#poem story

[kissedbyghosts]

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙀𝙣𝙚𝙢𝙮 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣

Sleep drops away quickly as I wake to a strange pain. Something is... Wrong... What is this? There is a lump in my side. I slide my shirt up over the tender bulge. It itches. A sparking, insistent discomfort. There is a deep knot of burning pressure welling beneath a taught dome of skin. A nascent infection? No. Something more malignant and protuberant. I pick the sore. It breaks open. Teeth clenched, I tenderly spread the wound. It weeps a turbid fluid. Beneath, a spider-shaped mass of dark matter, metallic and appalling, is embedded and spreading. Wincing, I prod it, and feel it spasm. Black brachiating filaments spread menacingly, a thousand stygian serpents tracing nerves and veins with fabulous velocity. Screaming, I thrash, until overtaken and writhing in terror. Its sardonic pulse syncs with mine until an odd numbness replaces concern. I feel it absorbing me. Is this how the gazelle feels in the lion's jaws? I should be… afraid. I should be… But I am consumed by the amorphous narcosis of conjunction until, pale and drooling, my simian brain is joined in black noesis to tens of thousands more. We have become nodes, synapses assembled into the new organs of an emerging god. As an alien mind awakens the senescent world is absorbed and… I… am… © JM Tiffany

[sapphire-sans]

You're in my Headspace!!

Hello! I'm starting to get back into writing because I started to play Omori. I also remembered a few poems I created a while back and I decided to create Omori poems! Omori does not belong to me.

Anyways, I was making a Sunny x reader but Sunny seemed like a Yandere, so now it's a Yandere Sunny x reader haha.

Enjoy!!

ONE

Y/N:

Hello,

It’s nice to meet you

I feel like I know you

If you’re reading this,

Thank God

That there are others like me.

Lost, in their own,

Dark world.

One that we like to call

“Blackspace.”

Mari:

I’m not so sure

My brother’s alright

He’s been acting strange

Ever since

Our new neighbor showed up

He’s been locking himself

Up in his room

He won’t come out

Unless I tell him to

Every time I open his door,

I see him staring out his window,

As if he were watching something

Or someone…

Sunny:

Life is different

With her around

I find myself

Watching her

More than I would like

Or admit.

Hero:

I was over at Sunny and Mari’s house earlier.

They told me that there was a new kid in town.

I cannot wait to meet them!

I hope they’re nice

Mari told me

She thought the neighbor

Was kind of cute.

Not like it can change

My perspective

On Mari ;3

Kel:

There’s a new kid in town!

There’s a new kid in town!

I heard it’s a girl!

I hope she likes me,

And maybe more ways than one,

Hehe~

Aubrey:

I’m so excited

To meet this new kid!

I hope it’s a girl

And I hope she’s nice

Like Mari.

I hope she likes to dance

Or at least likes music

Maybe she plays an instrument,

A piano, like Mari

Or a violin

Like Sunny.

Basil:

The other day,

When I was visiting Mari and Sunny

They told me that there’s a new neighbor.

I looked out the window

To find a moving truck

Parked outside

The house next to them.

I’m very excited to meet them

I hope they like photography

Or even like to draw

Or write.

[XX]

(This story takes place before Mari's death. I'm not sure how many chapters it will have, but I hope to have the entire storyline of Omori in this fanfiction.)

[tatiiss]

Love you

I see everyone judging us

Some others praying for us

Some others wishing us misfortune

With each disguised words turned

Still, the only thing i care the most

Is that you find wellness in time

Finding yourself first

So we can find us in the path

Nights with prays to god for your mercy

And days with begs to angels to come for your safety

So i can adore you in the only way i have to do

In the healthiest way possible

with freedom.

- Tatis

[aesethewitch]

When I was a kid, we moved into a house that had a huge lilac tree out front. It was mostly rotten, and it needed to be taken down before it fell. It took a while, but eventually, it was gone.

Mostly. A couple years later, little lilac babies popped out of the ground in its place. My mom was determined to get rid of them, because she'd planted a beautiful flower garden there, and the lilac trees would overshadow and kill the whole garden. I insisted on saving at least a few saplings. She said fine, but I had to dig them out and put them in pots myself.

So, I did. I spent days digging little lilac bushes out of the ground and putting them into pots. Some couldn't be saved, but some could. When all was said and done, I had five brand-new lilac saplings. Seven or eight years old, and it was my absolute pride and joy.

Three died due to sun scorching, severe drought that no amount of watering could save, and perhaps just being moved from their place in the ground. But two survived, and I was awfully proud of them! I'd go out and talk to them every single day. I watered them by hand and made sure they were fertilized properly. I learned all about their favored environments, and I was determined to make sure they lived.

One of my mom's friends saw what I was doing with the lilacs. She asked if she could have one to put in her backyard, and I agreed on the condition that she take very, very good care of it.

It's now fucking enormous. I'm talking ten feet tall and bursting with beautiful purple flowers every spring. My mom still gets updates each year as they start to bloom, which she forwards to me. And all I can think is, "That's my friend! Thriving some twenty years on, there it is."

The other tree nearly died, too. It lived in a pot for far, far too long. I wanted to plant it somewhere in my parents' yard, but my mom was reluctant. Eventually, we agreed to put it in the far back garden. It grew okay for many years, despite the shade, but in all these years, it's never bloomed.

Last year, the massive tree casting massive shadows over the lilac and the garden cracked in half and fell. It tumbled into the garden, crushing part of the nearby shed and destroying a few plants beneath it.

It missed my lilac by inches.

The clean-up is long done. The rest of the tree has been cut down, and my lilac has full sunlight for the first time in fifteen years. It won't bloom this year, I know. But it's got new shoots up. It's taller than ever. I spent half an hour a few weeks ago praising it for surviving all this time, dreaming about its future and telling it how I believe it'll become the tall beauty it's always been meant to be.

I think next year, I'll see flowers.

[jmscornerlibrary]

So I liked @nipuni 's Vincent and Lucille so much that I wrote a little story based on them! (Nipuni if you are reading this I hope you don't mind :)

"A late October wind began to sing, from the north. In duet the sea waves riled up and began to lash out at the cliffs and wail for all they were worth. Lucille put down her book, enthralled in a flash, for her heart was filled with the ocean's soul, but though she heard its calling, Vincent did not. Like she'd told him before, in his chest was a hole, a pit filled with sharp ice, where it should have been hot and aflame, like what the ocean wished to convey through its screaming and singing with the wind as its guide and she knew not, as she watched his face then, with dismay, that his indifference, displeasure, was a guise meant to hide his own book, his own story, deep down in his heart, filled with darkness and loathing of both others and self, which she didn't, could not know; their hearts must be apart and this dark and horrible book firmly shut, on his shelf.

"Mister Vincent," she said, turning to him from the window, at which she watched the waves soar, with unspeakable longing. "Let us go for a walk, let us with the wind mingle, In its passionate song find a sense of belonging."

Mister Vincent looked up, from his practical paper of news and of business and things meant for men of his status. An eyebrow was arched, the mask of reading reserved for a little bit later, dark thoughts and jaw-clenching put on hiatus.

Sharp words were brought to his tongue for this woman so strange, this woman so pitiably fanciful, innocent and romantic, she sent his damned, accursed heart far out of his range to control, sent his heartbeat and movements unpredictable, frantic, and his temper escaping from its papery cage, slipping through his steel fingers, fingers hardened by life, sending his insides twisting and turning with black, suppressed rage at himself and at her and at existence’s prison, casting between them the shadow of strife.

He donned his throwaway words with a chuckle and scoffed, "Go for a walk?" Then he thumbed at the cold, silver head of his cane as he thought. "I don't think so," said he. "Over this vile wind we won't hear ourselves think, save talk." He believed it was triumph with this statement he wrought, so he twitched his practical paper once more, preparing a theatre of silence and an occupation parade, when she moved with a face which deemed him a bore, away from the window, within her own masquerade; she summoned a servant, said, "My coat, if you please," and after donning it, turned, and spoke to him, prim: "What, Mister Vincent? I've a coat, I won't freeze. I know the way to the coast and it isn't too dim. You don't wish to come with me? That's all very well, it will give me something to speak of; a short story to tell."

Vincent felt his veins searing, his muscles go tight, he rose from his armchair; his paper was crushed - he had tightened his fist so he his temper could fight; a fight which he lost. His face became flushed, as he met with her stubbornness, will unmovable, cursed for he loved it and hated it and let his heart burn every time they argued and feuded, and he deemed it the worst, for these matters they fought over were as trivial as rhyme!

"Are you foolish?" he cried, though the answer he knew, "Are you mad, Miss Lucille? Do you wish to be dead? Have you lived so little years, have you lived them too few? Have you really so little gathered here, inside your head? You will go to the coast in this ridiculous storm?! Great heavens! What now!"

He scowled down at her slight, very beautiful form, and found a frown on her face from his part in this row. "And if you found me dead, Mister Vincent, what difference would it make?" His heart stilled at her words, but she wasn't quite done. "By far you've only treasured silence, deemed my presence a mistake with your snide words and cold comments which over warm ones have won. Not everybody's a poet. Not everyone's blessed with a heart. But you're aground, I'm adrift. I can and will move, as you stay still as stone-" Vincent couldn't take it. She was tearing him apart with her words without truth. Heavens! She said she felt alone!

But she didn't know! She knew not that the reason he could breathe when before he was drowning in his own passionate sea and had to bury his heart, let it sleep buried beneath the rocks he built his existence upon to be free, was her! Her alone, with her strange, silly fancies, her words which woke up the parts of him he forgot he possessed, her books which she hid the titles of sheepishly, her romances, she alone put his howling, black demons to rest!

Lucille's eyes widened. She didn't know this sight, when his heart twisted into knots like a rope, when his pain clawed itself out of his chest in a bloodthirsty fight with the rest of his tolerance and remnants of hope.

Vincent leaned on his cane. His breathing was short - his left breast was finally soaked with the red of his veins - No words would help him, it was no use to retort for Lucille was right to think of her own hidden pains, which he knew not how and thus did not reach her to soothe, too used to his stupid, practical papers and silence. The former now lay crumpled and wretched and he could not move, save whimper and clutch at his chest in an attempt at vigilance.

"Mister Vincent," she whispered, as he fell into his chair. "You are bleeding… Your chest!" His cane fell with a clatter as his eyes disobeyed him, shedding a tear. "It's nothing," he managed, voice hoarse. "I just need to rest." He looked at her and whimpered; in her eyes… Was it fear? What was it of? Of his pain, or of him? Could it be that she held him even a little bit dear?

"Vincent," she spoke, her voice quiet and firm, "you're in terrible pain." He didn't speak; he could not. He clutched at his chest, repressing tears and helpless snarls in vain, this damned stoic facade finally put to the test, and failing spectacularly. Lucille moved to his side. She was a step away, so close yet so impossibly far. "I hurt you," she spoke. She didn't seem surprised, nor unwilling to take a leap, far over this bar of propriety and tension still hanging thick in the air, as she abandoned all harnesses and sat in his chair- On his knees. Vincent froze, then relaxed at her touch, into her touch, as she placed a hand to his cheek. It was so gentle, so warm, so perfectly much, so strange, so alive, so needed, unique to this setting of dark and cold that he lived in, with his intestines, organs in shreds, from years of eating ice, from being the grounded cliffs which pierced the sea upon which memories were adrift in. And now he found himself on the doorstep of paradise.

"Lucille…" he breathed, his hands reaching out. Like a reckless child he embraced her, pressed her to his ravaged chest. "Don't go out in this storm…” he managed, “I know I need not shout… But so much bad can happen. You'll catch a chill at best. And what if something worse passes? What if… the sea takes you?" She warmed him with her embrace, so he could breathe again. "I know you hold the sea dear." He tried to smile, but failed. "I used to love it, too." Memories of waves and taken love made him wince in pain. Lucille watched him with her mismatched eyes, his blood soaking her white dress. She took a breath and sighed. "I understand," she said. "It was in the papers years ago, and so I will not press." Vincent finally said it. "It was I, who my brother to the stormy shores had led. It was my fault he went so early.” He hadn't spoken it for years, his brother's untimely death, his last words still ringing in his ears. His voice cracked like splitting rocks, as he remembered him, and pain. "I don't want you gone, Lucille. Please don't think that way." He clutched her tighter, as tight as he dared, and she did not complain. "In fact… The reason I can smile a little is because you stay."

She looked at him with her eyes wide, her lips parted in surprise, but not for long. She looked firm and clutched his hand, her chin tilted towards him. "Say it, then, Sir," she whispered, "don't wait for hearts' demise." Vincent didn't dare believe it, but he took chance upon a whim: He enveloped her face in his hands, and though his heart paused beating, he bent down and said, "I love you", their lips and worn souls meeting."

~ JM Wonsowski

[mournfulroses]

Margaret Atwood, from True Stories: Poems; "Postcard," originally published in 1981

[revivinghope]

Strange Liberty

„There’s a strange libertyIn not giving a fuck“She said, smokeSoftly curlingBetween her lips, continuing To travelThrough the airIn beautiful spirals. „Can you open the window?“ „Oh, yeah, sure“ I didn’t admitThat secretlyI loved seeing people smoke; lovedImaging it was meLoved, even, to crave the smoke, while I sat there, watching. Not that I never tried it. Even just one cigarette every…

[and-corn]

[premierbolar]

Perfecting the Painter's pallette

As a painter would, I meticulously adorned,With hues, my soberness and delight,Love’s transformation to throbbing pain,On my canvas, vivid and intense, they ignite.Like a painter, I thought of it all,Anticipating the end, the fleeting now, and the future,Narratives woven, heartfelt, and unveiled,From cherished memories, this imagery was formed.Like a painter, I sketched these thoughts,In…

[myfakeplasticlove13]

You know I didn’t want to, have to haunt you, but what a ghostly scene

[caostalgia]

Me recordaste por qué había dejado de expresar mis sentimientos.

Y me dolió hasta el alma.

[withthoseangeleyes]

this.

[tatiiss]

I miss when i was the Blair to your Serena

Even though you didn't know we were

Now my curse it's see the pair go downhill

As well as my tearing cracked memories.

Cause in Swift’s terms

I wished that you would be my Dorothea

For long and marvelous years

Till we were old enough

and see our dreams came true

To my worst fear

The belief is in my heart core still

Until it's alive there

My hope will never die

To see you again

For a meeting or at least…

a farewell.

-Tatis

[lucidloving]

Richard Siken, "The Torn-up Road" // Lora Mathis, "If There's A Way Out I'll Take It"

[garden-of-thoughts-fruit-of-lips]

" Out of Line"

It's the person who's "out of line" who is always told to, "Get back in line!"

I'm "out of line," and the students tell me to, "Get back in line!" But I say, "No, " and I saw a smaller line, and they all seemed happy and stood out as different. They were dressed in school uniform. So I started making my way over there. And the teacher of the line I left came and asked me to, "Get back in line" and when I replied, "No", immediately that teacher took it to the principal and now the principal and teachers from my original class started threatening me in front of the students. Who were trying to scare me to get back in place. When I started to break down and cry, my original classmates and other students of that class said, "If you would have stayed in line, this wouldn't have happened to you!" Even with that being done, I kept making my way to the other line. Now, the teachers became furious, and bullies from that school approach me, telling me to turn around. Once again, I refused, so the principal gave a "signal" to the bullies, and they said, "Fine, you could go." As I turned and walked a couple steps further, they added by yelling, "This school dressed you! So we're taking your clothes from off your back!" They started ripping the clothes off of me in front of my classmates and other students. "Hahahaha," they would all laugh as I became naked. Once, I was stripped, and the students of that class noticed the scars and bruises on my naked body. The bullies moved aside so all could see, and I saw pointing, I heard whispering and laughing, and from the laughing crowd, words came out, "How long you had that there!" followed by more laughter. I even heard the ones that had pitty for me say, "If he would have only stayed." At that exact time, I got up from off the ground and turned my back against them

[alay-alexander]

Sané, pero de vez en cuando te echo de menos.