Prosepoetry Stories

14 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 ──────── ˚ ₊ ‧ ⋆ ──────── There has always been an abyss residing in me. Something hollow and deep and empty. Something that screams to be heard. Something that aches for meaning in this haunting world. Through this collection I try to pick out the pieces of my heart and bleed out words that have haunted me. And maybe try to find peace with a truth that always scared me. because maybe this is how its meant to be : me, floating in the abyss of my misery ────────˚ ₊ ‧ ⋆ ──────── ⟪ h i g h e s t r a n k i n g s ⟫ #1 in poem (out of 199k stories) #1 in poetrycollection (out of 34.5k stories) #1 in words (out of 16.5k stories) #1 in poembook (out of 15.8k stories) #1 in prose (out of 9.07k stories) #1 in freeverse (out of 7.72k stories)

1 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 ──────── ₊⋆☽◯☾⋆₊ ──────── 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐬 is a poetic memoir of becoming, an unfolding of myself, one fragile petal at a time. This collection traces my journey through the fragile and tangled years of teenagehood. Through each poem, you would get a glimpse of raw and unfiltered moments of love, heartbreak, loss, confusion and even hints of clarity. The title is more than just a name : it is a metaphor of growth and acceptance . Each year, each experience was a petal unfolding . Some were soft like teenage innocence while others were jagged, stained with blood, weathered by heartbreak and resilient in reaching. Some were glowing red under the eternal sunlight of euphoria while others were withered due to the droughts of insecurity and floods of pent up emotions . But together these roses compose the bouquet of my becoming. Now I offer this bouquet to you, dear reader, and hope you find petals of your own and embrace the garden you are meant to be. ──────── ₊⋆☽◯☾⋆₊ ──────── ⟪ h i g h e s t r a n k i n g s ⟫ #1 in poesia (out of 15k stories) #1 in spokenword (out of 4.57k stories) #1 in personal thoughts (out of 2.5k stories)

🏆 ORIGINAL CONTEMPORARY NOVELLA FAVORITE - THE AMBYS 2025 🏆 I would not mind leaving this hell for another. Because I could not care less if I throw away my life of failure and inadequacy as long as you were with me. I was another stranger, another faceless being in the tapestry of your dreams. And you held my heart like a guitar peg, twisting and twisting until I snapped. Playing with my strings until my sound tore to shreds and I vanished into the mere noise of the world. And I did not mind it. Because when you met my eyes, I thought I saw myself reflected in yours. But it was not me who was there. It was my own hell. ˜"°•.˜"°•˜"°•.˜"°•˜"°•.˜"°• © 2023 (First Edition) [10,000 - 15,000 words] [All graphics are made by @sardonictabby] C/TW: Contains discussion about suicide and depression. Read at your own risk.

Just some poems.

A prose poem about a boring summer afternoon in bed.

a prose poem

Here you will find fantasy poems, poetic short stories, and fragments of myth. Some were written in the quiet spaces between novels. Some are echoes of worlds not yet born. Others were written while creating Of Demons and Men, revealing characters and moments that live between the pages of the story. These are pieces gathered from many years of writing, fragments of imagination, reflection, and myth.

Random/disordered pieces. Generally written in a state of dreary haze of sorts. More lucid than brain fog yet with the oppression of hallucination. A wakeful dream; The sense of it, at the very moment it's written been clear, slips away when revisited later. It's rather useless by then. Passion never lasts. And I'm stuck romanticizing the ephemeral. <> Finding human writing/art/media apart from ai will become as pedantic as abstaining for organic produce from the conventional in a market. It all feeds the same anyhow: SFX Props? VFX CGI? GenAI? At some point, barely anyone would bother differentiating. The consequences overall lies in rumor and superstition with a scientific flavor. Getting ahead of the curb by acting on suggestions/hypotheses as mandates; could such gamble be afforded over and over? Doesn't gambling lead to a net loss on average? By the end of it, organic's the minority, as against automation, so will be humanity. Writing on itself as a form of sincere expression, like this, is a type of clownery. A doomed hobby, mutually outmoded as reading. Doomscrolling would've been a better use of time on my end. "Fast fashion" form of writing has always been the point for the mainstream. Writing's streamlined for a long while now. LLM-AI is that final step to maximize the output. Really, is it bad? Its a self-sufficient haven: Why complain over getting more of what one wants, like the want of reading? Quality in art is in the mercy of subjectivity. Not good enough? Want improvement?: Improvement is the expertise of ai. It's only natural. What can be done? I don't know: spiting against a tsunami will not prevent it from coming and washing everything away that's good. And sometimes it takes even the bad amongst the wreck. I'm here; Luddite. Inept. I can only wait to be swept away or drown by it. Whichever comes first. "Sent from my IPhone"🙏🌽⚽️ Cover: Self-Edited(Muhammad Siyah Qalam miniatures)

For everything that endures, season after season.

"They say the war is over. So why is the world still so loud?" For Matthew, 29 July 1944 isn't just a birthday, it's a mark of shame. In a post-war Norway that wants to erase every trace of Germany, Mattie is a reminder they can't burn. He only has two things left: a wooden boat in his dreams and Gutt, the teddy bear who knows all his secrets. This is a story of a boy trying to find a harbor in a world that has no room for a 'War Child.' Matthew is a Lebensborn child a product of a history the world wants to forget. Now, as the dust of World War II settles, he must navigate a life of silence, prejudice and shadows. While others see a 'Little Nazi,' Mattie only sees a horizon. He is waiting for the adoption ship, hoping that across the sea, someone will finally look at him and see a son, not a sin. Was supposed to be the "Perfect Child". But when the flags of the Third Reich fell, he was left behind in the cold Norwegian soil a living ghost of a fatherland that no longer exists. With a tattered teddy bear named Gutt as his only witness, Mattie spends his days staring at the horizon, waiting for a ship that will carry him to a home where he isn't called a 'monster.' But in the aftermath of 1945, some wounds don't bleed they just whisper. First title: Mattie God's gift of Lebensborn Second title: Tyskerbarn In the land of snow ___________________________________________ Draft: 26 July 2025 I always update depending on my mood 🗿

'Noble Heart: Words of Passion' ay isang likhang sining ng mga salita na hinabi mula sa iba't ibang tauhan na isinulat ni Jcena Mortiff. Sa loob nito ay matatagpuan ang mga pukaw-sa-puso na linya mula sa iba't ibang anyo ng pag-ibig, maging ito man ay kasiyahan, kalungkutan, tagumpay, o pagkabigo. Naglalaman ito ng mga salitang hindi lamang nagbibigay-diin sa malalim na damdamin kundi naglalaman din ng mga aral na kinuha mula sa mga karanasan, kaisipan, puso ng bawat likhang-isip na mga tauhan, mga tauhan na binigyang buhay ng may akda.

teenage memories immortalized through words ✒️ 2018 - 2022

My First entry, Beautiful things that remain - I. was about nature. this is nature inside a room.

for the scapegoats. poems that dissects the systems of abuse inside family, intimate relationships, religion, and the USA.

Prose Collection

a story, in prose format of how it began, how it flourished, how i fell into it, how it ended and the process of letting it all go.

something incredible art work was in process. the clouds managed to gather around at one point, where they knew if they could give me one peek into their hollow, I would go bonkers. the state of art was tremendously enormous. I have often wondered about what they do beyond that gathering? I looked closely and I caught glimpse of calmness and paradise of hopes and wishes. all that was hoped and wished for- by every intrigued lover, banker, writer and dying men; lathered beyond. I could see all floating lies, that universe tried to fool us with. I was lost in the incredible lie portrayed beautifully for me. I couldn't find mine- neither wish, nor hope. not even my lies. I guess it was accepted by them. I could finally defy 'em. slowly, the sky cleared. the gathering was over, I saw nothing but plain sight. those 10 minutes of observance, gave me lifetime of thinking- are my hopes heard? are my wishes befallen? is this what my life is all about? wish, hope & lie. -R✨ @auroraatoyou PS: may my heart die, but love for sky will never. my life

A small collection of prose poetry

This is a story about all the thoughts that might rise at the dawn. Sanctuary - A woman who passionately waiting for the day to come when she could ask her final question to her past lover. Ferris Wheel - The pure love from a sister will give a girl strength to face the life Someday - A girl think that she could share her lover. She tried because of love, until love shows her something different Side Effects - The thought of a woman that start to lose faith in her man The Privilege - An unconditional love story. Love that gives courage to overcome fear in life Reflection - The feeling of finding a person that could understand your thoughts and accept you unconditionally Crossroads - When you have to face choices in life and letting go is the way to love

"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life. And not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived." anemoia - nostalgia for a time never known. a time never experienced, but desperately wished for. And within such peaceful yet part hectic moments, a surge of words is felt. So sudden that I find that there is nothing to do but to set them all free. • 1st runner up in Poetry of the Creory Awards