Area my whole life, I have never owned a car, which is probably a good thing. Also throughout my early 20's, especially returning home to bed after a night out drinking and getting shit-faced at bars in both Jersey City and New York City, there were these strange and repetitive dreams, where I was always walking down this long and dark rural country road, particularly Elm Street, and in the middle of nowhere at night. Then all of the sudden, I gotta take this wicked race-horse piss, also realizing there were no public washrooms nearby. Then there was a distant figure down the road approaching me from the opposite direction, and I didn't want to have to pee in front of them, but when I looked closer, I realized it was Freddy Krueger, and I was very relieved to see that he was carrying a urine cup handy, just for me. He walked up to me and gave me the pee cup. I then gratefully thanked Freddy, then I turned around, unzipped my pants, and took a nice 69-second-long piss, and filled the 25-ounce cup right up to the rim. Freddy grinned, then he said, "Enjoy". then he was gone. Unfortunately for me however, when I woke up, I was completely soaked in a bed of my own piss, and then realized, "You pee in your dreams, you pee for real." I can also only encourage others to get help for their problematic substance use before they start making life difficult for at least one other person, Colorado would be a great State to rehabilitate drug addicts and alcoholics (not all of them don't get nervous), then after getting sober for a while, they can take advantage of the opportunity to experience The Real Rockie Mountain HIGH!! You know what my Friend from Missouri would always say, You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make the horse drink the water. Anybody with an addictive personality is at great risk of developing an addiction to literally anything that provides pleasure and joy. Anyone can become addicted to McDonald's, Anyone can become addicted to Jerking-Off. Why? because they both feel fucking great, that’s why. There is honestly nothing like a good hand, especially your own, going up and down your cock when you're horny, or when a delicious McDonald's burger is going down your trachea when you're hungry (both are examples of life's most beautiful moments). Wait a second, now come to think of it, it's actually the esophagus the burger would go down. If it were the trachea, CPR would likely be necessary. On 2001-12-19, My 6th Birthday, and just 6 days before Christmas, on the ground, what I had found, was a Mcdonalds gift card, in a pound of dog shit in deep snow, but it still had $420.69 on it, It was one of the nicest days of my life and I was absolutely loving it. That card would be used gradually on an infrequent basis from December 2001, until January 2006, lasting over 4 years, and by then I was 10. Anytime my Older Sister and I would pass by any fast food place as kids growing up, especially Mcdonald's, we both would always ask My Mom or Dad to pull over and stop at one, even advising them that we could both pay for our own food. Mom would always tell us "No!," While Dad would always tell us "Oh, Fuck NO!!" but the disappointment was only temporary. As Mom would always remind us, "We got better Burgers & Coke at home," and Dad sure loves his Burgers & Coke, My Sister does too. Maybe someday too, instead of masturbating all day, I can get a beautiful wife around my age, who also wants sex at true consent, because in all honesty, Fuck Me, It's not just about me. If I wanna fuck but she doesn't, then you know what, I can go fuck myself, because she is the boss here when it comes to properly scheduling our sex, in an appropriate and mature adult-like manner. If she wants to be fucked but I say, "Sorry honey, but I'm just too tired to fuck you tonight, how about some other time?". Then She would say back to me, "You know what, Fuck you buddy! Cut that pussy shit out and get the fuck up here and give me a good fucking like a real man. There absolutely were more times than I can count throughout my life where I was a spoiled little shit, and I deserved to be kicked right in the fucking nuts, don't get me wrong. My bottom line is, a weed addict will most likely be living quite a miserable life, just smoking dope all day every day, and accomplishing nothing good or pleasant for anyone else but themselves. Having said that, at least the pot addict is more likely to be still living today, even at an older age, where the alcoholic would be much more likely to succumb to Alcoholism at a much younger age, and that is the truth.

Unpopular Opinion: Pot Is A Better Drug Than Alcohol

g9ptup

I find it harder to write when I'm forced inside 24/7, ironically. I know I'm not the only one who feels this way, so I thought I'd share a link to a free online webinar by Katherine Belliel, a creative writing teacher. You don't need to sign up. Just click the link and you can enter the online classroom. The webinar starts Saturday, May 2, at 2:00 pm Eastern Standard Time. https://www.spitball.co/studyroom/f29a992a-a9bb-4c3d-a0c5-aba6014b0019

Anyone's creative juices stop flowing since Covid?

m4wgmw

To talk of many things. Of life and love and ceiling fans, Or bandages and rings. And why the sea was boiling hot, that time we sprouted wings. I wonder as the stars ricochet through the darkness of the warm night. The window open into it, the air enveloping me like a hug. I could feel its touch on my bare shoulder blades. A baby cry. My daughter behind me, staring up at the ceiling fan as it swings lazily. I could see the tan line on my finger still. And when I closed my eyes I could see us dancing in the streets in Spain. Laying on a blanket on the beach in Indonesia. When we looked at the sky and talked about how interesting it is that we stay rooted like tree trunks when we could open our wings, turn our face to the open air and take flight.

Let us go then you and I

uqydvp

There is this fantasy novel story I had in my head for probably 2 decades now. I've written several pages of the beginning, but then I paused, and now I'm starting again but not from where I stopped. Instead I'm thinking of different parts of the story, characters, important scenes and details that inspire me, and I write those as bits and pieces of information and dots to connect later on as I go writing in detail from chapter to chapter. I guess I want to make sure that when I get into details, I don't run myself into a corner by developing the story into a direction that may have story or logical gaps or other inconsistencies. I want to make sure that it makes sense as a whole. Is that an ok way to start fleshing out the entire story, or no?

Is writing bits and pieces of summaries about different parts of the story, a valid way to start?

q815hq

Show us your life hacks, haha, you're creative and funny. film yourself cooking breakfast. Bacon, eggs, bread, smile, blue eyes, hearthrob, muscles, tik tok, fame. Dance to the music. Strengthen your core, whiten your teeth. Smile. You're the happiest person on earth, remember? Pink or blue? Boy or girl? Sure as gods got sandals, the baby will come out spastic unless facebook knows you're pregnant. Tell boring stories about driving a school bus, get a million followers, good for you Steve, finally made something of yourself. Film a crackhead having a meltdown, put it on the internet so that if they ever get their shit straight they always have their past lingering over them, encourage them to change but make it overly difficult for them to do so. Film a total stranger in a moment of desperation, a public manifestation of societal neglect, and put it everywhere you can with a smartass caption, laughy face emoji. Film yourself doing something nice. It's inspirational. Post a black square and put BLM content on your story, your rich white friends group are all doing it, you're changing the world, you don't even need to understand or care about the virtues that you're signaling, appear as though you're a good person, it works. lie to your loved ones, lie to yourself, lie on the couch all day and suck artificial flavouring off your fingers. Grab a bucket for that wet ass pussy, don't think about sex too much, don't objectify women, don't watch too much porn but it's normal to wank every day so just use your imagination even though your imagination is just laggy porn, have casual sex, be monogamous, use a condom even though everyone knows it feels like shit, get a sex checkup, get Chlamydia, , have a big dick, have a small dick but know how to use it, never stick your dick in crazy more than three times, try pegging, debate the morality of auto erotic asphyxiation, debate your sexuality, debate your sister about politics, debate the aggressive voice in your head that tells you you're a useless piece of shit, let it win ten months a year. fuck first, fuck loud, fuck heaps, fuck with the door open, fuck 10 chicks, fuck 20 chicks, lose count, tell the boys, do a line, spend money on drugs you don't want, at a party you don't want to be at, play cruel drinking games that are designed to hurt people's feelings, laugh when someone insults you to the core because don't be sensitive, be more vulnerable but not too vulnerable, cryings healthy unless it's infront of someone. Get in touch with your feminine side, get a girlfriend, Get gaslit, gaslight yourself, don't say retard, don't message me if you're under 5'9, how much do you weigh? Beards to the front, I have a right to my specific standards, I have a right to be happy, I have a right to continuously make poor romantic choices due to the constant societal pressure to date, to be used, to be abused, to project my first world fuckery onto people who don't deserve it and to be forgiven because anxiety. Be mentally ill for an entire week, come out as unvaccinated, educate your fanbase about the crippling depression you felt in the darkest three days of your entire life, be proud of how you suddenly came out of it when Brad texted you back, Be proudly obnoxious but mask it with comments like "I say what I want, I'm outspoken, I can be intimidating but I'm just super honest". Karen, you're a cunt. Fuck off. men are trash, men need help, men ruined everything including their own chances of becoming something, it's international mens day every single day, be a man, die at war, start a war, lose your kids, lose your fucking mind, fight the patriarchy with your keys between your fingers, kill yourself, another one bites the fucking dust, what a creep. Choose a wing, choose left, choose right, but choose one or the other and don't you fucking dare try to think about it in any other way than how it's fed to you, don't try and choose legs instead, don't engage in debates, don't try to understand that in which it is not possible to naturally understand., Life is hard but you can do anything you put your mind to but be realistic and be a carpenter but be the best damn carpenter in the suburb but never stop chasing your dreams. Don't fat shame, love all parts of yourself, lose 10kg in 3 weeks with this new diet, go to the gym, get muscly, don't date someone who's with you for your looks but never lower your ridiculous standards, you're beautiful the way you are, be unhealthy and proud of it, be an incel, take the red pill, join antifa, join something for fucks sake, get a hobby, buy an identity, get better friends, make sure you're not surrounded by assholes, make sure YOU'RE not an asshole, make sure you're the least asshole-y asshole in a world full of assholes. Normalize dating unicorns, normalize dipping your balls in liquid gold, normalize never shutting the fuck up about anything because you're special and your opinions matter and anything that causes you even the slightest shred of discomfort is a crime punishable by painful, mutually embarassing public displays of privilege, good for you for getting out of bed this morning, here's a fucking medal. Think for yourself. Follow 1000 people who all think for themselves together and compete with identically unique people to become the ultimate unique individual. Narcissus Prime. Delete social media. Be superior for 4 days and then crack and download it again. honestly, what choice do you have? What are you without this glowing rectangle? You don't exist unless we see you existing, so, again, you better smile for the fucking camera. Be a nice guy, be a cunt, be one with nature, be that guy who acts like he doesn't give a fuck because of how much he gives a fuck. no matter who you choose to be there's going to be a myriad of cunts who wouldn't piss on you to save your life, it's all ultimately meaningless, a distraction, we're all gonna rot in the ground, may aswell film the descent. We're all just as hateful and nasty and primal as eachother, it's just about which side you're on, but at the end of the day there's no fucking winners. There's more than 1 way to fuck an ostrich, but before we proceed, it is imperative that you understand that you *are* the ostrich.

Sick of it

nll55i

The child in me stood in awe of everything. The adult in me, conditioned, burnished it all. The demon in me watched my mind burning. The human in me, fighting, salvaged it all. EDIT: thanks for the hugs! I needed them 🥺🥺

1:11AM - randomly woke up from a deep slumber, and wrote this on my phone.

jj6vpm

I'm writing a story for a school assignment, and I have never been ro proud of anything i have ever written. "Well class ended, and i did not throw up. Which is good, but if i had, I totally would have done it on Jonas."

The best thing i have written in my entire life.

mo3xuj

**I don’t want to die but…** I don’t want to keep struggling. I don’t want to feel so alone. I don’t want to be like I am. I don’t want to look like this. I don’t feel like anywhere is home. I don’t feel like there’s a point anymore. I’m not who I used to be and I don’t think I ever will be again. I can’t seem to do anything right. I don’t want to feel like a burden. Nobody gives a fuck about me. **It would end all my pain and suffering but…** What if I become a father someday? What if something cool happens tomorrow? What if I find joy again in the things I used to do? What if my friend calls me and I’m not there to pick up? What if I laugh again? What if I find love again? What if I find a place that feels like home? What if someone smiles at me tomorrow? What if I just make it through tonight? What if my mom thinks she failed me? What if I feel the breeze in my hair again? What if I feel the sun on my skin just once more? What if I make another good memory? What if somebody misses me and hurts themselves? What if I see her again? What if I find a way to stop being afraid? What if I find the help I need? What if it works out? **I don’t care about what happens to me but…** Then why did I get this far? Then did I do all this for nothing? Then I’ll never get to see Rome. Then I’ll never hear another song that gives me goosebumps. Then I’ll never know what it’s like to grow old. Then I’ll never get to hear my brother’s voice again. Then I’ll never see the sunrise again. Then I’ll never get to feel her touch again. Then I’ll never get to sing in the shower again. Then I’ll never get to go mini golfing again. Then I’ll never climb a mountain. Then I’ll never get to find out what happens next. If you’re ever getting any of these thoughts please reach out for help. We are struggling as a people right now and these thoughts are very real for some of us. Please be kind to each other and offer a helping hand if you see someone struggling. I made this to show that you aren’t crazy for thinking these things. You’re human. You aren’t alone in being alone. There’s lots of others out there facing similar battles to your own. There’s a home for all of you somewhere. **If you’re struggling right now please reach out to a loved one or the national hotline 1-800-273-8255.**

Should I Hang Myself?

njwqmy

**A maidens love.** Love, once a wick ablaze. Now an ember in a fiery haze. Once a dwelling of gay abandon. Now a shell of a heart left abandoned. The waiting, the months and days whisp away. A lonely maiden yearning for the return of her life's mate. Not a single word of news or message inked with passion. No communication at all, in any fashion. A conflict rises internally as she patiently stands with her cup. Longing for her lover to fill with his kindness, compassion and lust. Hoping, praying to the Lord above. That her soul's mate will hold her again, in God she trusts. *S.M.S.*

A poem that I wrote last year about getting over a past romantic relationship.

gx5awd

hands. touching faces, touching hips, touching all the right places. lips. kissing mine, kissing skin, kissing goodbye.

a small poem for someone who broke my heart

el2lxe

And when they do, do you even notice? "Oh, I don't know about that", you laugh as you look down at your feet, a coy little smile on your face. You brush it away within seconds of it's appearance. You couldn't sit in that feeling for too long. You wouldn't want to get bigheaded. You tell me, "I've been single for like, forever." Well yeah, you might have been single. But you've never stopped loving. Loving everyone. You dream, and dream, and dream. The moments you live don't end, you just fill them with love. They can go anywhere. Your heart carries them. Litttle paper sailboats, skilfully crafted, expertly finished, bobbing along an idyllic little stream. Crystal clear waters weaving between two gargantuan, majestic mountains. The sun beams down, not a cloud in the sky. And your little paper sailboats. And my glistening wet toes. And my long, bare legs, slowly being placed one in front of the other, careful not to cause too much of a splash. And my pale, white arms reaching out. One for balance. One just for you, gently propping back up a slightly soggy sail. "You wouldn't be single if you didn't want to be."

Does everyone fall in love with you?

hrrf0l

The title says it all! I'm over the moon! ​ [https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08CZXJYG5/ref=sr\_1\_1?dchild=1&keywords=daniel+caruana+smith&qid=1594832562&s=books&sr=1-1](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08CZXJYG5/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=daniel+caruana+smith&qid=1594832562&s=books&sr=1-1)

First Book Published!

onsyja

I don't know what's wrong with me lately. I get a lot of sleep, I work an ideal amount, I have lots of downtime and time with friends, my mental health is great, so why can't I write? I have so many ideas and so many things I want to write about but the white space on the pages feel so intimidating. I just can't seem to get through any legitimate amount of storytelling. My longest and most established projects die at around 5000 words. Ugh. Help.

Lately I have been having a lot of great ideas but the actual task of writing makes me tired and I never get anywhere.

kx9by8

You have always told me that there's no word you've been able to find, that make sense of what is inside you. But why should you ever become weary with that, my love? For words are just mere tiny winds with sound of different arrangement and even you, are never able to find the right ones. By god, if they never comes, know this. You have always made sense to me, even before when you are nothing but shattered pieces.

You

yukd63

My baby kicks inside of my stomach. Any day now we'll meet him or her. My partner is downstairs cleaning up after dinner. We used to take a lot of baths together, him and I. When we first started dating he would come over and we would melt into each other. My apartment had a large bathtub that we could both fit in. I would play evening acoustic on Spotify, candles lit, lights off. I would practice my joint rolling skills and we would laugh and tell each other about the day, our clothes falling off. We would make it into the bathtub and I would give Mary Jane a kiss before passing her to him. Skin to skin, sometimes wordless listening to the music say everything we could or would have said. We wanted out of the rat race. We still do. We had dreams we would paint onto a canvas in front of each other with our words. Travel, yoga, running, singing on a stage, our bodies lit on fire with the life we breathed out of our pores in those younger days. Sometimes we would walk down the viaduct after, holding hands, bundled up in the cold night air. We would sit wordlessly on the edge of the city, lights dancing in front of us in slow motion. Sometimes continuing to play music while we slow danced together, the city winking in the background, our breath visible in the crisp air. I can feel the water moving as I am kicked from the inside. And it will begin again, the next chapter soon enough. And I feel something so intense, so intangible but real that it hurts for a second. The most painful realization being that in the story of us we've already closed chapters. When we were a different us and the world and possibilities were open. The biggest box of crayola crayons possible, all of the colors available then. And we took a hold of each others hands and we drew on the same canvas together in permanent marker in bold even strokes. Never realizing that with every step forward we were shedding. Skin that would grow back but new, formed with thoughts different than before. Formed with feelings different than before.

My toddler is asleep, and I'm laying in the bathtub listening to acoustic music.

icvaxw

Depression is quiet. Depression isn’t words, it’s the words we don’t say. It’s telling everyone we’re fine after another night of tossing and turning. It’s in the fake smile we give our mothers because truly, we can’t be the ones to break her heart. It’s the questionable look from a friend. The small push from your dog against your leg, wondering why you’ve been so distant. It’s in the grayish colors of my walls. The red used to burn so bright but like any other flame, they’ve dimmed. It’s in the lonely eyes of my sister. In the raging glare do my brother; because for some reason, he can’t do anything but fight anymore. It’s the lump in our chests we can’t get rid of. It’s sticks to us, and weighs like wet cement. With every step we feel it shift from side to side in our hearts, swinging us off balance. It’s in the soft, broken eyes of my boyfriend. Who’s smile is beginning to wear. Depression is in the world around me. It’s in the endless fighting, the killing, the shooting, the looting, the burning. It’s in every day that burns like a thousand suns. It’s in the thick frosts of winter. It’s in my best friend, and the bruises her father gave to her like roses from a garden. It’s in my Father, and the bottles that collect by his bed side. It’s in every cigarette, in every dismissive shake of his head. It’s in me. Inside my thoughts, in every crevice of my broken and shattered heart. It’s in my words, tangling around my numb tongue crying to escape. It’s in my bed, chaining me to the spring-ridden mattress. It’s in my bathroom, in the looming reflection of my mirror. Depression is quiet, until it’s not. Depression is simple, until it’s not. Depression is in anything and everything. . . Until it’s not.

Depression is quiet

mft8fl

I longed for an ocean depth in you, yet all I got were shallow shores. But as time flew and moments travelled with it, I observed your blank canvas as the art gradually became visible to me. Grey, a boy compelled to mature before his time. Red, a man seeking sexual validation. You drown in a sea of negativity and pessimism. Variations of abuse, anchoring the seabed. To the man with a solid exterior, but a liquid core. I see you. - R

I See You.

lmdqme

I was dead on the inside, and then you came along. You brought color to my existence. For once I was incredibly happy. I still remember the hug you gave me on the train station. I’ll never forget that hug. The smell of your skin, the soft feeling of your cheeck against mine. I felt so safe in your embrace, like nothing could get to me. I wish you could hug me like that forever. It’s been years, and I still miss you. In my mind, we’re still hugging.

Hold me

mgh2pk

All relationships end. By death, apathy, or sin. Some proceed slowly. Others turn out coldly. One ceases, another begins. Some friendships bloom from birth to the tomb. We flay open ourselves, with our hearts on a shelf; and trust dutifully groomed. One true love is enough, If both players are tough. We’ll get our hands dirty by deep respect and flirting. Bring on lots of mushy stuff.

‘All relationships end’

kw3kao

Focus on you Today. I know its easy to look at EVERYONE else and what EVERYONE else is doing but will that allow you to heal? Will that allow you to progress with yourself, with your mental health, with your depression, with your goals etc.? Don't get me wrong, I am **ALL** about celebrating, supporting and being there for others but its very important to remember that everyday we only have a certain amount of marbles in the jar. If we are giving those marbles away constantly, how are we going to have any energy for ourselves, for our needs and for our boundaries? **We won't.** Some ways that help me focus on myself daily, is through stretching, meditation, being outside for at least 30 minutes, playing video games, watching videos on youtube that are related with my niche and focus, reading, painting, etc. Find what works for you and keep focusing on that, little by little, day by day. Something that I used to struggle with was wanting "success" fast and obsessing over the destination rather than enjoying the journey. The journey and the process is what is most important for **EVERYTHING** we are focusing on. If we are doing our best we can do, and like my blog focus was about a few days ago, that doesn't mean giving 10/10 but giving the energy we have for the day to the best of our ability, into whatever we are passionate about. **Today:** Give yourself a hug, the battle has been long, its been tough but **YOU** have made it through it all and I am so fucking proud of you. Keep pushing. **I love you.** Drey <3

Focus on You (92)

g3bjqk

You chose to carry your pregnancy to term. You have a responsibility, an obligation, to care for and raise your child. They do not owe you anything. The worst example you can set for your child is that of the hypocrite. Be the house, big or small, your child brings people home to, not the house your child leaves to spend time with others. Don't lie about your own bad habits growing up, and don't judge theirs. Your child will be served more through their creativity than how many trivia facts they can recite. The school is not the strongest advocate for your child; you are. Your child has a right to know their grandparents. Your relationship with your parents is not the same relationship your child will have with them. Just because you're family, does not give you the right to turn their insecurities into nicknames. It is your child's job to grow up, not grow bitter. Your child is not burdened by your bias's. Learn from them. Love is not a transaction. You can not buy happiness, but you can buy experiences, and that's pretty close. You have no business dragging your child along to your own social events, they do not belong there. One day, your child is going to bring over someone special, the same way you did. They're going to learn more from them and from heartbreak than you could ever teach them in their formative years. Connecting with your child should be a habit, not an occasion. Give them a hug before bed every night that you can. Get a dog. You're not going to like all of your child's friends. You also aren't going to know why your child likes them. Accept this. Your child has no obligation to include you in their adult life. Alcoholism is born in 21 year olds encountering something new all alone. Adults are born in teenagers, sharing a beer with their parents. The best way to destroy your child's ability to form healthy relationships is by forcing them into a toxic one with you. Your job is not to like the person your child becomes, but to help them love themselves. Your child will never trust or talk to someone that they have to assume has violated their privacy already. Your child will be messy. That is normal. Teach them how to clean up messes, not fear mistakes and accidents. You did not become the person you are under the microscope of your parents, and neither will your child. Give them room to grow. Your child will like many things a great deal, and then lose interest quickly. This is normal and does not invalidate their enthusiasm. The world is big and there is a lot to try out, so encourage these phases, even if they don't stick. Just because a problem isn't real to you, doesn't mean it isn't real to them. If your child is falling below your expectations, lower your expectations and talk to them. Punishing children for accidents doesn't teach them anything except fear and that adults can not be trusted to be rational. Education is not a punishment. You can't expect children to learn from their mistakes if you don't talk to them about it. Don't just show your child what you enjoyed when you were their age, show them WHY. A child with good grades and no social skills will do very poorly in the world. Just because the world is unfair does not give you the right to be unfair. Be consistent, and be present. You don't have to agree with the rules your child's school sets for them. Your kid is not always going to be able to stand up for themselves. This is part of your job. Never say "tomorrow" if you don't mean it. It is never acceptable to say "no" without explaining why. No one ever achieved something great without a little bit of creativity. If your kid asks for a phone or a car, consider how impactful the lack of this would be for you, then consider all the opportunities you've been given because of them, before you say no. Your kid probably isn't going to get steady work without a car. Your children are not organic Roombas that also know how to do laundry. Your child will enjoy independence if you take the opportunity to give it to them. Your child needs space to grow on their own. They will never let you in unless you give them the choice and the opportunity. The most important form of trust a parent can foster with their child is the trust that you will do more than comment on or judge their mistakes, and that they have the freedom to choose to confide in you. Your character is defined by the parts of you that you keep private, and who you let in. When you violate your child privacy, when you spy on their character, they will never have the chance to let you in. You kid is gonna watch porn in middle school. You also watched porn in middle school. Doesn't mean you have to watch Wolf Of Wall Street with them, doesn't mean sex scenes are going to be comfortable to watch together, but don't pretend they're going to see anything new in an R rated movie. In addition to the last point, your children probably won't enjoy R rated films at first. The sexual content is not always the problem, it's usually the cultural references. In another addition, your kid is not going to get cultural references from when you grew up. Stop mocking them for it. They have their own cultural references. Remember that if you're not actively trying to make the world better your children, you are complicit in making it worse. Don't judge your children for wanting to make the world a better place, you cunt. Give you kid a chance to explore. Take them to concerts, give 'em fake tattoos, ditch boring birthday parties and go swimming in the river. There is nothing you own that your child will not want to play with at some point. It's best to stop buying things you don't want broken around them. Your model trains are always going to be more fun as part of a child's tin-foil castle. The social dynamics of children are just weird. It might be a dumb video game to you, but the alternative for them is being socially isolated.

Things I Learned From The Mistakes Of My Parents

jz9uhv

Good writing is a gemstone. So killing your darlings isn’t sifting through the dirt for the gold, it’s sifting through the gold to find the diamond. ~Anonymous

lpvspl

You’ll need: 2 cups of self-confidence 2 cups of trust 1 cup of braveness 2 teaspoons of vulnerability 1 tablespoon of toughness A pinch of acceptance A pinch of validation A pinch of positive thoughts. &#x200B; Mix the ingredients in your mind: Stay confident. Don’t let others bring you down. Keep your mind open. Stay positive. Validate yourself. Remember that failing doesn’t mean the end. Believe in yourself. Learn to accept yourself. &#x200B; The future awaits you. You’ll do great. **I believe in you.**

To grow mentally stronger

z2pxy2

I have faith in bees, seeds, and dried apricots.  I keep them in a jar so that I can look at them before I fall asleep. It also contains a piece of twine to remind me of some semblance of fate.  Should I add a winter flower for the promise that summer will end?  I’m sitting in a window seat while potatoes boil on the stove.  My grandmother tells me that if I add just salt and pepper, I’ll eat like a king.  In her yard, mint grows from the back door all the way to the garden.  She asks me to pick some for our tea.   The late afternoon storms are almost here.   The neighbor’s cat is posing for me.  Miss Cleo, a clairvoyant of sorts.  She reads my boiled potato and mint tea aura.  “You come to me with many stories,” she tells me.  I can see her, hear her, through the tree next to this window.  “Fear death by *this*,” and she brings to mind the headless bird she left next to my bike. True, we kings often lose our heads.  Tomorrow I will ask my grandmother to boil cabbage—a nice bright green head.    Miss Cleo stretches and is gone, a ghost of a ghost with nine lives more.  She will stalk birds now as time shifts away from light.  My potatoes are another matter.  I can taste the deep earth in their skins. They offer up their own visions and memories, as undeniable and essential as Miss Cleo’s prophecies.    What did yellow mean to you?  I have come to a theory after thinking about your obsession. No matter its variation, yellow is too much light for our souls to bear, and it means you are leaving and never coming back.    What would you think of my jar?  And there is only one instance of yellow in it. I slipped my hands around two bees until my fingers were swollen.  Now they sleep as you do, dreaming of yellow flowers and late evenings through a child’s eyes.  I admire the symmetry, how the blade of grass curls perfectly around the walls of the jar, encircling everything.  Where do I find dandelion seeds, the ones you loved to paint?  Tell me if you felt profound sadness the day you left. Was there just too much light for your soul to bear?   The bees in the jar warn me of a girl who will bring smoke to my world.  Despite their admonitions, I don’t have the resolve to remain here.  I want to run along the river beyond the mountain.  My grandmother tells me the mountain has wound up time and it’s the river that ticks it away.  Where did your final thoughts fly to, and why?  Miss Cleo prescribes potatoes to keep me grounded.  My grandmother tells me to pick mint close to the tree that squats by her shed. The ancient rains of winter are coming down from the mountain, she tells me, but I can’t see anything beyond the river. 

Smoke

fvl6ue

Its not the darkness that scares me Or the uncertainty that hides within it Or the waves of grief that drown me When the weight of guilt becomes too heavy Not the pain that creeps across my body Or the serrated edges of my emotions Or the lack of vision I have for my purpose In the pitch black stillness of my future Its the self inflicted fractures in my character That make me think I'll never see the sun rise

wait for the sun

tn1wkd

Hey, You. Yes, You. You, with the tired eyes and weak smile. You, hiding beneath baggy clothes that cover the poems written on your arms. You, laying in your bed with tears in your eyes, begging somebody, anybody to make it stop. Hey, You. I love You. You, with your heart so full of love, but so hardened by the cruelty of the world. You, pulling people back from the edge, even if it means throwing yourself over it. You, sitting at your desk, writing note after note trying to explain what happened, but never really getting it right. Hey, You. I'm proud of You. You, dragging yourself from that deep, dark pit, teeth gnashing and nails clawing as you fight the things trying to pull you back in. You, finally finding your voice and your strength. You, with the future that's brighter than the sun. Hey, You.

Hey, You.

m8wsnc

in the dark and silence of my apartment, i chose to call my father. i thought he may have been awake, but his groggy tone spoke otherwise. “are you okay”, i asked. my candles lit - on that somber afternoon, as the wind outside continued to send me reminders of all the shit i’ve been going through. “yeah. just stuff. “ “you don’t sound okay. i can recognize the various distinctions in your voice.” “i’ll talk to you soon.“ “okay. but you don’t sound okay.” “i love you, sweetheart. get some rest.” there was more to the conversation, but it pains me to reflect on something so sacred and real that involves my own kin. i sat quietly at my counter after i ended the call, looked out my window, took a sip of my wine, and proceeded to break the fuck down. it was then that i realized - that even the strongest people you’ll ever know.. can be just as fragile as [yourself.](https://open.spotify.com/track/3wNi79QD5Jkz9yWFSGEeBl?si=ZUThuoHHTu2W5VdLkGZlBg)

connected fragility

101apmm

Hello all, and happy new year. One of my goals this year is to have a short story published somewhere. It doesn’t have to be anywhere swanky but just somewhere online to start. Does anyone know of any good places to start? Having done some research I’ve seen a few horror stories regarding ownership rights etc. I’m very new to this, so why not ask the experts? Thank you all in advance.

How to start publishing short stories?

i6ppwg

Fear is missing the best conversation I’ve ever had. Fear is getting her name wrong on a first date. Fear is telling myself I’m not good enough in the bathroom mirror. Fear is I’m not good enough, reflecting the truth of my youth. Fear is the thought of the walls closing in around me. Fear is the look in her eyes when I ask her father for her hand in marriage. Fear is that she’ll say I don’t know. Fear is her saying yes. Fear is either answer would tear me apart.

Fear Is

ecdjif

To the girl two seats over. Hello. Sorry. I know we don’t know each other, but I saw you looking in my direction and I wanted to say something. You look conflicted. Your eyes are fighting to stay open and your lashes are waves standing confidently before they crash into the unforgiving ocean. Are you lost? Because for the split second we glanced into each others lives I saw someone who was fighting an unforgiving battle. Someone who wanted more than seat 31 C on a flight to Houston. But you know... Maybe you saw a guy who was confused why he was even going back home. Maybe you saw a guy who was stuck in a maze searching for the entrance. Maybe you heard every question he asked. The whys and when’s. The Who’s and where’s. Maybe just maybe you heard his may-bes. So we sit starring at home screens checking notifications that never come. Looking for people who left long ago, seeking approval of those who don’t exist. Crying for ourselves. Forgetting the people next to us

To the Girl Two Seats Over

gczsew

I used to believe that love meant you want to “be better” for someone. But that’s not right and it’s the way he looks at me that made me understand: I am human and I am art. There is no such thing as being better or being worse because you cannot change art you didn’t create. You can only look at it from another perspective. I do not want someone to complete me. I want the person who already knows I am whole. And if there ever was to be a museum of every soul that’s ever been, I hope mine would be displayed next to his.

He already knows I am whole.

k1ayuz

I’m writing a book I’m 15 and I’m currently on chapter 21 of my book, it’s a fictional story set in a world full of mystery and adventure with two main protagonists that have no memory of themselves at all except one has a sword that can do extraordinary things and the other a book that can literally alter reality. I would love to get it out there and published but I actually want it to be known! My Twitter is @OliverPurnell05

I’m writing a book

dpdtvo

Losing touch with reality Losing touch with- Losing touch, Losing.

Losing touch with reality

kfto2t

# The Shower The shower was hot, almost to the point of being unbearable. Thick plumes of steam filled the chilled wintery air of the bathroom. I just stood there, looking down at the black mould in the corner, the burning water running over me. I was still trying to process it all, the conversations, the arguments, and what she had done in the end. I continued staring at the mould, but with a click of the door handle, I was dragged back to reality. It was her, I *knew* it was her. She would often intrude when I was having a shower, it was even playful at times, but that was a long time ago. I heard the toothbrush clank as it was lifted out of its cup-- I felt sick. I wanted to say something, but was afraid of her reply. ‘How the hell could she do this’ I thought to myself, still standing there, the freezing air from outside rushing over me, like an icy embrace. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out, afterall-- what *do* you say to someone who's been dead for three weeks, not least your wife.

My first attempt.

ihex71

“I am lonely,” The mirror whispered to me I smiled, beaming pearly whites caged by red lip stick. It didn’t reach my eyes, so I tried again. “Be happy,” I reminded the pesky sad girl looking at me. My hands fell to the sink, and I gripped it until my knuckles were white. The static of the TV filled the lonely white noise of my apartment. I stared at my phone, waiting, praying for a message. It buzzed, and I jumped in excitement. “Your friend ######### just posted, be the first to like.” I darkened the screen, shrouding myself in darkness. And waited The girl in front of me started to break. The creases around her eyes softened. The sharp turns of her lips dulled. And for a second, I allowed the loneliness that plagued my eyes to see through “I am lonely.”

I am lonely

gm4356

2:49 am — everyone around her is fast asleep but there she is, pathetically watching rom coms only to get a glimpse of what love is like, even just for an hour or two. she’s always craving for something she’s never even had before, in this case: felt before. she’s always finding ways to keep herself busy enough to forget the feeling of loneliness, to forget the fact that she never really knew what it’s like to be loved and to love. she finds solace in two-hour romantic films because it’s the only way she can see how love works. to her, it’s the closest thing she can get to feeling loved. it’s ironic how she distracts herself from loneliness by seeing other people fall in love.

a lonely hopeless romantic

gflmvq

Two hours of emails, research, realizing a magazine didn’t take simultaneous submissions or would take copyright from me, and I submitted two of my short stories to about 6-7 literary magazines total. That was yesterday. Today, I got my first response back (The Threepenny Review is excellent for quick responses).... and it was declined. I expected this, of course, but it still hit me, considering it’s my first rejection. I’m sure I’ll get used to it by the next few. Here’s hoping that one accepts.... Edit: Another rejection. This one didn’t hurt as much. It’s kind of strange the feeling you get in your chest when you see Inbox(1) for your work gmail.

Submitted my work to various literary magazines for the first time

li4lnl

I open my eyes every morning Still can't believe it Emptiness in me The day starts hard Can't stand up, today Emptiness in me Try to make it all okay But nervous all the same Emptiness in me Joy might come once more But then it's back, knocking at the door Emptiness in me What do you want, I call to her But an answer, She never gives Emptiness in me.

A poem written by my best friend, who recently wanted to kill himself, he is getting better and writing has helped him.

11ocx12

I am sick There’s no cure, though, for what I’ve got They’re just waiting for me to die I hear them whisper to themselves, in the other room “It’s taking too long” I whisper back, from my bed “I’m sorry”.

no one reads poetry at 2 am

11h2jls

I've been writing for over ten years and finally felt brave enough to submit a short story to a magazine and IT WAS ACCEPTED! I'm in a dancing mood!

Got started!

r2dfug

“I don’t need saving!” “Peter. Please.” She whimpered. He shook his head rapidly and she shook hers. “Pet-.” “Shut up!” She stepped forward again. “I’m not here to save you.” She says. “Then what ren! What are you here for! Everyone’s here to save me. Everyone gives me pity, looks down on me… I see it now. In your eyes. You pity me.” “I am not here to save you.” She stops for a second and looks up at him. “I am here for you… I am the unwanted fly around you. I am the annoying bee buzzing in your ear. I am the annoying mothering nag. I am the fucking alarm clock, the overbearing brother and sister, the annoying lover, loud dog, car horn.” She stopped to breathe and began walking towards him. “I am here just because.” She stood in front of him. His teary eyes staring down at her, his hands shaking, moving at his sides as if he wanted to hug her but she moved first. Reaching up and pulling him down into her shoulder. “Because of what.” He whispers. “Just because.” She says.

“Just Because.”

hxec93

It almost seems like this is more of a poetry sub, but without any of the poetry principles. Almost every piece is just a handful of lines with no context or discussion. None of the rules in the sidebar seem to differ that much from r/writing, but the there's clearly something fundamentally different, and I'm just out of the loop. I don't want to be disparaging or derogatory, but I have no idea what the hell I'm missing about this sub. What's the deal?

[Question] What is this sub supposed to be?

10f63pu

Hi all, just looking for recommendations of online coursers for somebody like me, that is passionate about plots and the creative process, but do not want necessarily to write a book. Thanks in advance.

Good creative writing or plot basics for beginners?

zs9vl2

Kissing is beautiful. For a few moments, all that person wants is you. They fix their gaze on your face like it's the only thing they’ve ever wanted. And they’ve finally gotten the chance to grasp it . They let their fingers linger on your face to memorize every inch of your jawline. Their eyes are closed, relying solely on the other 5 senses to take you in as if the mere sight of you is too overwhelming. Letting your lips connect like puzzle pieces. And for that moment, you found your missing piece.

Kissing is beautiful

ohvvo1

I will no longer be replying to comments here, I have embarrassed myself long enough. Stop arguing with me. &#x200B; Also Just realized I'm the most upvoted comment in r/creativewriting so thank u

Someone argue with me please, about anything. My bad if I agree.

sdz1c3

I want to learn creative writing mainly so I can make compelling dungeons and dragons campaigns, so I don’t want to spend thousands on college since I likely won’t use it professionally. Are there any online resources you can recommend or would a paid class be the only real option?

Where can I learn about creative writing?

gyt659

In Hell is where we met We danced along the fire And just like that, you sent me back Now dying’s my desire

In Hell