Right, well, I used to keep all my old poetry on Google Keep, but Google can suck my dick and balls!!!! So you guys are getting them. No specific timeframe, ranging probably from like. mid-2020 to early 2023, newest shit first. The stuff I still like has a little star next to it ★ so maybe just ctrl+f for those ones
There's a girl here who's been doing things longer than you have.
She's boxed and boxed and boxed for decades.
Wheh, starting with a dud! Poem I never wrote about being in a time loop with someone who loves the loop actually and you're fucking shit up by making changes so she's your homoerotic nemesis now and both of you are autistic.
Black-haired kind-hearted Claudia
Clung to her like a puppy on the ferry
Clung to her and her soon-to-be-ex but I didn't know they were dating until they broke up
She clung to me when they broke up
Sat her desk next to mine and talked to me and we were best friends
She got over it
Never Have I Ever at Sarah's 18th
My first night out, already an adult
Never have I ever had sex, given a blowjob, done anal
Rowan drank.
I was the only one who saw it
Most likely not a crush
A fixation
A possession
Pitied her as someone alone
Tied myself with her so we could be alone together
She got over it
Couldn't stop thinking about her
Her and her ex and the boy she clung to today
Is he her boyfriend?
Will I ever know?
Thought about her having sex and giving blowjobs
Only her
Fucked myself to the thought of her pleasuring her boyfriend
Gave me a kind smile when she finished
Left me to finish on my own with my guilt
Will face her tomorrow and act like I didn't even think about it
This sexuality I've never known from a friend I've owned so often
We're drifting apart anyway
I should text her
It's night
I won't text her
I'll think of her
It's my inaugural lesbian poem I never edited, it's allowed to be shit.
★
You know, I'm so happy to be up here. I never thought I'd make it to the stage, looking out on all of you like laughing mannequins.
Thank God I practised!
I practised.
It's not that hard when you get the hang of it! It's like my mother tongue, the stage, I think in it.
You see, I didn't have friends as a kid, or those what I did have abandoned me, and I spent my time alone.
We're at that part of the show, right?
Where I make a Point, where I make a meta-joke about making the point so that you'll laugh?
I should write in stage directions for your laughing.
Anyway, I think that's where my desperation from the starlight comes from. Couldn't get enough of it! I've never been able to keep to myself when I get new hobbies.
Watching a comedic special leaves me aftershocks, leaves me thinking in terms of 'how could I joke about this, how would they laugh?' I hear you laughing.
I'm a regular Roxie Hart here! Big fan, sing her songs in the shower, she's a role model to me, honestly.
She gets it!
The showy musical numbers that nobody will ever see just in case anybody sees.
When you make one person laugh and it echoes into hundreds and thousand laughing uproariously.
Good for me that I don't have a lover - rather, good for them!
That's where you laugh.
Laugh up at me in my red suit, my coiffed hair, my volleying with the microphone.
Honestly, though, I'm glad that it's so hard to break into showbiz. Means I'll never try at it because I know I'd die trying!
Had a phase where I watched streamers, you know, and I had to stop. They set a kind of seething weight in my chest whenever I saw their chat, so many people typing, even more watching.
What's so special about that guy?
I could do that!
Here's my persona and here's what games I'd play and here's how my fans would adore me.
Planned it all out!
Never planned to put it into action.
Might have planned to put it into action.
That died quick enough and I'm glad.
Bet you're glad, too, that you don't have to deal with me reading SuperChats!
This set's not going to end, by the way.
It never ends.
If I'm not writing it, I'm thinking it.
I've run out of segues.
ever since i was very very young i have taken communion with my left hand instead of my right to try and trick god.
i make sure to chew it noticeably so those around me know i am trying to commit heresy.
i sing in the choir because i am vain. because i want people to listen and think of me angel-like.
i used to read novels in the pews and i wish i still could.
i don't go enough for it to matter.
i've only recently realized that the things people write about in books are real. that experiences are lived and words are too small for them. collections of words feel too trite to be genuine and so does this.
★
The gift plays
Sings dances hums
Greatest in the world the best that was found
Only one there used to be more there used to be none there used to be one
Lights shine bright warm inside of me the notes are loud
Sits at desk writes his words looks so sad
Feeds me his life feeds me his soul doesnt feed me his anger
Needs to feed me can't feed me feeds me what he doesn't have what nobody has I have to live
Too great to be forgotten should be shown to the world the world won't hear me calling him
Inaudible jester invisible king
I'll swallow him whole he will rot in me we know this he knows this
Harp on the ground his body on the ground he is bloody mangled gone his harp is not
Knows this knows this plays because he has to hopes he won't die he will die he will die
They'll hear me they'll hear him we'll be gone we won't eat notes
Will will will will but now he echoes I answer the echo is suffocated in thick black ichor
The gift plays
Sings dances hums
This one is a The Adventure Zone: Balance fanpoem, because whenever I think about Johann for more than three seconds consecutively, I cry.
i meet it often.
yellow-toothed, black-eyed, vicious jealousy.
it visits when i read, write, think.
bitching about how i'm not famous yet.
-
not allowed nijisanji because it set seething in my gut
vision too perfect the idea too accessible
it needs to be utterly unattainable to me or i will be struck with the urge for creation
and a creation needs an audience without yellow teeth.
★
only barely metaphor
stretched and straining thin
opaque to iridescent as it pulls over the skin
bold-faced shell-shaped mirror smudged
bare pieceless disguise
only barely metaphor
wool under the eyes
got bored of pasting them all lol. from here on they're curated to at least being finished
★
Fado fado, faoí na talamh, bíonn an paístí.
(Ago, ago, under the ground, there was a child.)
Bíonn paístí arracht, bíonn paístí prionsa.
(The child was a monster, the child was a prince.)
Bíonn paístí uaigneach.
(The child was lonely.)
-
Fado fado, faoí na talamh, thiteann paístí dhaonna.
(Ago, ago, under the ground, a human child fell.)
Tá Chara is ainm siad.
(Chara (Friend) is their name.)
Bíonn na páistíní gcairde.
(The children were friends and siblings and family and happy.)
-
Fado fado, os cionn na talamh, shoilsigh bláthanna ar dhaith an óir.
(Ago, ago, above the ground, flowers shined in the colour gold.)
Bhraith siad meáchan, trom agus marbh, stróicheadh na peitíl.
(They felt a weight, heavy and lifeless, tearing their petals.)
Fuair na paístíni bás, lámh i lámh, agus scaipidh an deannaigh os bláth.
(The children found death, hand in hand, and dust scattered over the flowers.)
-
Fado fado, faoí na talamh, bíonn an bláth.
(Ago, ago, under the ground, there was a flower.)
Ní bhíonn sé cairdiúil. Ní bhíonn sé Chara.
(He wasn't friendly. He wasn't Chara.)
Bhíonn sé an arracht, saorga agus méaithe.
(He was a monster, artificial and determined.)
-
Dia dhuit!
(Hello!)
Táim Bláthín, Bláthín na bláth!
(I'm Flowey, Flowey the flower!)
do chára is fearr!
(I'm your best friend!)
-
Tá bláth ag faoí na talamh, cairdiúil agus uafásach.
(There's a flower under the ground, friendly and monstrous.)
Níl tú a Chara. Níl sé do chara.
(You are not Chara. He is not your friend.)
Líonann tú na croí díogras agus bhuail tú le do cinniúint.
(You fill your soul with determination and (meet with/fight against) your fate.)
'Chara' in Irish means 'friend'. Thus, Undertale poetry as gaeilge. I'm in the process of rewriting it, but here's the original version for posterity.
someone dies at 21. 'their life was so short', they bemoan. i am 17. life has been so very long. i can't imagine anything else. death will end me and my brain will stop and it will be over in a way that i have no idea how to cope with. more than anything, i need to live,
★
The hero dies.
-
Safe in the knowledge of his legacy,
he breathes his finality.
He knows he will be remembered.
-
I, feverish with self-importance, hold no such reassurance.
-
I learn his legacy.
Born in 1864, fought in 1892, died in 1957.
The years feel arbitrary and too close to have meaning.
Someone has written his bibliographied biography.
I believe them as I believe Dumas and Dickinson.
I throw my mind into ink-stained hands,
Letting pennyworth words rush down my spine.
A life-long book by a book-long author,
Their book-jacket bio as unreal as the hero’s wondrous myth.
Two lives, held in this book with a gentle leather grasp, nestled in my study for me alone to read.
It lies neglected on my dusted desk, eyes glazing over every dutifully dotted ‘i’.
When I reach the end of this book, I will be told that the hero died. I will put it down and find another. It will tell me the same.
I sit in my library, learning and living, and under no illusions about legacy.
-
When I die, this library will burn.
After it burns me to ashes, there will be nothing left.
No minds to remember and no hands to write.
I am the sole keeper of this place, a holy position of unparalleled secrecy.
It doesn't feel noble and it doesn't feel vital.
I barely remember until oh I remember.
Heavy tomes rest on my throat and fill my head until it aches at the seams.
I alone shoulder this placebic weight.
I know that when I burn, someone will see my story and live after.
That after I end, people will know me in the past tense.
But I am too pivotal to be a hero,
and everything is tied to me too tightly to continue after I am gone.
-
This shouldn't end.
When it ends, I will have to continue with my life as unimportant and central.
I feel things should continue for me, my own private stockpile of infinity.
No deafeningly finite page left blank.
-
I close the book before the hero dies because there will be no witness.
Words operate under a shared understanding.
A word like Love is toiled over and cract
It is human nature to attempt to codify and understand and simplify,
And I am so terribly inhuman.
-
I'm starting to think there is no such thing as a universal good.
And that there is no such thing as a universal anything.
And that there is no such thing as a universe.
But such thoughts are far too grand and reaching for someone like me,
And it's a wonder that these philosophers and poets can revel in attempting to grasp it without it unspooling their brain in slow blue thread,
And it's a wonder that these poets can content themselves with simplifying such a vast world down to a few concepts without feeling the guilt that a gutting should give you,
And it is a wonder that I can not.
-
Your hand places an orange in mine ever so tenderly;
A symbol of love.
My skin burns so sweetly.
Waow, that was poems. Thx for reading xoxo