halfdeadpoet

Despite the name, I’m not a poet But maybe I can be one day

[half-deadpoet]

I am no poet, but perhaps one day, I will be.

I never made an introductory post when I started, but I will now.

I’m half-deadpoet, and this is my writing blog. I used to write prose poetry, to try and revive some of my urge to write.

Much of my old work was created with real experiences and feelings mixed with fiction, but I am trying to move away from the fiction side of it all. That was more there to mask myself, anyways.

I am more than happy to receive criticism if you have any, be it the constructive kind, as I am always looking to improve my work.

I also do enjoy talking to people, so replies and asks, but most especially asks, mean the world to me.

Thank you for reading all this, and sticking around, whether new or old.

I felt like adding a picture to the end of this, just for fun. This is what I look like!

[half-deadpoet]

The thoughts have gotten better. I never really wanted to kill myself, you know. But it was worse before. I can’t tell if it’s gone back to the normal amount or not. I’m not suffering in half apathy like I was. I feel fine, I think. Sometimes I feel good. Because of my life, not whatever piece(s) of fiction make up a notable amount of my will to live. Will to live isn’t the right phrase. I always want to live. To keep going. There is always more to see and do and I will live to see and do it, if I have a choice in the matter. But I wouldn’t be alive without whatever thing I get obsessed with. Not really. I think there is something wrong with me that I am trying to fix and I don’t know how to fix it without it already being fixed. But I feel fun again. What if I did it. Would it prove anything or would it just hurt. I won’t, but what if.

[half-deadpoet]

Remembering again that she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that this was me

[starcrossedandstupid]

Please write poetry btw. Even if it’s bad. Especially if it’s bad. I don’t care what type you write, hell this is coming from someone who mainly writes prose poetry. But just write it. You don’t have to share it with anyone but it is so important it got made

[half-deadpoet]

When I look in the mirror, in every rippling pond or too clear can, I see her. Little white ribbons and swirling pink dresses, all too short and not quite there. She is something I am not. But she was all I was, once. She was all I knew how to be. I don’t think I would know how to be it again even if I knew how to try.

She echos in the corners of my mind, embedded in the membrane of myself. She and I are one and the same, we are nothing alike.

She sits behind my eyes, whispering something to the creature piloting my limbs that used to be hers. Used to be her. Used to be.

There is a time when she didn’t exist. When I surrounded myself with patchy green grass and plum purple doors and people and playgrounds and, on occasion, in shadowed corners and fuzzy futures, a longing to be a me I did not know would house her.

I remember it all as my own when sparks of thought and feeling flood what my skull has sworn to protect. A click of ignition, and yet still, the release of fog, of an ever airborne water coursing through the electric chain link that ties me into something that feels. I am nothing more than a series of jolts, and yet something cuts it. A shard of silver, tinted ever so slightly green. It should not separate melded metal, heated and cooled into something that breathes. And yet a crack forms, screeching and screaming and crying and cutting until something is split.

There is no birth, only an appearance. A fluttering ribbon, a whisper beside reddening paths, a reflection. I look and I see me. She stares back.

[half-deadpoet]

A Letter to No One; An Ode to Time

When a church is abandoned, when it is overgrown with gnarled branches and nightshade and cypress, when the marbled statues and the hand painted sceneries chip and fade, do the walls remember? Do they creak and groan, whispering tales of what once filled them, even when no ears remain to listen?

Do those who used to live inside the warmth of its hardwood floors, who once found comfort in its embrace, recall all the joy they felt, oh so many years ago, or do they lament what time has done to it? Do they think of the bitter winds that swept through it, that lead to its disarray? Do they mourn its long dead future?

Do the corridors realize they are haunted by the fragments and shadows of those who loved it enough to stay, in some way? Does it know that its broken beams and peeling drywall make up the flesh and bone of those who can’t quite bear to leave it behind? That somewhere, a rotting arch lives among something’s marrow, that its hymns are etched in another’s veins?

When echos, old and weary, try to whisper under the ever-building dust, does the sediment know to reminisce? Does it care to?

Does a church bell try to ring through its withered halls, as a call to those who used to hum its tune?

[half-deadpoet]

Sparks and ash burn out my flesh

But ignored its remains

No I stay by the flame

Watching it destroy adamantine

Singe my skull in blackened vibrant vines

Consume my sky

Star freckled cheeks regress back towards mercury

Too hot to be

Yet still proceed

[half-deadpoet]

An empty bed

Is a nightmare

For every reason it used be

reversed

It is bygone

A memory

A reminder

Do not remind me.

[half-deadpoet]

Sorry for it being short, I am trying to experiment with style. I want to try and write more, which means sloppy attempts and jotted down poems

[half-deadpoet]

An empty bed

Is a nightmare

For every reason it used be

reversed

It is bygone

A memory

A reminder

Do not remind me.

[starcrossedandstupid]

Rough night. Feels like Covid again, but a little different. So different, exactly the same. I’m not sure if I’ll add more to it, but it felt ready enough to post.

[half-deadpoet]

Yet again reblogging on here because I wanted to post on main, but still wanted to put it on my writing alt.

[starcrossedandstupid]

When a church is abandoned, when it is overgrown with gnarled branches and nightshade, when the marbled statues and paining sceneries chip and fade, do the walls remember? Do they creak and groan, whispering tales of what once filled them, even when no ears remain to listen?

Do those who lived in the hardwood floors, if they come to visit, do they recall the joy they felt, oh so many years ago, or do they lament what time had done to it, think of the bitter winds that swept through it to lead it to its disarray? Do they mourn its long dead future?

Do the corridors realize they are haunted, spirits silent yet wailing, that those shadows who remain and scream without noise, are still those who loved it enough to stay, in some way? Do they realize that that the peeling drywall is the closest thing they have bones now, and that its hymns are carved through their marrow?

Does a church bell ring in its withered halls, as a call to those who used to sing its tune?

[half-deadpoet]

Sometimes, and just sometimes, it still hurts.

[half-deadpoet]

Trying out writing poetry again. It took a while to get here, and it isn’t what I’m used to writing, but I did it. It isn’t perfect, but if I didn’t post it, either my heart may explode or I may never write poetry again. It isn’t like my other writing, subject matter wise, and it feels a little more abstract. I would love to hear interpretations of it, if you do read it.

[half-deadpoet]

The Wolf, The Raven, The Cat

Wild, wild wolf. Teeth sharp as fangs, coated in blood. Growl, fierce and loud. To scare, for fun, in fear. Reason melts away. Violence seeps into the soul, taking joy in it.

Clever, clever raven. Take the shiniest things. The valuables. Smarts prevail. Soar and fly and hide. Running away is easier in the sky. 

Lucky, lucky cat. Death cannot catch what lives nine lives. Fate favors felines. Stare the reaper down, know many lives are left. Fur and skin will feel another day of the sun’s warmth. 

Return home, to the den. Now lone, no comfort of others. Only the blood. It is peaceful and eerie and odd. The nest is long lost, whereabouts erased from the mind. Even that can be forgotten, replaced with only the feeling of rushing away. There is no stop. But those that shine are comforting even still. Death may not get soul or flesh, but fate’s favoritism is not always a blessing. Gone are favorites of those in the time of old. But the one untouched by the reaper remains, having witnessed all. The sun’s warmth does not comfort the guilty soul as the night breeze and stars do.

[half-deadpoet]

It is no where near anything remotely real, but I’m starting to think about where I want my poetry to go and what I want it to be about. A new era for my poems, so to speak. Running away, open fields, adventure, freedom. Just because someone makes their own choices doesn’t mean they are truly free, and they want to change that. That’s the protagonist’s new feelings. As usual, I’m sure it will be based somewhat in me. It may be in a week or in five months. But I want to start again. I wrote about sapphic yearning before, but my writing is switching to a different type of yearning, a longing for freedom.

[jonquilandlace]

[cadaverre]

because who could ever leave me darling? but who could stay