creative writing weekend!

a chance to share your writing and read other peoples', get feedback and promote a positive writing environment!

[creativewritingweekend]

"Because," she says, a sliver of pain and terror and something else Nisha can't quite figure out in her voice, "I'm afraid I might love you." Nisha freezes. "And," Ania continues, almost trembling as the words fall from her lips, "I'm afraid you're going to look at me in the way that you're looking at me right now." She wipes a stray tear away. Nisha wants to reach out and caress Ania's cheek, but she can't move. "I'm - I'm sorry," Ania manages before standing up and running out of the room.

this is brilliant!! i love how well your dialogue flows and i really want to keep reading <3 

[creativewritingweekend]

Silhouette

i think i saw you that day.

i think i found your laugh in my shadow every time i turned around and you weren’t there.

i saw the sun go down and your silhouette rise each day that my footsteps sounded like the ticks of a clock counting down.

i’m sorry, i don’t think i’ve ever heard you speak. i’ve spent too much time being alone.

i’m so accustomed to being solitary, i’ve forgotten what it was like to hear another person breathe.

i don’t think i’m breathing.

or maybe i am, but when breathing starts to feel like drowning, wouldn’t it be best not to breathe at all?

so i don’t breathe. i hold my breath for the day my silhouette will come back to me and that first breath will finally be worth it.

[creativewritingweekend]

Tick. Tock.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

I’m running out of time and I know it.

Tick. Tock.

I’m running and I know it.

Tick. Tock.

It’s been so long. I just want to sleep. Sleep.

Tick. Tock.

The clock is counting down. The hourglass had been tipped from the moment I took my first breath.

How much longer can I go on for?

How much sand is left?

I wonder which will run out first: the track or my energy. It’s just a matter of waiting,

until I reach the end of the line.

Hands shaking, heart beating. A heart that doesn’t feel like mine.

I’ve been tired for a long time. Do you understand what I mean when I say that I’m tired?

Tick. Tock.

[creativewritingweekend]

fly

floating. in mid-air. turning in this coffin-sized seat. i attempt to find darkness everytime the minute hand skips and jumps 20 paces i lose sight of darkness. my feet is buried under 3 layers but the cold seeps in somehow. buns, suits, chignons, and heels, how do they stay on their feet when it gets bumpy ? the moment i rise my legs wobble and i risk waking the unconscious. this journey a challenge for the tired hour hand, thirteen paces and the ever slight need to move a smidge as the minute hand merrily dances another 25 paces. my surroundings are white and somewhat uncomforting, a steel trap with no windows the exterior transitions from black to purple, pink, red, orange then finally yellow it’s like travelling back in time but yet forward as well. my company sings in my ears only and black bleeds onto white how comforting words are… the departure was painful and sad yet exciting. an intermission before the next act. the hour hand has just one more step before i stop floating. excitement and fear are bubbling it’s time for the next act as the intermission ends and i stop floating.

[creativewritingweekend]

Unsteady

She didn’t get the chance to figure out what home meant again before she was tossed into limbo. Floating. Uprooted. “You can’t call that home”, they say. “That’s not yours.” Nothing’s hers. Not anymore. Borrower. Freeloader. Biding her time. You don’t know how sick it makes her to know she can’t call the place she sleeps home. How unsteady she feels. How lost and broken it makes her. “Your house? Your home? Yours?”

“I guess not.”

[creativewritingweekend]

.

Young boy, self-conscious,

Shy; introducing himself

“Hi, my name is Dan”

Seven years later

So many lives affected

Thank you so much, Dan

You are beautiful

Witty, so smart and caring

Creative and kind

We’ve watched you grow up

We have seen you soar and shine

Flying up so high

We wish you friendship, We wish you success and joy!

You’re our Peter Pan!

Our smol bean, our heart

Our brilliant Pooh Bear

Our live work of art

So, to our friend [Dan]

Thanks for Hello Internet

We Love You–Your Fans <3

[creativewritingweekend]

There was a downpour and here are the results.

can you taste that? can you taste the dew on your tongue, the sky in the streets and heaven on concrete?

can you feel that? can you feel the way the rain drips from your hair, water soaking into skin and grass?

can you see that? can you see the sunshine on your arm, light reflecting off roads and cars?

can you smell that? can you smell fresh rain after a storm, soil earthy and musty, flowers crisp and sweet?

can you hear that? can you hear the silence, that rare moment of stillness?

[creativewritingweekend]

stand

i’m standing here in the brightest shirt i have. “can you see me now?” and i’m greeted with silence. a reminder of my solitude a reminder of my invisibility.

i’m standing here my back straight and my chest out. and i hear “ she’s so arrogant ” and i question my quest to fake my confidence.

i’m standing here smiling and i know it doesn’t reach my eyes. “she looks so happy” unlike confidence happiness cannot be faked.

i’m standing here like the white witch from narnia made me into a statue and someone finally goes “hey you’re here.” but like a statue, i cannot hear it i cannot emote.

i’m standing here slouched burdened my head no longer held high and my hair a curtain to cover my face.

i’m standing here trying to hide trying to be invisible but everybody sees me. why do they see me now ?

i’m standing here i’ve become the neighbourhood emo.

i’m just standing here.

[creativewritingweekend]

Writing

whether a scratch or a clack or in blue or in black

the mystery of thought to hand to surface

is infinitely satisfying

[creativewritingweekend]

When Day Touches Night

if you let the light touch your eyes the way the sun touches moon, then there would be no reason for you to leave so soon.

when you say the stars taught you love and trust, it traps us both between dawn and dusk.

you coloured me a sunset when the day lost to night, and pencilled in skies when we kissed under starlight.

the moon listened in, to promises we’d never keep, and the spoken lies underneath these sheets.

to say we loved each other would be a lie, we never coped, you fell in love with an idea and i fell for hope.

[creativewritingweekend]

There was a girl Who was sweet and fair There was a girl And she had not one bad bone in her body

There was a girl Who was “smart” and “intelligent" There was a girl Who knew everything in the world was bad, but searched for the good in everyone and everything

There was a girl With a smile on here face There was a girl Who had alot of friends

There /was/ a girl

Now this girl She mopes in a corner She tries to not let her thoughts defeat her But they do And everybody is suprised to see That the euphoric girl was no longer so No smile on her face Just a glum look An empty one

But she still does well on tests That being the only thing her family cared about Results On a piece on paper She struggled With insomnia clutching her The cramming was long and hard She wanted to end it She was stressed every night

The girl no longer had friends They left Or fought with her Or got pushed away Her family They just dont understand Two ignorant bastard siblings A drunken mother And an idiot father The dogs got along like peanut butter and jelly The mother and father like bolognaise and spaghetti Her brother and sister and like two peas in a pod She was all alone And drowning

[creativewritingweekend]

Scarlet

Poem response to Crimson ******************************

Scarlet has always been my favourite colour The intensity of the red was calming, soothing almost I wear scarlet all the time People think I am daft Crazy even For not thinking differently For not changing into a different colour

But scarlet is the only colour The only colour that kept me going It made me feel at home With scarlet I was never alone

Even when my mother died And nobody was left at home I wore scarlet to her funeral Just like many years ago at father’s Wearing scarlet felt like joy and peace And never caring at all

But bad things come without a care I ripped my silky, woven clothes My hair was cut unevenly With bruises and such Littered evenly amongst my thighs and my stomach I no longer long for scarlet

And now All I pine after crimson And my thirst can only be quenched by blood The need of death is getting larger But the aim this time It wasn’t among me

It was among others And my torn scarlet clothes The cold knife that shined in the sun The crimson blood comes falling down Trickling down In places no one even knows I’ve never been caught I stay in the shadows That knife will shine in the light But At least I kill in the dark.

[creativewritingweekend]

Crimson

I could julienne my veins and watch crimson red drip down my fingertips and hit the packed wet sand painting the happiest picture of death but I don’t have the heart for suicide or the will to live so I get up from the swing pick up my things throw the blade, away get on my bike, plaster on my best melancholy smile and head home to a mother who tries her best to stave off my sadness as well as her own, her abusive husband and prepare for another day of throwing the blade away. To wait for the day I’ll become the dead girl on the playground.

[creativewritingweekend]

ugly

every night to find sleep is a struggle. and every day is exhausting. such a contradiction but to me it makes sense. the contradiction is so beautiful, the way it complements each other the way it shows my mental state the way it hints at the underlying problem. the subtlety of the logic that underlies like the hints of yellow in a prospering tree. there’s a reason people say “sleep is for the weak”, the matter of fact is that the weak don’t sleep they just can’t. it is almost physically impossible for me to sleep it’s no longer about rest it’s more about the need to waste away the time when no one is awake so that i don’t feel lonely. while the idea of isolation is beautiful the feeling, it’s like the distaste you feel when you see a mistreated puppy. one sheep two sheeps three sheeps screw it what’s the point ? the moment my eyes droop shut my brain bursts into colours and i find sleep cowering in a corner. sleep is dark it’s the lack of colours and the lack of light that’s why we turn off the lights. don’t you find, when there are colours, sleep seems slightly more out of reach ? there may be science behind this but this way of thinking just seems more beautiful and more comprehensible. as my brain goes all over the place i wonder how i ever stayed on topic in any of my peoms, when my essays always seem shy of answering the question. it’s the kind of contradiction that holds so much beauty.

[creativewritingweekend]

The Room

it doesn’t feel like giving up, the way you sit alone in your room.

it’s the way you feel peace at the bottom of a pool and happiness at the end of a vodka bottle.

it’s the way you stand in front of a 100ft drop and you don’t really mind which way the wind will blow.

it’s the way joy feels mediocre and sadness becomes your constant.

it’s the way you look at the stars and can no longer call yourself awed.

it’s the way flesh doesn’t sit well on bones, and skin feels like nothing at all.

it’s just the way this room feels empty, and the way you realise it’s not the room at all.

[creativewritingweekend]

Untitled

Its v. long sorry

I don’t understand What is the purpose of doing something without a purpose Everyone says that it is to get through an apparent facade A crippling, blinding facade And behind that facade is unimaginable beauty, and whatever makes you happiest But Try and define beauty Beauty to me is nothing Beauty to me is the most disgusting, repulsive thing in the world It forces people to go out their way, kill, fight and steal All of that for beauty The nothing I am talking about is abstract The nothing I’m talking about is a nothing that we all believe in The box that is I isolate myself in is comfortable Perhaps too comfortable for my own good People talk And they say that my box is too small But it actually isn’t I fit inside of it perfectly With a little bit of leg space There are a few cushions With an aromatic candle burning And a cup of amber tea, sitting in my hands at the perfect temperature for me to drink it from This is my box I occasionally take walks out my box Sometimes long, and sometimes short Nobody thinks or cares about the short walks Except me But everyone’s world revolves around themselves It’s natural but selfish This space that I have created for myself One that I hardly ever leave People tell me to think outside the box I do But I sit inside and think I love my box I made it for me An anxiety free place You will probably hate it So I shall never take you there I’d rather stay comfortable than face rejection As the seasons pass Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter And the flowers start blooming, and the scorching Sun comes out, the golden leaves pave the roads and the cold winter times come As I change My box changes with me Sometimes small things, sometimes large Like the way I drink my tea Or even the color scheme Everything changes And everything is controlled by my attitude, mood and thoughts As I grow, I make a larger box I build it with materials I have collected on my walks I have stacked those materials outside my box These materials don’t have a box They are free They are unlabelled They don’t have to suffer in silence They are motionless And dead Just how I wish to be But the facade never fades I decide to sit in my box Everyone passes by and watches me I look fine I say I am fine But if you look real close You will see my shaking Flailing And banging my head against the wall crying for help But nobody decides to go that far So I sit in silence And greet you politely as you walk by I am happy with my box I am not necessarily happy in it But my box, I am happy with I have been told that my box is my problem That it is suffocating me Depriving me from life And trapping me with my thoughts Maybe Just maybe it is But without my box I will be dehydrated, since I will not have any tea There will be no creativity Or the feeling of ideas sparking and running through my fingertips Without my box There is no candle Without my candlelight I will be mislead There will be no light to guide my way But, without my box I will be happy Intellect is a curse And in my box I will be trapped with my thoughts They will blind me Influence me Choke me And, eventually kill me So maybe, Just maybe The moon can guide my way But maybe not The moon is so far away I cannot see everything in front of me And eventually misplace my foot I scrape myself As I fall into graves and holes I am left to live with dead people and scurrying rats Without light, I try to get up Yet I keep failing I get annoyed This is my bajillionth time trying But I got it right After digging myself a hole I get up And go to my box I enter my box and dress my wounds I dress my wounds in compliments, those I have collected on my long walks And I take a sip of some insults, those that I have gathered on my short walks I try not to let the insults to get to me head I swallow They are gone The holes are finally making their way to my box I try and avoid them I try and avoid the constant blabber and unnecessary chit-chat about pointless things in people’s life But I can’t drown the noises out So I lash out And walk away

I leave everyone wondering about me What has happened? What is making her this way? And after leaving I make my way to my box I scream my heart out I bang my head against the wall in utter frustration It’s time I decide to tell someone But all I got was rejection That is why I never share my box Because I was scared of this You are so selfish You don’t care about anyone else

You have a perfect life, shut up about your problems You are making me cry

So I think I already knew I was selfish You need not to remind me Sometimes I also wonder Do I actually care about other people? Not really And neither do you Your whole world revolves around yourself But of course you will get a little hurt if something happens to someone But it makes me happy I enjoy it Maybe I am psychopathic Maybe I am just insensitive So once again I will bring on the pain I am tired of fighting So I lift my fist in the air I bring it down Again and again and again The satisfying sound of skin hitting skin with the pressure fills the room My fist leaves blooming red marks I know later that they will be purple and blue

And once again I bring the razor to my skin Reciprocal movements Forwards, backwards Up and down My whole body shudders Little beads of blood exit the breach in my paper skin Then a whole waterfall But I don’t bloody care I don’t bloody care if you mourn Or weep I just don’t care Maybe something’s wrong with me I begin doubting myself I do next to nothing The demotivation has deprived me of living my life I don’t hate it anymore But I don’t love it Sip. Put in mouth. Swallow the insult. Again. Sip. Put in mouth. Swallow the insult. Again.

I did it alot

Pill after pill after pill I realise what I just did I should’ve cared more But I didn’t And I can’t change that about myself No matter what I do Even as I fall to the ground Clothes covered in vomit Blue lips and visible veins And my heart stops After every other organ fails me The organs fail like everyone else did after they realised what a freak I was So I cry And then I stop, like my heart, after realising how pointless it was

[creativewritingweekend]

rachel.

her story isn’t as tragic but to her it was a ride from hell. a brother who set standards she could never reach. a mother who found more value in her results than in her wellbeing. a father who thought screams worked better than words. a family whose duty was to make her life a living hell. she was cast aside and called things no one at the age of 7 should be called. “stupid” “fat” “lazy” “irritating” “lousy” no 7 year old should have to endure spankings, that leave marks on her legs and a sleepless night. no 7 year old should have to meet expectations of topping the level because her brother did. no 7 year old should think that the only way to get the attention she needs is to top her class. that 7 year old becomes an 18 year old, who still thinks that topping the class is more important than her mental health. that almost topping the level is more important than her natural need to sleep and rest. this 18 year old has pushed herself beyond her limits, and she’s broken. she’s exhausted and aching, but all she thinks about, is the results that she needs. she thinks about a future where she’s a powerful lawyer. but she doesn’t think about her mental health because it never brought her the things she needed. all it ever brought her was physical pain that she pushed aside with the need to study harder. it’s no longer about her, it’s about her work and the results it brings. this 18 year old still remembers every occassion she was called “fat” “stupid” “lazy”. and how every award she receives, brings more smiles to her parents’ face than when she brings home a smile. “good job” “keep it up” such encouraging words. and also such pressurising words. they’re accompanied by “you should be studying” because results are everything in her world. but no one sees the fatigue in her eyes, all they see are the results. and all that falls to her ears are “you’re a genius” “wow you study hard” compliments that mean nothing. because this is what she’s suppose to do. because this is what is expected of her. because … a 7 year old was given expectations she could not dream of reaching even with a 10 foot pole.