I Write Sometimes

Hey!!! I write mostly form poetry but I’m currently trying to get into writing stories in general!

[justghostlyy]

Hello there!

I’m into creative writing and world building at all times! Join me in my journey to hopefully finally finish my campaign and write things I mildly enjoy <3

[justghostlyy]

I’m genuinely so distraught right now, my old account was connected to my old high school email (we kept the emails for a few years after, probably due to Covid). And they are officially wiped. So I lost a lot of my draft work and world building for one of my DND campaigns.

I’m not caffeinated enough for this

(Me rn btw ^)

[mawofthemagnetar]

What do you mean “chat” is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?

When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.

[justghostlyy]

Unlike what I normally post but I got my first sweater day, I got two. Happy dayyy (finally)

[justghostlyy]

Im struggling to find any inspirations or have any comprehensive thoughts in general. Pls give me writing ideas!!!!

[justghostlyy]

I already miss being in a creative writing class and having designed time just to work on poetry and short stories. That and having a group to chat and compare pieces 🥲

[justghostlyy]

Trying to remind myself that I need to keep writing instead of just making commentary on writing I see on the daily

[justghostlyy]

I feel like sometimes the only thing that can fix writers block is to lay on the floor face first for five straight hours (music or none, your choice)

(This is me btw)

[justghostlyy]

Ghazal:That woman (creative liberty)

I constantly saw that woman on the side of the street. A whole meal to eat.

Swinging back and forth to her own beat, someone I can never truly meet.

I watched and admired her swing. Graceful yet oh so tasteful.

She was always bringing the heat, consistently inbeat.

She lived upstreet, I was only going downstream.

No matter what, I couldn't say a word. I felt like concrete.

I never lived too close to town, always felt like a regime.

But soon I’ll be gone, it’ll be different. Upstreet

I always wanted to be closer to my friends and people, it couldn’t be redeemed..

Every time I spoke I went down, falling, falling down. Downstream

I’ve never been in a place that everyone knew for too long. Nothing ever esteemed.

I’ve never wanted to be or seen or even be Mainstream

My therapist tells me a lot. She tells me I need to be more out there.

To be so fair maybe it’s just me, or maybe just the lack of Esteem

Or maybe it’s even just the lack of Protein.

(I never fully watched the notebook, but I liked the story from what I knew. You have a man from lower class absolutely smitten with a girl from high class. And I feel like often enough people compare their lives that way with people they're interested in. they’re inbeat but you feel like you have no chance. It’s a lack of esteem)

[justghostlyy]

An interesting tip i got that I’d like to share!!!

I remember going over this in my creative writing class when going over short stories. And often times the main issues our teacher would cover in our stories was them just falling flat in some way. And most of the time it was because we would go out of our way to overly explain the big parts of our story and the world it took place in. Instead of it flowing naturally. Truth me told I still have issues with this, I’ve posted beginnings of an older story I wrote. And absolutely hate the way I introduced everything so it’ll definitely be re written at some point lmao

[justghostlyy]

“Catching up my New Therapist.”

My moms a counselor, my dads a real estate appraiser.

I don’t know how to fit myself in that, ironically enough.

I’m always getting confused, looking for anything off the cuff,

And that’s not so tough when you consider the short stuff.

But who knows, it's probably just a bluff.

I’m five foot solid, I guess you can say I’m a little salted,

Seasoned to perfection, as my mom would say.

And I like to think she's a little off, a little bit of naysay

But at the end of the day it's just her own back-pay.

I was never really too close to my dad.

This is normally where my therapist pulls out the notepad.

But at the end of the day, I just really need a new mousepad.

I had a heavy lisp as a kid, I barely spoke because of it.

I couldn’t tell you about the will o’s the wisp,

or how my mind simply all just burnt’ to the crisp.

It choked the words out of me, the hims burning at the seams.

Maybe this deems my dreams unremarkable,

But damn, reading in my second grade class felt incomparable.

I used to steal all of the croutons from my dads house.

Taking the bag all to myself, making sure nobody was to catch me.

You could call my staged theft Oceans one,

but maybe that movie will be postponed, due to my brother finding me

As you can see, the only option was to flee from my crouton spree.

Like an apple tree, my dreams of theft were cut down to a degree.

This isn’t about the croutons.

I’m stuck in a place of grief. You can call this risky, but I hope it’s not.

It’s not too short, it’s not too much to export.

I was thirteen when I finally moved out. I could have just walked out.

This isn't a report, you’re just my last resort.

I have to get back on track-

My moms a counselor, my dads a real estate appraiser.

I don’t know how to fit myself in that… ironically enough.

(This is definitely a longer piece but I liked it enough to use for a competition I was in, soooo slay? I’ve been through two therapists. And often when you go to a new one it’s like playing a game of catch up. To ‘speed up’ the process lmao. I like this piece a lot though)

[justghostlyy]

A snippet of my short story:

From what I understood, I was told later that I woke up in Northwich, right in the center

of their forest. I was lucky that I didn’t get eaten by anything. All I remember now was being

surrounded by giant pine trees, I could barely even see the sky. When I finally got to the bar I

met Howard and Dorathy. Howard is this massive red dragonborn. When I first saw him it

honestly didn’t look like he belonged there, not due to him personally, but due to his size. He

barely fit. He looked to be about thirty, saying something for a dragonborn. His hair was on the

longer side, mostly being braided off to the side by his wife. There will always be some

handmade beads, fastidiously made by Dorathy. They had what looked to be runes carved into

them. They would then be carefully put into his hair, Then pulled back into a braid. Sometimes

one, sometimes two. Then you had his wife, Dorathy, a sharp little gnome. She had black hair cut

into a short messy bob. She tends to wear a dark red dress, most of the time with it being ,mostly

covered by a jacket or an apron. As sarcastic as ever towards everyone, she mainly did the books

for the bar. And for some reason, they kept calling me Booba, every time they said it Dorathy

would giggle. Although I’m still not sure what exactly the joke is, to begin with. But I guess a

name is a name. Sometimes now I’ll wake up and just hear Dorathy’s evil cackles, but I don’t

know what she’s ever really up to. Sometimes I think it’s something over the books. Other times

I think it has something to do with Howard.

My first night in the bar was something else to say the least. Howard was comforting in a

sense, he got me settled in an old guest room. Saying something about his brother and how he

used to stay in there while he visited. Howard then stopped and pulled something out of one of

his pockets. Then he handed me a journal, saying that it would give me something to do, he then

said it could help my memory issues. He even used one, after his time in the imperial army.

Eventually, he explained their government and their history. About the war that he thought

isolated my unknown village from the rest of the country. A lot of the conversation was just to

himself, not allowing me a second to use my powers to create signs to talk to him. He mainly

spoke about their newfound parliamentary democracy after the war, about his fallen guild.

Everything all at once. To be honest, after a while, I just started to toon him out. I barely even

knew him and here we are: a sheet ghost sitting on a dinky little bed and a dragonborn sitting on

the edge knowing that if he sits a little too much he’ll break it. Howard then started going onto

his own tangent. About Bramble the traveler. It wasn’t his fault you know, he fell out just on the

brink of time. I couldn't just throw him back into the village, are you insane?? It’s not like I know

what any of them even look like, I’ll take him back in the morning. I’m going to get to the

bottom of this. I’ll come back in an hour or two so I can get some information first. I’ll see you

later Howey.

[justghostlyy]

“Homely”

I wonder into my house

I don’t know how old I am at this point

starting the kettle on the stovetop.

waiting for someone,

I think it’s you.

I’m standing there in silence,

The whistle of the kettle blaring

Getting up to see you.

Pouring the hot water into

My coffee grounds, perfectly.

You look at me, stopping the pour

Talking to me, but I’m catching none of it.

Probably something about

Drinking coffee this late.

And yet, here you are.

You're pouring it in, slow and precise circles.

Making sure everything is breaking down.

Precise, and lovely.

I stare in shock.. standing at the doorway.

I can’t believe I’m finally home.

With you

[justghostlyy]

“Summer of 1999”

It was the summer of 1999,

She was nineteen.

I picture her being a photographer.

specifically taking photos

People she sees pass her on the streets.

Traveling the world,

taking it in one step at a time.

She is in her prime.

She’s spit off to something

that never really happened.

There were no signs.

Nothing that confines her.

She walks down an incline,

It's early in the morning.

I picture her in an old French cafe.

looking over her pictures,

wondering to herself

Is she forgetting something

She will not be reminded

of what could have happened.

She won’t have even an inkling

of what could’ve been.

She’s no longer nineteen.

She could have never foreseen

what could’ve been.

She developed a new routine.

One I'm unaware of.

She’s now everywhere,

You can see her on posters and billboards.

She sits there in an old French cafe.

It's early in the morning.

There were no signs.

Nothing that confines her.

She has split off into something that,

Could’ve never happened

[justghostlyy]

“ 42”

42 is the secret to life,

Is that just an amazing reference?

Yes but you don’t know its prevalence.

It's eloquence, the absolute elegance.

My forty two,

Like making my first rue,

They have always been too good to be true.

Always right on cue, my forty two.

Like midnight stew,

Like the perfect morning brew,

I never knew,

They could be as perfect as forty two.