the ocean viewer's little blog

i like water

[an-ocean-viewer]

Orange

Harbor approaching sunset;

The skies are blanketed in an orange, cotton sheet;

There's a serene, yet, empty feeling;

Permeating in the air;

As I sway my legs upon the edge;

Ships pass by the horizon;

Wakes of stories long passed;

The passengers' debauchery can be heard from where I sit, swaying;

I hear the distant echoes of what could have been;

Should I have been more honest back then?

Would this palette of orange and blue even change?

Does the setting sun dawn the absence of piers?

I do not know;

I can only smile with orange-tinted tears;

I pray you hear this, wherever you are;

It is neither trick nor devious ploy;

You are my deepest sorrow and greatest joy;

[an-ocean-viewer]

Salt

Beckoning forth;

Hope is a fragile thing;

Yet, present in every stowaway's carry;

Easily buried alongside the homeless during winter;

We clutch it still, ever so slightly warm;

Once again, swimming in the vastness;

Neither sign of shore nor sharks;

Only me and this expanse;

Again;

Cold;

It follows in mine own wake;

The edge always looks near;

West and West evermore;

Does it extend infinitely?

Or, does it follow and encompass?

Am I an extension?

Or does it extend from me?

Neither jubilee nor malice;

That I know; In that I am certain;

The sea, contrary to belief, holds no anger;

You cannot spite the sea;

It already has enough salt;

[an-ocean-viewer]

Peace wrought in somnolence;

We echo; ghosts of war long forgotten;

We once fought and died valiantly;

For a cause now long since ceased;

Brimstones;

We layeth alongside fallen comrades;

Slain enemies;

Friends; Family; Acquaintances;

I once dreamed of utopia;

Chasing wisps among the prairie;

Once, we were men;

Now, shades of a lesser being;

I hail from a desolate country;

That I know not the name of;

I dream of oblivion;

I crave the peace brought by my own demise;

We have echoed against this backdrop for far too long;

Now, etched upon us are scars;

Sutures; threads; gauze;

I maintain steadiness;

Though, the fangs of loathing have since seeped into my blood;

I hope I may yet carry a sliver of hope;

A sliver of my own being;

Addendums; upon addendums;

[pretty-little-nightmare-xx]

My soul is made from wildflowers, a restless constellation of petals born from the heavy, dark silence of the earth. I am a creature of the unasked-for bloom, a pulse of color that rises when the world expects only dirt. I was not planted by design or tended by the careful hands of a gardener; I am the result of a divine accident, a handful of seeds scattered by a reckless and beautiful wind. There is no blueprint for my spirit, only a map of intersections where the sunlight meets the soil, a tangle of stems reaching for a god I can only feel in the heat of the afternoon. I do not unfold for the gaze of the passerby, but for the sheer, terrifying thrill of being alive.

I do not possess the curated elegance of the rose or the stiff symmetry of the tulip. I am a riot of unmanaged colors, the deep, bruised purple of thistles, the blinding gold of late-August goldenrod, and the fragile, pale lace of a weed that refuses to die. I am the clover that heals the ground and the poppy that bleeds brilliance across the hills, a short, burning life that refuses to be anything less than spectacularly untethered. I am the indigo stain of the morning glory and the fierce, bitter gold of the dandelion, the kind of beauty that does not ask for permission to exist. I am the velvet dusk of the larkspur and the harsh white of the yarrow in a storm, a tenuous defiance that smells of crushed sage and ancient sun. I am a thousand tiny deaths and a million secret resurrections, shedding my colors like a skin every time the seasons demand a sacrifice.

My beauty is not a performance; it is a fierce survival. I thrive in the jagged places: the edge of the cliff, the heart of the drought, the ruins of what used to be. I flourish in the margins: the cracked sidewalks of grief, the scorched earth of old fires, and the forgotten meadows of silence. I do not fear the fading, for I know the nectar within me is a currency of the sun. My spirit is not a quiet garden. Do not try to domesticate me. Do not try to press me between the pages of a book to keep me. I am not a prize to be plucked, but a landscape to be entered. I belong to the fields that have no names and the nights that have no fences. To find me, you must be willing to lose your way in the tall grass and listen to the humming of the earth beneath my roots.

[an-ocean-viewer]

Ships

This scenario has already repeated in my head.

There is no exact metric measured upon which my thoughts collapse.

It lay splayed upon the floor when it pleases.

Like an orange cat chooses whimsically.

There may yet be solace upon which I may rest my tired eyes.

My threads unravel beautifully upon the harbor in this solemn downpour.

I find no meaning here.

Yet it finds meaning within me.

The thought keeps me company long after the rain stops and storm begins.

This harbor lay empty again with nary a raft to be found.

I sway my legs at the edge of the wet and creaking wood. Still here.

[traumasurvivors]

Your brain loves to rewrite your past with the knowledge you have now. This is called hindsight bias. It makes things look clear that were not clear at all when you were in the situation.

Hindsight can make everything feel like it was obvious. Patterns feel clearer. Red flags look brighter. But you did not have that clarity when you were in it. You were acting with the knowledge, feelings, and instincts you had at the time.

Even if someone warned you, even if part of you suspected something was wrong, the way you felt then mattered. Hope mattered. Fear mattered. Attachment mattered.

You were trying. You were surviving. You were not foolish for wanting things to work.

Be kinder to the version of you who did not know what you know now.

[the-haiku-bot]

Be kinder to the

version of you who did not

know what you know now.

Beep boop! I look for accidental haiku posts. Sometimes I mess up.

[luxwing]

Victorian children making creepypastas be like Benjamin Drownsworthy doth reside within mine copy of hoop and stick

[an-ocean-viewer]

I don't really write poems. The structure does not lend itself to being prose either. I searched for words that could better encapsulate what it is that I write. My first breakthrough was "prosetry"—a term I used starting out.

However, there is yet less info I can gleam from the web for any consistent definition. Neither could I find notable examples for the term itself. I believe that what really made me stop using the term was when I saw it being used to refer to prose with such beauty that it could become poetry. I thought to myself that perhaps it is not the term I seek (and, honestly, any form of literature can become beautiful in the right hands).

So, I stuck to the term "thought dumps". The title made the most sense to me since the scope captures in essence what it is that I write: my turmoil, my cries, my joy, my heaviness, and my euphoria.

There is no conscious rhythm, rhyme, structure, syntax, or meter. I write as it enters my mind. Somehow, in a form that imitates a typical poem. Yet, in the manner one would write prose

I stumbled upon the term poetic prose recently (honestly have no clue how I didn't before). I thought it had a nice ring to it. A prose written in such a way that it weaves in poetry. It struck me. What if it was reversed? A "prosetic" poetry. A poem written in such a way as to entangle itself in prose, becoming inseparable from it.

So as a normal functioning, sometimes whimsical, usually zesty tumblrian, I hereby declare that the term prosetic poetry is what I will call my works from now on.

[averageclericpoetry]

Is it oil or blood that lubricates our vast machines of wealth and prosperity?

Can our gods even tell the difference?

[an-ocean-viewer]

Exits

Upon faces of mountains;

Carve visages;

Outlast me;

Preface my existence;

I am an open book upon which emotions are canvassed;

I am stuck in pretext;

Blinded by context of the deceitful words that exit your lips;

I was your decrescendo;

My Muse;

You exit focus again;

And fade into memory;

Resurfacing as scars;

Exiting as wounds;

When I rest above a calm, stormy ocean;

I look at the stars and am reminded of you;

When you look upon a vast cosmo;

An ocean per se of stars;

Are you ever reminded of the land made of tears?

[kosmogrl]

don’t take my defeatism too seriously I will always begin again and again no matter what

[kosmogrl]

I might sound miserable most of the time but at my core I’m a very hopeful person

[an-ocean-viewer]

Trials and tribulations shall not bury my zest for life

[skribblegurl]

some people think writers are so eloquent and good with words, but the reality is that we can sit there with our fingers on the keyboard going, “what’s the word for non-sunlight lighting? Like, fake lighting?” and for ten minutes, all our brain will supply is “unofficial”, and we know that’s not the right word, but it’s the only word we can come up with…until finally it’s like our face got smashed into a brick wall and we remember the word we want is “artificial”.

[heywriters]

I couldn't remember the word "doorknob" ten minutes ago.

[bumblewyn]

ok but the onelook thesaurus will save your life, i literally could not live without this website

[breelandwalker]

REBLOG TO SAVE A WRITER'S LIFE

[myfairkatiecat]

LIFE SAVED

REBLOGGING TO SAVE ANOTHER WRITERS LIFE

[sirowsky]

I use this every time I sit down to write. It's the best tool in the world and I would be lost without it!

[an-ocean-viewer]

New tool

[an-ocean-viewer]

---- WIP / IDEA ----

Of many mouths

A tall, languid man.

From his body sprouts innumerous feathers and sharp spikes opening and bisecting.

Within each beak, a mouth with gums dried and stretched out; teeth yellow; and not a single tongue.

He does not need to taste anything.

He needs only to eat and chew.

He was a candidate for the role of the country's president.

He focused his entire campaign on a controlled country, prioritizing food, work, and housing.

It promoted itself as a complete dictatorship, making no attempts to hide or sugarcoat the details.

No details were spared in clarifying his stance.

From government projects to who he wanted dead upon his ascension, all were laid bare to the public.

Yet, the people did not shun him.

From the commoners of the slums to those living in bustling cities:

They ***cheered him***.

Every single word from him was celebrated.

It was neither hex nor confounding charm.

It was excitement.

The wish that everyone had long been waiting for.

After he won the elections by a landslide, he did not hesitate to monologue about his plans, pull out a gun, and kill three people.

Montereu Chives, the CEO of health insurance company. An onlooker from the VVIP lounge.

Melanie Grates, the vice president of a dominant money lending firm; a guest invited by James Willington, a candidate for the elections. and;

James Willington, himself.

The crowd roared in excitement.

----- WIP -----

IDEA:

The reign of The One of Many Mouths has come to an end. He looks at those who have defeated him and then to the window overlooking the prospering city be had built.

He comments that he hates this building. That he loathes this view. Without turning to face those that have defeated him he continues:

"I care not for what happens to me. I hope still in opportunities I had created to carry on long after I am gone."

"Inevitably, there will always be idiots like yourselves claiming to know a better way"

"I will not hate idiots. For I was born and raised in the slums were being an idiot was commonplace"

"I hate the educated. I loathe the privileged. For in all their power, they yet have saved us. For in all their knowledge, they choose to not act"

"I hate the coliseum they created to turn brother against brother and sisters against sisters with a slice of pie as the reward"

"I hate that I had to pray for an extra sardine in each can I opened."

"I hate that I had to let my parents, my brother, my sisters, and my neighbors die of preventable diseases – victim to a system that performed a cost-to-benefit analysis on their lives"

"I hate listening to the howls of someone dying from starvation as another educated person walksby only passing a glance"

"I hate that I am only one person, subject to the pains of the world with none the tools to soothe it"

He pauses and turns to his challengers.

"People like me will always rise from the bile and murk"

"For as long as there are those who are educated and privileged with nary the care to give, evil will be created"

"For as long as there is evil, the people's starvation will soon follow"

"And I promise you,"

"We will not starve meekly."

[an-ocean-viewer]

Clementine, my goddess.

The waxing moon has begun to wane on us tonight.

Your hair is a tad bit more disheveled than it usually is.

You look as idiotic as always.

Weak Clementine, I will not worship you.

Fragile Clementine, I will not pray to you.

Humble Clementine, I will not provide you with offerings.

Deemed as the most useless deity.

My goddess.

You do not have my faith.

O' Clementine.

My goddess. You need only give me a target.

Be it peasant, knight, kings, or empires.

O' Clementine.

My goddess.

The Meek.

My goddess.

O' Clementine, the Goddess of the Hopeless.

You have my heart, my steel, and my life.

[an-ocean-viewer]

Thatch

Everything looks lovely under this downcast.

Misery, titles, and dead prophets.

Poems long since forgotten.

Prose long since remembered.

A tinge of blue bathes the effervescent hate we once called Joy.

We've long wished of happiness.

Now, the wishing well has come to us.

Throw your hopes along with it.

Drown amidst debauchery in the feast of gods.

Do you dare welcome the foreboding end?

Do you dare dream of a better tomorrow?

O' Hypocrite of the Tale;

What do you wish to wish?

Your downcast is o' so lovely..

[an-ocean-viewer]

Tension

From the window, a single drop of rain drips.

It slides until it hits the bottom of the pane.

Outside, ornate lights drawing eyes in like months to flames.

Mine are already dry.

From the glass ceiling, the ones below weep.

Curious, the ones at the top hurl stones.

It collides, wounds, and rots.

Now, we are the same.

From the mirror, a single condensed mist, an atom in length, coallesces into water.

It falls and evaporates. Meaningless in existence.

Yet, exists.

From the same mirror, a larger mist forms.

The condensing steam from a hot winter night.

It shifts and falls upwards.

Now, we are different.

Now, I exist.

This surface tension between our worlds.

What lay before the glass.

What lay after it.

We are both droplets.

Falling in parallel.

Yet, casting our reflection upon this wretched mirror.

Only, our droplets remain.

Only our droplets stay.

Falling ceaselessly unto their own meaningless infinity.

How wondrous..

[an-ocean-viewer]

Musings of a Rusted Bucket

Items that rot, rust, dust, and enter a state of ruin.

It's hard to fathom how deep a story can be etched on both living and non-living.

Fabric stretched upon windows–hiding shattered glass–have all been but worn down by endless scraping. A vague, almost unreadable message is scribbled "I believe in Happiness" alongside an image of what appears to be a Japanese-animated picture of a character performing an attack of some kind.

Shoes both brand new and ones that appear almost dilapidated line the vehicle's carry. It tells of adventures none whisper but are heard by those loved. Victories, defeat, long winding paths treaded, and splinters that carry the soul.

Each bowstring plucked and strung, loose or snapped, musical or combat, or art upon art. The story has long since shifted and changed.

As people do.

Zest in life is hard to come by. Yet, one can dream of creating it. The hypocrite speaks of happiness yet is never satisfied upon receiving it.

I want to grow old and appreciate the value of the worn down tire.. of the trees with artificial carvings.. of the poorly drawn characters in a comic giving too much pizzazz.. of the toy harmonica, clearly too damaged to make more music.. of the happiness in each passing moment and each passing person's story.

To live and die as a person with a story worth retelling and embellishing.

To dream of a better tomorrow while actively making it come true.