#and I write it in the form of poetry

[celestialbruise]

On today’s episode of I am able to come up with graphic depictions and analyses for Hannibal crime scenes way too easily: would therapy make the problem better or worse? follow up question, should I schedule an appointment with the eccentric Lithuanian guy who’s always hosting dinner parties yes or no

[zuzu-draws]

Just a pair of friendly sorcerers out on a stroll~

[idliketobeatree]

dead boy detectives contrapuntal poems — 2 — (1) (3) (4) (5)

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

aletterinthenameofsanity, every night, a horizon- || Charles Rowland, Dead Boy Detectives (2024)

(The original poem can be found here, but I put every line of it here- no matter how much effort it took!)

[teashirt505]

Driver's Remorse // Part I

(original poem)

[fictionadventurer]

Rain makes an orchestra of everything Dripping glissandos onto trees and houses Scattering arpeggios onto unhearing passersby Hushing all the mayhem of the world to make us hear the symphony beneath

[tang3r1n]

cute idea but hero!chizome grappling with a hopeless crush on all might’s daughter figure (jus a chick he took under his wing izuku style)

like UGH. he’s such an old-school gentleman FUCK. he sends flower bouquets with your favorite flowers and like a 4 page letter with the most beautiful and eloquent language used to talk about how in love he is, and he talks like he’s fucking dying. exhibit a;

“i would lay myself at your alter, goddess, my insides laid out for your tasting, your pleasure— please eat of my flesh, consume me whole and let me feel accomplished as a simple, filling meal for you.

oh i beg of you, let my soul forever intertwine with yours, let me feels the silk of your skin, the heat of your breathe, plunge your hand into my heart and cherish it. sink your teeth into my neck and devour me.

i yearn for you, lovely thing. warmly, obsessively, lovingly, carnally, i can only hope you pity my foolish desires— my insane ramblings of fanatic and desperate attempts to gain your affections. please, please by the grace of all that is just and fair, let me worship you. let me treat you as you want to be.

i pray to no god but that of your body, of your mind, of your soul. there is no religion outside of your teachings, my muse. your word is my law, my written oath, music in the grand hall, the rain, the air, the existence of love. i would sooner accept death and the failure of my life’s work than to even acknowledge the existence of beauty that shines brighter than yours.

i beg of you, let my lowly hands hold you, let my soiled and ugly form touch and feel you, let me court you, my fair woman.

let me love you.”

omfg and he’s so petty. randoms in the street and fellow heroes flirting with you? he’s sighing and scoffing dramatically before completing dissecting their speech patterns, body posture, heroing skills, physical appearance, literally anything he can to make them leave you two alone

i feel like he doesn’t care abt how he looks (i mean duh no nose.) but the second you mention liking muscles he’s suddenly finding excuses to flex and stretch around you non stop, he’s doubling up his workout routine and bulking like a MOTHER FUCKER to see if you’re staring yet.

AAAHHH idk i just love chizome and need him insanely badly.

[sodaguzzler]

Johnny was a kind of quiet fading,

the kind you don’t notice ‘til it’s gone.

Maybe he could’ve exited the world in silence,

shivering and curled up beneath yesterday’s paper,

left to die where no one looked.

Or maybe he could’ve been killed,

by his own hand in release,

or by another’s in anger.

He’d be forgotten in the blur

of back-page ink,

and a eulogy of few words.

But he ran into fire

and gave his existence meaning.

Let his last breath

be something worth remembering.

It is easier, sometimes,

to bury a hero

than to mourn a child

who never stood a chance.

And maybe that’s mercy

in a sick sense of the word—

not the ending he deserved,

but the only one

that could make his living hurt less.

[ inspired by a post by @curtis-brothers-hug — read it here ]

☆彡

[trickstersaint]

the scientist’s question: which acid will burn the rainbow out of the sky without leaving a scar? // july 2023 // on "The Birth-Mark" by Nathaniel Hawthorne

[annispillowfort]

Crushed Like a Bug in the Ground

(Inspired by "Let Down" by Radiohead)

I. Tires and Second Chances

(Transport, motorways and tramlines— Starting and then stopping—)

He started in the gutter, grease on his hands, hunger in his ribs, ripping the hubcaps off fate’s car like it was something he could steal and keep.

Then— a shadow loomed, a gloved hand reached down, and for a moment, Jason thought— maybe I can be more than this.

Maybe the world had room for a stray like him.

Maybe he wouldn’t end up like his father.

Maybe he could be— wanted.

(Picking up bottles, spilling out wishes—)

And God, did he want.

⸻

II. Robin, Not a Replacement

(One day, I am gonna grow wings—)

He flew.

Gold cape catching wind, laughter breaking through radio static, chasing after a name that was never really his.

"You’re not him," the butler said, kind but distant. "You’re not ready," the others warned.

"You’re not good enough," the city sneered, and deep down, Jason knew— Bruce still saw another kid when he looked at him.

But Jason didn't care. He bled for Gotham anyway. He bled for the Bat anyway.

(A chemical reaction—hysterical and useless—)

Until it bled him dry.

⸻

III. Crowbars and Silence

(Let down and hanging around—)

The first hit landed. Then another. And another.

Then— he stopped counting.

Blood in his mouth, lungs flooding with rot, bones splitting open like cracks in a sidewalk.

"Tell the big man I said hi," the clown sneered, smiling like this was a joke, like Jason wasn’t dying on a warehouse floor, waiting, waiting, waiting—

(Crushed like a bug in the ground—)

But the door never opened. The footsteps never came.

And then—

fire.

⸻

IV. Waking Up Wrong

(Don't get sentimental— It always ends up drivel.)

He came back.

And it was wrong.

Something stitched together with Lazarus hands, stitched with anger and hunger, stitched with why didn’t you save me?

Bruce had buried him. Dick had grieved him. The world had moved on without him.

And Jason? Jason was still sixteen, still burning, still breaking, still hearing the crack of a crowbar every time he closed his eyes.

(Let down and hanging around— Crushed like a bug in the ground—)

The grave had spit him out, but it hadn’t let him go.

⸻

V. Red, Not Gold

(You know where you are with— Floor collapsing, floating—)

He put on the mask.

If the Bat wouldn’t kill, then he would. If the world wouldn’t save the broken, then he’d burn it down.

But sometimes, on rooftops, when the night is too quiet, he swears he still hears his own laugh carried in the wind—

"You’re not him."

No, he never was. But God, he wanted to be.

(Let down and hanging around—)

The record keeps skipping. The song never stops. The warehouse never stops burning.

And Jason?

Jason is still waiting for the door to open.

(Crushed like a bug in the ground.)

i don't even have words for this. this is the first time i actually incorporated lyrics like that into my poetry. and i fully blame these godforsaken editors on tiktok that regularly make me fucking bawl my eyes out. this... warcrime i just wrote was inspired by a tiktok edit about jason, so don't blame me!! blame these evil editors that bust out these edits laced with despair and agony!! please don't doxx me, my loves.

[redcheekdays]

♫ someday i'll show you the bullet i had for you a hawkeye/trapper fanmix

i pressed my ear against your back not even a week after we met (spotify / lyrics)

01 daredevil fiona apple; 02 prosthetic love typhoon; 03 stuck on the puzzle alex turner; 04 just a habit low roar; 05 every night my teeth are falling out the antlers; 06 fix it grizzly bear; 07 it never happened the national; 08 rolled together the antlers; 09 little blue mailbox fink; 10 you were a kindness the national; 11 drifting on an on; 12 waiting (10 years) low roar; 13 should have known better sufjan stevens; 14 learn to run david vertesi; 15 a short reprise for mary todd, who went insane, but for very good reasons sufjan stevens; 16 promise ben howard; 17 unfinished business white lies; 18 true blue boygenius.

[not-poignant]

Do you have any advice for writers looking to work on their sentence structure? I find myself repeating the same kind of sentence over and over, finding it challenging to diversify and keep flow. No worries if you don't feel like answering.

Hi anon!

So I would say the main thing is to find examples of how you want to be doing your sentences. Like, writers who use varying sentence lengths in their writing.

Then, look at one of your own paragraphs where everything is the same length, and practice shortening or lengthening some of those sentences. If you're already writing, you have examples of your own you can practice rewriting.

You can start experiencing firsthand that longer sentences can feel like a run-on thought, or someone spiralling out of control, or feel like infodumping etc. Short sentences can feel like a hard stop, making a point, increasing pacing.

Not all paragraphs call for highly variable sentences. But it does help to have variety!

Recognising that you are writing the same kind of sentence is honestly a huge part of the battle, and the fact that you're noticing means you're already probably trying to think of ways to solve it. From there, it's finding the examples that you most want to emulate.

Practice reading those sentences aloud. How does it feel to read different sentence structures / lengths? And don't forget to look at music, which is a good example of changing things up.

The thing to keep in mind as well is that if your writing disrupts flow, sometimes that's deliberate! A one word sentence to make a reader pay attention at that sudden 'O.O' moment, or a really long sentence to make a reader feel overwhelmed and like they're spiralling down with a character, etc. means you can vary your flow. Things shouldn't feel 'constant and the same.'

Sometimes it can help to think about what you're wanting your readers to be feeling in the moment. If it's intense and choppy, you probably want faster sentences and less attention to specific detail, like a character who can't take everything in, you might focus more on physical sensations, like a heart thundering, etc. If it's languid and relaxed, you might have longer sentences, and more descriptive prose.

A lot of the time the sentences and structures we use play into how we want a reader to feel, and how the experience of reading achieves that.

You can get on the ground experience with that by going back over your favourite things that you've read by other authors - whether that's fanfiction, or webtoons, or novels etc. Think about how the scene is being delivered to you. Sit down with the source text and think 'well this made me feel really excited, what sentences / what was happening here to cause that?' or 'this section felt really slow, why did this feel really slow?' Sometimes you might not know at first, other times you'll know straight away!

Sometimes you'll also see places like 'I'm pretty sure the author wanted me to feel this way during this scene, but instead I felt like *this* - I wonder why it was different and what created that in the writing.'

Also, consider exploring the wonderful world of good poetry. Poets are the masters of sentence structures and fragments, and using very few to create very big feelings and images. It doesn't hurt to start exploring some poetry basics to see the masters at work, and I really do feel like studying and writing poetry myself really helped my prose a ton.

[waywardwritesstuff]

A man who longs for a woman who knows will never be his.

Her heart belongs happily to another and his heart belongs to her.

He wants her and he can never have her.

And he wants him. He sees the longing he had for her and wants that longing to be his.

He wants to be wanted the way he wants for her.

But the unrequited love he fills will never be met.

Not if he keeps it hidden behind a different face that he never shows.

He wants her and he can't have her.

He wants him and doesn't think he deserves him.

[fictionadventurer]

starfall

snow like starlight soft swirling flakes sparkle in space

stars like snowflakes sweet shining lights shimmer in sight

[creatediana]

Don't hide it from me, Man— I know that you've got horns like Pan; I know that you've got cloven feet; I hear you blow your pipes and pluck your lyre— I'm not the little maid who heard that foolish music played and fell for something mortal-sweet, began to learn the stripes of fond desire. I know this: Swampscott borders Lynn; Lynn lies from Boston by a ride a horse could take without chagrin, four miles up North. Did you know, on my father's side, my ancestor from Cork was exiled forth to Massachusetts, spared from being hide? He stole a horse. It's true as rhyme— God save us crime, God save us sin, God save us Massachusetts—even Lynn. I have this fear, sometimes, that you're in Hell— though I know well the Christian devil has no hold on you. You're not in Hell; it's only Lynn (that's different by an inch or two)— enacting Dionysian performances—I know it, you. The women gather in your room, and you eviscerate each womb— I know it, you. Don't lie to me. You always smell too much of wine and ecstasy that follows you through eglantine. Apollo's poetry, appalling though it be, you seek it, or it seeks you, or I've merely worn myself out sore in searching for the symmetry. My Man— take off the mortal guise and show me your enchanted form. I saw the charm glow in your eyes— those flames you fan have kept me warm too many winters now. It's time to learn the god, the spirit and the rod who would have all New England burn. Don't leave me to insist— I'll twist your tail. I'm fine should my good soul derail... It was a shoddy one to start; my body and my heart don't have the shine of that your gold and that your wine. Your silver blood is going cold. Take me, or else the Devil will— he's followed me to Rockingham, he's stranded me on Hampton Beach. It is not Fate I damn, but still, if I should fall from Jesus' reach, I think I'm owed the thrill to pick my breach. I think my great-grandmothers did this, too, and chose witchcraft, instead, for health— but fuck that. Wealth of supernatural power swarms in you: I'll take my chance at stingeing my grave's due.

"Spell on the North Shore" - a poem written 3/07/2025