the stars will remind me
i hope i don't forget my youth.
i am by no means old now, but i feel time catching up with me,
and i don't know whether this is a race that can be won.
i would very much like nostalgia to wrap itself around me,
seep into by bones and infuse my soul with the memory of what it was like
to exist. as a child full of joy and hope and love. full of
dreams, wishes, delight, impulses.
i would very much like love to be personified as my imaginary friend,
someone who will inspire me
i will look up at the stars at night and know that they are the same stars
that i gazed upon as a child. they will tell me stories of how i used to talk to them about my day. they can time travel, you know. and they will tell me about how they waded through the thick, gelatinous substance of time to tell the child struck by magic, stuck within a fantasy, that it will all be okay.
i may grow old, but i will never grow up.
1: i knew the stars, once.
before city lights swallowed the last of the starlight and spit out a black, black sky
a sky that beckoned and beguiled until I became one with its shadow
i can hardly recall the stars, anymore; hardly recall anything but the darkness that swallowed me whole
5: i see the constellations in dreams, withered and weaving their way into my consciousness
I wonder how a memory of beauty can exist among the ruins of destruction.
and so Memory Lane has become a wasteland of dying stars and long-forgotten dreams
how i wish time could be turned back to those shooting stars once more
the visions of stars, though bright, are faded and blurry inside my head, and i know they would not accept me anymore
10: and yet, and yet. here i stand, arms open and eyes unraveled.
welcome to another poem written by us! i cannot believe how long it took me to get around to posting this but thank you so much to everyone who participated!! much love to you all, tagged in the comments < 3
hi! if you know me you might remember almost a year ago i asked everyone to write a poem together by adding a line in the comments! i loved it so much, and the end result was so beautiful (see: astronomical on my profile) that i wanted to do it again!
so please, anyone is encouraged to contribute a line or several! the only rule is that the comment above yours must not be your own :)
line 1: i knew the stars, once.
my eyes burn in the pitch black of my room, only illuminated by a 13" screen that screams in the darkness. it attacks my eyes with the talons of some ancient beast, but my head is too full. it's spinning and whirling and overflowing and desperate. hilariously underworked and heartbreakingly neglected. it's 3 a.m and a firefly lands on my arm. it tickles, advancing slowly to my hand, then to my desk. it illuminates the path it takes as it goes, the memory of its journey imprinted into my nerves. it settles onto my desk and, like a puppy, lies down and is still. i hope it's sleeping. i feel an unceasing tug to my laptop, to my dreams, the bubblegum streetlights streaming through the hastily dropped blinds.
i click the big teal button that says "write". i return to my dreams, my hope, my home.
i click "publish."
the loveliest lies of all
you trip and
you almost let something unsavory
come out of your mouth, but close it instead.
you steady your pace, and your partner laughs,
and readjusts the grasp on your waist; after a few
beats, you find the rhythm of the waltz again.
the pianist accents the note with a flourish, with the
violinist stretching out the melody. you turn
to glance at their faces but the dance continues
and you catch only a blur. the small cabin is cozily
warm but filled with partners. the tap of shoes against
the wooden floorboards is hypnotizing, but your partner
taps you gently on the shoulder, and you look
you tilt your head in question. your partner
laughs. don't tilt your head at me, he winks.
something about that makes the back of your neck
shudder, but you ignore it. whats wrong? you wanna
that's the wrong question, isn't it? that thought
disappears as quickly as it came, so you
instead say, what do you need?
your partner blinks,
and something flashes behind his eyes.
you aren't sure when you stopped moving, or when
the music stopped, but the massive ballroom is
empty and cold, and you can see your reflection
in the marble flooring.
you stop. you glance up at your partner,
then look down at the ground again.
there is only one figure in the reflection.
automatically you flinch out of your
partner's fingers, but his face remains
blank, mouth neutral. where is your reflection,
you say, not quite a question. and then:
we weren't here before- where did the
a beat passes, and he steps back, drops
his eyes. you track his movements,
and watch him walk away, walk to gaze out
the arched ceiling reaching up to the ceiling.
you wait for a moment, then join him.
the sky is too gorgeous, an unnatural shade
of lovely black ice blue. you look away
after a second- you have to. at long last,
your partner(?) looks down from the window,
though the light still illuminates his figure.
so. he smiles finally. you figured it out, right?
you think for a moment.
the cabin. the ballroom.
the violinist. the lone reflection.
something is wrong. you manage.
that's not incorrect. he jerks his head. and then:
well. you think you'd have noticed that sort of
thing. still, you suppose it makes sense.
okay. you decide. okay, then. you're a figure
of my imagination?
oh, you wound me, he smirks. little sister.
a broken noise comes out of your throat before
you think, and you do not know why.
'i'd remember my older brother,' you want to say,
but instead you swallow, and try to think.
you realize, watching him, he looks at you
with a sort of fondness,
the sort of fondness that comes from
someone who hasn't
seen you in a while.
you don't realize you're hyperventilating until
your brother grabs your fingers in his, going over the
breathing exercises he taught you until your heart
stops feeling like it will collapse into itself.
the ballroom has gotten so cold you can see your
breath dispersing into small clouds. but,
you're dead. you whisper.
always the smarter of us two, he agrees.
you sit there for awhile, focusing on
steadying your heartbeat. its so obvious
once it is said in words. finally, you look up.
well, why am i dreaming of my dead brother, then?
he looks mildly amused at that. i dunno. do you miss me?
'all the time', you want to answer. but you look around instead,
expecting the ballroom to change. why now? i've never
dreamt about you before. at least, not in years.
he bows his head. you know the answer to that one.
you don't reply, choosing instead to turn and watch
shooting stars flicker across the window.
you watch the stars with him for what feels like
eternity. it's not, but it's long enough to make up
for long lost time. you don't say anything at first, he doesn't
either- you're dreaming, what's the point? but at
some point, he turns to you, with an unreadable expression
on his face. he speaks: so, little sister?
you swallow, and lick dry lips. this isn't real.
a nod. and?
your eyes are unfocused when you turn to him.
i wish it were. and: i want to stay.
but you can't. he says. he waits for an echo.
when you don't reply, he frowns.
but you can't, he says more forcefully. you can't, right?
you shake your head, but he goes on: we're beautiful
little things built to live in the fabrics of reality, not the
deceitful satins of dreams.
always a poet, you think. you were never so good
with words and you end up muttering something
stupid like: it's just hard.
but he just smiles and shrugs: well, that's the
glory of it, is it not?
sometimes it's not glorious. you exhale.
usually it's not, actually. he corrects. i'm dead,
yeah, i do. you snort. not very glorious of you, actually.
maybe glory isn't the best word for it, then. he taps
his chin absently. have you got a better idea?
i guess not. you say. i'll think on it though.
when you get back? he asks and
a beat. when i get back.
he bows his head. thank you.
you stand there for a second longer, and he
takes that as a signal to leave. but as he
turns away, you grab his hand. will i see you again?
he raises his eyebrow. i'm literally in your head.
you're not sure if that's a yes. then i can conjure you whenever?
he slowly releases his hand. i'm not real, little sister.
but: why not?
he smiles again. it's a bit sad. it's not healthy to
cling to echoes of dead brothers, don't you think?
you watch your lone reflection in the marble. i don't
care if it's not real. i want you, even if this you
is a lie. it's a beautiful lie.
he considers this. then, this isn't where you find me.
then where? you demand.
he takes his time answering. in sunrises and art
museums. classic poetry and fireworks. the smell
of citrus and the taste of sourdough. in the glory of living.
in things i loved.
your voice is barely above a whisper: but you're
not there to enjoy those things with me.
he shrugs. not in the way you want me to be. and yet
i'm inexplicably there, aren't i?
you inhale. exhale. in the glory of living.
in the glory of living. he agrees.
you watch the stars for a bit more before
you have to leave. the goodbye isn't with
a kiss or a cry but with a
you wake up sometime in
the blissful crevices of the morning,
restless. getting up from your bed, you
walk through the celebratory decor your family
hung about the house. eventually,
you make your way to his room, cracking open his
door and slipping in. his neatly made bed
has a fine layer of dust over it, but you settle in it
you do not feel eighteen and
you do not feel older than him and
older than he will ever be.
the thoughts leave an empty ache
between your shoulders.
you don't feel glorious. and yet,
when you wake up the next day,
you ask for sourdough and fireworks
as a birthday gift.)
wtw 100 qna cause it got taken down over there kekw
i cannot fit the whole thing in my bio + authors notes i tried i really did. i guess i still can answer questions from the prose crowd as well
favorite youtube video: youtube is such a large platform i don't know if i could choose a singular video? i mean i doubt i remember many of the vids from my history (mindless media consumption my beloved) but charlie slimesicle's 'corn' is always a classic. i always watch a ton of fandom related animatic/animation as well so thats a thing
how i found my niche: still finding it. but what has personally helped me is just like,,, reading what i like, writing what i like, and getting feedback on that writing? particularly when people go 'i really like x line' or 'your writing is always so x!' because i cannot critique my own artistic ventures if my life depended on it so i'm always like, 'oh cool that worked then'
process in finding niche: see above haha. still an ongoing process though
what changed the most since the great migration: man that seemed so long ago. idk, wtw just feels a lot less. personal now? still friendly, but (with exceptions ofc) a lot of things seem like the sort of 'we work at the same mcdonalds so we should be courteous of each other' sort of friendly. there is a word for this and i do not remember. also missin' wtw highlights + all the transitioners every day sadge
how i'd describe my writing style: uh idk i cannot look at my own art particularly objectively like i said above. a lot of people tend to use 'raw' to describe it, and i definitetly wouldn't disagree? i have difficulty describing how people (including myself) feel emotions in an eloquent way, so i guess at one point i thought i might as well stop fighting that. im not sure if this counts as style, but i also tend to like (and write well) story-driven poetry? a lot of people write what i would almost be inclined to call one-shots- like snapshots of a little universe, which is more than perfectly fine, but i find myself preferring people doing things or something. maybe cause i come from a background of writing novels, or more precisely, thinking about writing novels.
favorite song: depends on mood. tend to like edm, vgm, jazz, and indie; i'm expanding my taste though! my time by bo en is always a good bet. reminds me a bit of your piece 'decay', maybe if the piece was high and on steroids.
personality type: entp, also known as NeTi. not a lot of thinkers in wtw ('n poetry in general), i will readily admit (yellow sweater had always struck me as one though their work screams some combination of intuition and thinking), likely because it tends to be an emotionally-driven genre. i guess that Fe needs an outlet somewhere?? theres a reason i publish anonymously though heh
fiction character i identify with: used to kin ness from earthbound in 6th grade. its not particularly relevant to the conversation but i thought i'd say it. besides ocs i project emotional trauma onto, i just tend to like a genre of characters? any character that gets a found family i am now you
how i came across wtw: don't remember if im being completely honest. probably just saw an ad for one of their contests or something? its possible i saw something about it on ywp nanowrimo.
finding inspiration during writers block: i actually don't read a lot of poetry during writers block? besides scrolling through wtw and all. mostly just consume other forms of media- video games, animation and tv shows, fanfiction if im in the mood. art inspires art, it'll come back to me eventually. i hope.
first thing i ever wanted to be when i grew up: probably a princess or something lol. i also wanted to be a stage magician too, or an astronomer. don't remember which came first.
how i'm so brilliant: bounce your thoughts around in your brain like a dvd logo, when it hits the corner it will form an Idea™. hope this helps <3
Gnossienne no. 4
Tell me a fun fact!"
"Well, what should I say?"
- I'll admit it right now: I'm not an artist.
- I'll tell you how my hand sculpture broke and since that day my eyes have sat glazed and fixated on the idea of a certain institution that won't accept me without unless I wear a costume made of latex and lies, and
- I'll tell you how I left acting because I realized I couldn't keep up with the character I'd adopted and that I quit music because I realized it's a rich kid's sport I'd never win without real training.
- I'll tell you I'm unintelligent. I'll tell you about the fundamentalism ingrained in me from knowing too many real-life Duggars and Plaths,
- going to church in a place where they told me the world was ending,
- and the folks who just like niceness are directed to burn under the devil's sheets.
Yes, I fight over misogyny that I've been the one to tell myself.
I have to remind her, "be decent!"
Yes, I try so hard to get better but I don't know if I can.
And it all makes her so ashamed, but aware, but if nothing else in about less than a year
it'll be a hell of a college essay.
"A ten paragraph statement."
"About anything I choose?"
I am sick of my world not being comfy with me. I am sick of being the outlier.
The higher education, go on get higher,
go on get higher and I still can't stray from their bodies
that sit on the sidewalk and wait for their next move to come in tongues
with a small side of fries, please.
They beg of Him and him and he.
And the way that one of the three texts makes me scream, the way that I have to
figure out what I'll say to the pastor, "your son is a creep,"
feels like a plea, am I crying for help or for him?
I can't even ask hushedly when
my friends condone a patriarchal society and embrace the males that I once loved
and once loved me enough to do regrettable things, but
"Boys Will Be Boys And He Will Be One Of Them!"
My head will stay down, I won't open my mouth again. I won't try to warn
my (ex?) very best friend of it and the way that he got in my head. His name even rhymes with a drug.
But the car that I drive out of this place in will run off of stories from women who survived
times in their life
when they weren't sure of anything but desire to up and get the hell comfortable
past the state lines.
(My car will be red. Red like a crucifix.
Red like a bloodied cross,
red like a car crash.
Red like how I imagine my voice sounds when I scream out
this next phrase. Headphone users afterwards might need hearing aids...)
"Let's review your extracurriculars."
"Can I leave the church without leaving religion?"
Am I going to Heaven or Hell?
I've been told I'm going to a socialist camp,
I've been told I'll be among the first taken to the barracks when martial law kicks in
but they don't ever answer my question.
God is clear, God is clear, God is clear.
So the fact of the matter is that I may or may not be burning as I stand here anyway,
I ask myself if a thousand years more could make any difference and shudder at the thought that it could.
I am not the change I wish to see in the world. My family is not proud of me.
My friends have all left me, they preferred when I wasn't a hypocrite.
God is clear, God is clear, God is clear.
I was fun when I condemned feminism and handed over my body to the old men in power.
I was fun when I paraded around in my homemade Donald Trump mask and talked about becoming king of the world.
Those tapes are deleted. Those friends have stopped calling.
And this is a program I don't want to get into, this is not an interview I wanted to have.
I've seen your people and they'd never accept me,
look at my history for yourself and don't try to put a triangular peg into any other hole than which it belongs in.
"Riddle me this now, what color is God?"
"Anything else you'd like us to know?"
"I don't think so."
- Do you ever wonder what I feel like?
People lay me out like it's biology class. They dissect my insecurities and take apart my brain just to see what's wrong with it.
They scour at the discrepancies and things I'm still trying to fix.
- Some dreams are best left as they are.
Yes, I've dreamed of this moment, of talking to you. I've dreamed of showing off this school's shirt at graduation, of saying "see, I could always fit in, you just wouldn't have me!"
I've dreamed of coming and finding out I was everything like you.
No matter what you might say to deceive me, I see that I'm not.
- This is not what I want for myself. I deserve something better where I can fall in
and I need somewhere where the people aren't screaming
and I am so sick and tired of being nearly near fake.
And everything I write makes me sound fourteen years old again.
I'm hesitant to use the words broke girl but is that what I am?
The first time it happened, I was thirteen and I watched the votes tally and the church leaders scream
and was the world ending? I don't think I knew
but as I fell asleep, listening to the folks on the phone, as they got quiet and calm and then much later, happy,
I said a simple prayer.
God, don't let the world end over something like this.
Don't let the world end when I still haven't seen it.
That's all it comes down to. This is the end. I need to go to a place where I can fit in.
Where the world feels intact, where I can quietly sit.
Where the world keeps on twirling. Where I too can spin.
Goodbye for now
Oh, how I hate to say goodbye even though I know it is only for a little time.
I've come to a new season in my life and I will be taking a little break from Prose, I will continue my writing and will come back to post it soon.
I wish you all well and hope you all continue to grow in your writing and grow into who you are. love yall. happy writing.
p.s if your into watching vlogs on youtube ill have one coming in about a year(theofficalJenevieve) if all goes well!