BÉBÉ PEN

BABY PEN : Les enfants seuls savent ce qu'ils cherchent.

[bebepen]

rolling the dice

four dice sit, gracefully

on the curve of my neck

dig in my collarbone

and pierce through the thick flesh.

my shrill is opaque in

the forests of fortune

and all four dice seem to

...

laugh at me;

they haunt me.

if i make the wrong decision

and perhaps lead myself into

the worst of sinful temptation

then maybe it will come to 

a point where i do not need

to see the light who,

as of now, i cannot see.

[bebepen]

in three days,

two days ago.

the brightest sunday that i had ever known.

i kept it in

a treasure chest filled with memories of you

and promised to let you go. 

three days ago

a room and a full house

audiences and names that i do not recall

but smiles of encouragement all the way. 

your hand was placed softly on my shoulder

almost like a lie, but so genuine. 

four days ago

clutching a dimly lit screen

hoping that my message would float across

quickly, albeit gracefully

and praying for you to have a change of heart. 

a week ago

when i was dazed by another boy

another story, another realm and you

something like a flower, delicate and yet

charmingly shining on your own. 

(but i murdered that light)

a week and a day ago

when i lead myself to think

the prettiest things would lead to

the prettiest heaven

but considered myself a heavenly being.

a week and two days ago

i saw you float above

and heard your sunny smile through 

the words that you spoke, 

softly, the stories you told. 

a week and three days ago

it was still not too late and 

our history was within reach of my

desperate fingertips.

and yet i chose to face the impossible. 

a week and four days ago

when i looked up to him

but i looked down at you

because my selfish beliefs,

thought that we would never be equal. 

(but now you have murdered those beliefs)

three days ago, was a beautiful time. 

you were innocent enough to believe me!

but now the distance is too great. 

my distress signals, you ignore,

and think too easily of them.

now you have murdered me.

[bebepen]

three years and trillion miles

A cumbersome heart, I admonish against

Your opinionated shadow, lying near me.

It is nothing but a brigand, willingly waiting

To ambush and hold me captive

Within the webs of your pushing.

The breach between our links

Will pick up any debris of dilemma.

My mind is effaced by the train of thought

Of your perennial image

Tinted off of my circumspect nature.

Yet I am moved by the spasmodic tsunamis,

Spurious lies of what could have happened.

I ultimately relinquish in my fight

Because your presence holds me in a deadlock

Stiff, paralyzed, and in love.

You lie me down in a seat, unbridled;

Predispose me to the “obsessions”,

On infinite trains with infinite chains of you,

Railing on at the greatest speed.

And I stay still, even when thrown out by the momentum.

I, once again

Am tied to the train tracks of your words.

And as your remaining footsteps muddle my heart into a knot,

A smile tiptoes over my lips gently, only to fall off into a frown,

Along with the teardrop called “love”.

[bebepen]

the romantic’s antics (deux)

Only a glass of Rosé and dulcet jazz could induce the sought-after "romantic nacht" of this lady. Jazz, which so often leaked out the brassy tones through a dull, black speaker, was assumed to be replaced with a live performance. The lights were not to be glaring or absent, but rather dim and gushing with an affluent elegance.

This lady was Estelle of the Stars, a lady from a distant constellation, the daughter of the moon and the fiancee of the universe.

She was seventeen in physical age, thirty-four based on her thoughts, and her beliefs were thought to be relatively average. Her theme was an off-white (which would explain why she was literally coated in a creamy tea-length, along with her pearly shoes) and her favorite person was the debonair man facing her, with the chic yet charming grin spread on his lips.

The moment was artificial— but, nonetheless— romantic enough to charm her for a night or two. Could he make her stay longer? Of course, that was in question— since, no man had ever been able to keep her— but, at the rate where he was headed, where he was pressing the right buttons and matching the right puzzle pieces— at this rate, it was a green light shining his way for her heart.

She took a sip, set down her glass, and looked back at this man. Her eyelashes batted slowly, albeit purely and innocently, as if they were sticky and coated with a layer of honey. "It is nice here," she stated, poised with her hands in her lap. "I do have an appreciation for jazz. In fact, out of the arts as a whole, music takes me soaring the most— but, of course, jazz is the genre that truly unravels me completely."

"That is nice, yes—."

Estelle nodded. "And it is lovely to have you as company."

The man was young but handsome, and displayed many actions of filial devotion to both his parents and the ones around him, especially Estelle. "Thank you, very much."

They were nothing but young lovebirds in the sight of others, as they were in the midst of a moderately crowded restaurant filled with couples of age and much more knowledge on the subject of "romance". Nonetheless they bantered with each other, almost endlessly, trading off occasional giggles with humorous and clever wit.

"But— I do have one question," Estelle asked, curious and yet suspicious. "I understand that you are not a native Parisian, nor are you French in blood. And yet— why, of all languages— why do you always use French?”

“Because I believe that it is romantic.”

A breathless laugh escaped her coral-lit lips. “Well, then— I suppose you think I am what you call a ‘romantic’?”

“If I may ask— why would that be?”

“If you didn’t know, my parents were born in France; I was raised with full knowledge and capability of the French language, and grew up only with those elegant fragrances of Coco Chanel clinging onto my mother's ears until dusk. I possess a love for the quintessential classics, you see— jazz music atop a glass of Rosé, burgundy truffles, pearls. A dimly lit restaurant, a rose sitting on the middle of our table.

"Is it not remorseful, the way children use the words given from Heaven? Even the word 'aesthetic' has now become a cheap trend; a dime-worth word used to search up the classic 90's styles on Google. And so, although it is sad to say, I cannot use the word anymore. I refuse to speak the word in such a sentence. Although, I must admit— the word does sound quite nice, as it rolls off the tongue easily. It is sweet, like candy. Come, try it— aesthetic."

"You are definitely an interesting seventeen-year old, Estelle."

"And it is with keen knowledge that I understand that you have essentially picked up a seventeen year old to take her out on her ideal date."

"And it is with even sharper wit that I understand that this may be illegal, but love remains, and we are here tonight, with a glass of Rosé in front of you, with light, cafe jazz hanging onto your heartstrings, and— and with me, a man so desperate, knocking on the doors of your heart."

"What such manners bring you here, Prince?"

"None, but your heart, my Princess."

Estelle simply giggled in response. "If you don't mind, I'll continue on. My dearest Prince, I must still ask you— why is it that you have chosen me? You understand that I only take and do not give." She stared down at her slippers and sighed. "I am but a romantic, sir. I am nothing but a greedy, greedy girl."

"And if you must prevail on your stance as a greedy girl, I would be nothing more than a brigand."

"I'm a romantic, sir. My dreams are nothing but empty wishes filled with money and no love at all. Quite ironic, I do agree—"

But he sighed in discontent and only carefully walked over to her seat. His two hands cupped over her delicate scarlet ears, and, softly, he whispered:

“No, m’lady— you are not a romantic— you are my infinite romance, ma chérie, my beautiful, never-ending love story.”

And for the first time, she smiled wholeheartedly, without a stifle.

[bebepen]

the romantic’s antics (un.)

slowly i wept

of a never ending dream

that had come to an end

and it most likely seems:

i was but a year younger

and still not cautious

to let myself slip

into a love nauseous.

a beleaguered and stolen heart

fallen into despair

of a never ending dream

constricted without air,

and the last thing she sung

was a wispy little laugh

that only lifted me higher

never able to climb back.

[bebepen]

a star, faded

a kind of star.

not beautiful, not shining, and in fact

lacking in almost everything.

but, for a candidate i saw

you were a sister and

i aspired to become the final

leaf of your own little tree.

a year passed by and

the summer we once knew dwindled away.

there were no more swimming pools

and the exhilarating voyages to the

cheap, rundown stores

(with ugly, baggy holes in the shirts

that we couldn’t wear to school anyway)

those ventures became history.

we kept our eyes on the clock and

while i taught and you listened discreetly

you set fire to a rebellion inside

and told yourself to consume me whole

not as a person, not as a friend

but a goal, as a finish line.

i look upon these years ahead

and i think, mindlessly

“if i become the icon of feminine debonair

will you become the queen?”

and a mere shake of the head is needed

because you are naive and still do not know

how the world works its gears

and how the gears can macerate our souls.

but now you stand in front of me

with a possessive little grin

and slowly, as you turn,

your words are not “hello, friend”

(and in all seriousness)

but “off to hell, my dearest rival

you were never a friend to me”.

if you could know that i loved you

without any limitation

would our fate have been the same?

would you still see me

reflecting off of the ugly light of

rivalry?

[bebepen]

“why do you always use french?” “because i believe that it is romantic.” “well, then— i suppose you think i am what you call a ‘romantic’?” “why is that so?” “if you didn’t know, my parents were born in france. i was raised with full knowledge and capability of the french language, and grew up only with those elegant fragrances of coco chanel—” “no, m’lady— you are not a romantic— you are my infinite romance, ma chérie, my beautiful, never-ending love story.”

the romantic’s antics (deux.)

[bebepen]

i look upon these years ahead and i think, mindlessly “if i become the icon of feminine debonair will you become the queen of england?” and a mere shake of the head is necessary because you are childlike and naive and still do not know how the world works its gears, and how the gears can macerate our souls.

a star, faded.

[ameunw]

idk why i’m posting this because it is literally trash k → brown stripe tee : hhotaru → rose embroidered skirt : brave store

[bebepen]

!!

[bebepen]

complex child #2

they grow into a monster

try different things, for what

they promise relief and pleasure

but behind the bottle and behind the syringe

lies a hidden message only blinded by

the "eat me!" symbols and signs

alice and the cheshire cat, but larger

on a grand scale, presented in the luxury and

naivete consumes the mind and

so often are ignored

they grow dauntless into

an adult of full grown.

maturity flaring

tip of their heads to the last inch of their toes

and we see, here, now majestic

as they stand above us on

a podium like no other

different and daring.

[bebepen]

"complex child”

stories before sleep, mother's arms

paper mache, and

smiles

on their faces.          because children,

keep little words called dreams tugging at their hearts but

smiles...

they disappear into the winds of adulthood

and evanesce.          but maybe those

smiles

were too heavy and

wrinkles of age took them away.

[bebepen]

"you’re just ugly, really.”

on a dull, pallid morning

you lift up the covers.

to reveal what some may think

is scarred, and—

(well, for lack of a better word)—

ugly.

and the tread towards

the little piece of reflection

can so kindly bestow upon you a 

caustic fallacy:

sickly, your heart lingers

and rotten, your mind remains—

ugly.

veneer yourself in extravagance!

the aesthetic garnish of the 90′s cry

and throughout all of your suffering—

(wait, is this really suffering...?)

—you label yourself. you embody

“ugly”. 

dregs of bitterness and 

seemingly harmless, shattered glass.

pinned down to your inert limbs

and you, a negligent student, remain

ugly. 

wait— the fate that will befall you

an abyss charged with fiasco

a “you”, thrown into the oblivion.

yet through the two words “i’m okay”,

and a naive persistence too

does it still seem necessary

to call yourself

ugly?

the reflection you see is

a girl who remains a waif

a girl who forlorn, and

a girl who is you,

a girl you call

ugly. 

the reflection you see is

a girl you call ugly—

—a girl you call “me”. 

[writingwithcolor]

Writing With Color – Featured Description Posts

Some of our most useful posts on describing People of Color, all in one place.

Words to Describe Hair

Words to Describe Skin Tone

Describing Asian Eyes

Describing Wide Noses

Describing Undead & Sick Dark Skin

Describing POC and Avoiding Caricatures

Describing Unnatural Skin Tones: Green

Describing Unnatural Skin Tones: Jaundice

Indicating Race of Characters (FAQ Questions #3-4)

Not Indicating Race at All – Note: You Probably Should

Praising Beauty Without Fetishizing

Olive Skin, Race and Ethnicity

Specific Description Posts  

Describing Skin as Swarthy (Spoiler alert: it’s sketchy)

Describing East Asian Skin as Porcelain (Spoiler alert: it’s also sketchy)

Describing Skin as Russet (Spoiler alert: it’s alright)

Describing PoC as Exotic (SA: it’s othering)

Describing Skin as Ebony (SA: it’s cliche)

Describing Natural Hair as Cloud-Like (SA: it’s cool)

Describing Black Hair as Unkempt (SA: it’s offensive)

Describing Black Hair as Kinky (SA: it depends)

Describing Skin as “Dark as Night” (SA: it also depends)

Describing Skin as Like Dirt or Soil (SA: See above)

Describing Skin as just “Dark.” (SA: it’s vague)

Describing Black Hair as “Nappy” (SA: it ain’t recommended)

Describing Skin With Food (SA: it’s a no-no)

–WWC

[bebepen]

infinite

“Like a child would eat candy, he smiled, imagining a world filled with true happiness for him. Abstract colors and hues of bright reds, greens, and blues flooded and stained his mind. As the remainder of his happiness capsules spilled onto the floor, escaping his hands, preventing a nightmare, he entered a world of dreams that would soon come to an end...”

A tall, strong-looking shadow of a male walked across the hallway. The lights were dim, creating a quiet atmosphere of eeriness that seemed to creep its way through the light. The shadow continued its way into the hallway, its soft steps mumbling a faint echo. The man turned left, and slowly he disappeared into a room. The room was dark; there were no lights. Inside, he lit a candle, which projected a small amber glow around the room. 

He sighed. He sat back in his chair, and looked up at the empty ceiling. There was an orange ring of light that stared back at him, as if it were waiting for him to turn his head away. It wasn’t the first time he was alone-- in fact, it had been two-- no, three weeks since he had last seen her. She called him her “ex”, although deep inside, she was something of infinite greatness and importance to him. 

While he was lost in the midst of his own thoughts, his phone rang. 

It was her.

Cautiously he picked up the device, making sure that this wasn’t a fraud. Slowly, he pressed the answer button, and drew the phone closer to his ear. “Hello?” he whispered. 

“Hey, Hoseok.” a calm female voice answered. “How are you doing?”

“Uh, fine, I suppose. What’s with the random call?” he replied, trying his best not to stutter.

“Nothing much. I’m waiting for my boyfriend. I just wanted to see what’s up,” the voice said. It was a husky whisper. He could feel her breath on his skin, almost as if they were talking face to face, like they would’ve long ago. As a shiver went down from his scalp through his spine, he breathed in and exhaled carefully, calming himself down. 

“I’m just-- I’m, uh, writing right now. I’m kinda busy.”

“Oh, alright. I’ll call you later, then.”

A series of beeps sounded out as Hoseok slowly moved his phone away from his ear. Her voice died away as it engrained itself inside his mind. It stayed, echoing as the voice screwed itself into his head for a while. I’ll call you later, then. The voice boomed across his head. It hurt. He clutched his head, and dropped his phone. With a clatter, it cracked and the remnants scattered across the floor. The male dropped to the ground, screaming in pain. It hurt.

The memories of their past, the good times. The times when he didn’t make the mistakes that he made, the times when he was her only one. Mistakenly he had thought that she still loved him, that she still cared. He had written a song for her. He had done everything, stayed away from the outside world, concealed himself from others. Because he didn’t want to be reminded of the time that he had spent together with her. Because it hurt.

Tears streamed down his face as he recalled his mistake. If it weren’t for that night, that place, that time. It was a coincidence, an unlit match that lit itself somehow and set off a bomb. He didn’t need anybody, he just needed her. 

But she was gone forever. She was with someone else. 

How--

His love for her was infinite. Hoseok stood up, gripping the wall with his bare hands, breathing heavily. He wiped his tears, and walked himself to the counter of his kitchen. Slowly he pulled out several pills from his pocket, and brought them closer to his mouth. But he was scared. He was hurt.

He dropped some of the pills into his mouth. Like a child would eat candy, he smiled, imagining a world filled with true happiness for him. Abstract colors and hues of bright reds, greens, and blues flooded his mind as he wobbled towards his bed. Running his hand through his hair, he tried his best not to scream out again. His head hurt so much. He was out of breath. One. Two. Tossing himself onto his bed, he passed out into a state of pure black; nothingness. As the remainder of his pills spilled onto the floor, escaping his hands, preventing a nightmare, he entered a world of dreams that would soon come to an end...

[bebepen]

glassy - a person

Right outside an old cafe, a girl was sitting on a small wooden stool. She held a warm roast of coffee in her left hand, and a small notebook in the other. It read LE PETIT PRINCE on the cover, along with a painted picture of a small boy standing on a planet with a flower. The girl’s slightly wavy hair, which fell to her shoulders gently, was a soft strawberry blonde. A beige knit cardigan was draped across her shoulders, and there was a hint of a maroon shirt inside. She was wearing black leggings, matched with a pair of tinted off-white high tops. Her amber eyes were dark but warm, and although she looked normal, a dragging impression of weakness could be felt by looking at her.

The girl put her coffee down on the ground, opened her notebook, and sighed. It was filled with nothing, and as hard as she had tried, she could not get a single idea down from her head to her notebook. It just didn’t connect– her fingertips, holding the pencil firmly, and her brain, projecting whimsical images of fantasy-like creatures and their actions. On the paper, there were grey marks and smudges, the remnants of sketches that had been erased. Putting aside her notebook and coffee, she stood up from her stool and stretched out her arms. Yawning, she bent over to pick up her items.

Her name was Glassy. She was a very sensitive character. In a way, she was like a passive-aggressive Venus Flytrap. She had strong opinions, but never showed them. It came to her that it would be much more “friendlier” to be modest and cut down on her own thoughts. To others, it seemed as if she was simply a transparent, weak girl. When she was tired, it always showed. She would wilt with a pout on her face that everybody could clearly see. Although she never realized it, she would grow extremely sensitive to things, to a point where she would become intimidating. When she wanted to be friendly, she would use her smile as a bandanna that she thought would cover her true feelings.

Her heart was built out of glass. It was shattered, taped, and rebuilt a myriad number of times. Who would break glass, when everyone knows how fragile it is? Why? and How?

How do you break Glassy?

[bebepen]

update: i’m not dead

just letting you guys know.

[bebepen]

Étude 2. The Unknown Two-Face, Love

“But she is perplexed by the purely enigmatic blindfold that one might call ‘love’. It is not love, but she does not know.”

She longs to be free. She longs to be part of the wind, flying ceaselessly as she stays afloat, idle but lively. She wants to be with him, whoever “him” is, that will bring her love and spirit. She wants to be with “him”, who will ignite the small flame inside of her. She lives in her own world; a different dimension. Some call her a dreamer, others view her as an optimist. Little do they know, that despite her friendly exterior, a small beast lives inside. Should the supposed “him” come, he would just as well light her candle. But it would burn her to ashes, down to her nub, transforming her to a used shell. She would become a shelled mollusk without its pearl. But she is perplexed by the enigmatic blindfold that one might call “love”. It is not love, but she does not know. We leave her alone, with “him”, letting them converse about their lives. She is merely falling for a trap all the while. She stares at his eyes, an ocean full of lies. But she sees the truth, the truth that only she can see. She sees the truth; and that truth is a lie.

This “him” propels and drops her in the middle of the vast sea. He forgets that she cannot swim, and she drowns in her own sea of tears, dedication, lies, truth, trust…

She is burnt. She is gone.

tbh these etudes drive me crazy like what kind of crazy ddong am i writing