Veracht

A poet. Anti-War. Follow me on TikTok: n.veracht

[nveracht]

Me when trauma induced poetry

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The effects of reading The Metamorphosis and loving it I think

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The Brothers Karamazov 🙂‍↕️ this low-key looks aesthetic I took it to show my friend his name lol

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Drenched in Sohn. Another war poem. 🫩. It might be bad I made this out of utter boredom. I do like it. First poem which has rhyme.

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Another war poem 🫩.

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English Language Paper 1, AQA, Q5 example. My headteacher hasnt seen it yet 🫩 don’t even know if it’s good enough for 34-40 marks. Might aswell share it.

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Tenderness in War.

Another poem. I make a lot of poems, I get very bored. I have my GCSE history exam tomorrow and I cannot be bothered right now.

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Wrote a poem, once again, about war. Except, it’s WWI this time. It’s called ‘One, Two, Three, Run.’

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This is what happens when you write 2 weeks before your GCSES (this was two weeks ago yes we love tortured poetry) I LOVE WRITING ABOUT WAR ITS BEAUTIFUL IN AN ANGUISHED WAY

[nveracht]

Wrote a poem, once again, about war. Except, it’s WWI this time. It’s called ‘One, Two, Three, Run.’

[nveracht]

Wrote a short story. An Italian Captain during the 1940’s gets wrapped up in something, but he doesn’t know why, or whats happening.

This is PART 1.

— — — — — —

What is life, if not a fabrication of memories clumped together and shoved within one’s mind? When I first looked into your eyes I saw nothing but bleakness. A hollow tube weaving through time and space, wakefulness and sleep. A man cannot be immortal, but when I tried to touch your face I felt ecstatic, like a man on top of the world, undefeated. You tick and sway as you go by, never stopping. I had wanted you to stand still just for a few moments, but I knew if you did, the entire world would cease its movements. A summer morning lights the room, rays of sunlight branding open curtains, toddling in clumsily through filtered air. A bird faraway hums a small song, a magpie no doubt. I smell nothing but my own misery sweltering with humidity around me, even if I am pressed hot by warmth from the sun. May seems dull. The year 1947 seems excruciatingly boring. Lashes flutter as eyelids lift, pupils constricting. I wake up and glance around, touching my sternum cautiously. Sometimes I feel as though my life is slipping through the smooth edges of my fingers, even if that is not the case. Another day of futility is what I succumb to. I get up quickly, the soles of my feet plastering themselves on the cold boards of the floor, sending jittery tingles throughout my legs. To my left there is a mirror. The man in that mirror seems gaunt yet striking. Shadows painting under his eyelids, coated by half-lidded weary eyes that shroud orbits of darkened chestnut within them. Sometimes I cannot recognise the man staring back at me. He seems far-fetched, a product of whatever has come of this world, but I know I cannot hide behind his skin forever. My hand reaches for the metal of the door handle, the door swinging open with a soft thump. The day is bright and new, and yet my thoughts linger on the previous cacophonies of sound from last week. Which was not ideal. I don’t particularly enjoy the act of thinking. Not when my ears prick when the pinch of a beak taps against sullen wood, or lips move with coarse and delightful words, echoing out from the streets below, praising the new morning dawning upon wobbling foals of emerging socialism.

A sharp succession of knocks gently bombard my door as the minutes tick by, growing more incessant and irritable. I walk over and open it, only to find myself facing a small child of antiqued clothing. He smiles and yet, it seems to be rather distasteful and shallow. His clothes are oversized, eyes wide and mischievous, flitting across the inside of my house, whatever his gluttoned eyes can lay upon. Atop his head a crown is placed, glistening with moist triumph. For a few moments I assume he is a mere figment of my gargling imagination, for a boy such as himself cannot exist. He does not blink, unnervingly so. Without ceremony his voice churns from deep within his shrivelled chest, tenderly booming with childish jubilance. “Why did you kill my father, signore?” He asks with great enthusiasm, bouncing on his heels, the crown shifting and nestling around his flaxen locks. For a moment I simply stare, taken aback by his boldness. I considered asking him about whether he had been on anything unreliable recently, or whether he was psychologically ill, but I refrained, unsure of whether this was a dream touching the edges of my mind by God, or some sickeningly vague fantasy gnarled and mangled from my time as a soldier. I blink and his back is turned, feet sprinting away from me. He seems almost physiognomic in movements and nature, teeth chattering with retrained cackles as his shadow disappears from sight, melting into a corner around a faraway street. Sun-dazed, I stare dumbly at the spot he preoccupied in front of me, lips tugging into a barely concealed sneer of contempt. What a strange morning. I thought to myself, immobilised by confusion. Above me, cerulean hues of sky crack, rubble crumbling down and dropping onto the street. The sky is breaking, heaven is singing its hymns, blowing its ancient trumpets and claiming the end of humankind. Well, I didn’t want to die. Not yet. I am too young for such ignorance and loss of levity and life. Fingers curl around the sleeve of my shirt, crinkling into soft fabric and tugging. My feet comply with the force and I blink. The skies seemed normal as I glance up in fascination, momentarily stunned by what I had seen. A man’s voice rustles into my ears, awakening my present consciousness. I turn my heels and see his face, kind and humble yet strangely concerned for whatever reason. “Are you okay?” He inquired, sounding confused himself. His hand brushes at my sleeve, removing dust and rubble. Strange. I wonder where the rubble had come from. I nod my head in affirmation, “Yes, I’m quite alright.” His eyebrows pull together subtly, crinkling a small patch between his eyes. He nods behind me, and I look. On the floor lies a heap of rubble, dust and concrete. It seems my ceiling has partially collapsed. The ground seems as if it breathes, or perhaps it is merely nature's breath pulsing out of her lungs lustily. I thank the man for his service, the service of tugging me out of harm whilst I was slightly inconvenienced by the musings of my own thoughts, particularly about the boy. A lump festers and blocks my trachea, and suddenly I thought the entire world was somehow against me, and wanted to cry until my eyes pruned. The man’s touch seemed mellow, projecting a casual sense of relief. He felt physical and close, unlike that fantasmical cherub of tyranny.

[nveracht]

This is the result of procrastination for GCSES. Italian Capitano u r not ok

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A small poem about WWII. Consciousness; Morality.

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PART 3 (final)

— — — — —

A woman clutched my hand, urging my face to turn towards hers. Her lips pressed tight in concern as she regarded me. “Are you okay?” She asked. My heart dropped. Not just down, but to my intestines as I listened to her inquiry. Staring at her face I shook my head frantically and yanked my hand from her own, backing away with frightened eyes and pale, cracking lips. Heads turned, curious and empty eyes stared at me with grotesque wonder, as if I were some animal within an enclosure. Fog rolled over the city, the sky above darkening slightly in gloom. The boy from before had come back, bouncing towards me with a slight skip in his step, a sickeningly stretched grin marring its little face. That crown perched on his head was cracked, a gem tumbling down onto the floor, sinking into it like quicksand. “Why did you kill my father?” He murmurs, head tilted to the side in faux confusion. “I don’t know.” I answer truthfully, hoping he would leave. “I don’t know.” My voice quietens along the last syllable. I had killed hundreds of men, women and perhaps children. I didn’t know who he was talking about, and at the same time, I didn’t want to know. “My father’s rifle had faulted and jammed. You saw him and killed him with a bayonet. Why would you do that?” The child’s voice rose in intensity, as if something was growing inside him, festering beneath his coiled gut. My mouth opened to respond, before shutting quickly. I didn’t know who the hell this nut job was even talking about. The people around who were watching began to shift towards me, one small step at a time. My brows furrowed in confusion before I backed away. The boy's hands extended, as if overcome by the need to touch. My head shook and would not stop, disbelief etched within every corner of my features.

I hear a voice above. Somewhere from that beautiful, darkened and despondent sky. The clouds do not part but the sun peeks through with melancholy. It speaks to me, and the child ceases in his movements as well. I wonder what this voice is saying, yet it lulls me into security, and pulls me away from circumstance. Run. It says, Run from everything, and open your mind. I don’t understand what it means, but I try. Turning my back with hesitation, legs striding in long strokes of sprints as I make my way towards a random turn and corner. I look back. The boy is smiling sweetly with contempt. My eyes flutter as I find myself bound to my fatigue, staring at a white, sterile ceiling, accompanied by a flickering light. A man aged by history looks down on me, tapping the skin of my cheek incessantly. I say nothing. His voice sounds like the sky that spoke to me. My eyes loiter around the room, and I find myself with a needle stuck between the folds of my skin, nestled comfortably and connected to a bag. My chest seemed bandaged and it aches to speak and breathe, albeit the ache seems dulled.

“What?” I speak, my voice sluggish and horse, vowels stretching. The man looks at me with mild surprise. “Signore Capitano Bianchi, You were shot in the chest.” My eyes slowly shut in contemplation. Shot in the chest. A question grated on the edge of my tongue, before I asked. “What year is it?” — “1941, Signore Capitano.” A radio crackles, and a little girl sings through it, backed with the sound of a melting and sultry saxophone. I say nothing, then it hits me. I had killed a man once. Cringing into a trench to evade shrapnel. He was British from what I remember. A private. His hands were shaking, heel of his hand pushing against his rifle. I had taken advantage of it and killed him. Impaled through his heart. He had a photo gripped between his dirtied and raw hands. A photo of a small boy. Blonde locks of hair and a chubby face, smiling gleefully at the camera. The man’s name was James. James who had looked at me with horror before his rifle loaded, and he shot me in the chest, right before I had pierced his chest with my bayonet.

What a strange day, indeed.

[nveracht]

PART 2

— — — — —

Parting ways I had gotten dressed for casual outings and had made my way towards the scurrying streets, breathing in fresh air. Voices intertwined, raising and falling in pitch as my legs carried me through long, undisturbed strides. Women’s puckered lips smiled innocently, smudging with rose tinted lipstick as they walked alongside others. Men gesticulated among brethren, sometimes trailing alongside their lovers, enjoying the beauty of life. A woman hunched behind a table of draping clothes lay seated, fussing over something out of view. Her eyes seemed sunken and barely open, wrinkles adorning her face, each line of embedded scar telling an aging story of decline. Fingers trembling slightly as she reached for a stack of papers, presumably to sell. The headline read ‘Man Kills Another; Child Seeks Justice.’ In the corner of my eye I saw the dissolving tissues of the boy's face and body, liquifying into the pestering cobblestone grounds. The old woman looked at me, smiling crookedly. Teeth bathed in rotting yellow, protected by cracking lips smudged with dried, flaking drops of blood. Her teeth clacked together, chattering as if in a restrained guffaw, laughing at something only she was aware of. Her eyes bore into me, unflinching even as I avoided contact, shuffling away quickly. I contemplated the heading I saw before, visualising the crumpled and carefully molded corners of newspaper decorating it. God was seeming to become more of a deranged social concept as time went on. Time herself cannot even loathe the existence of deity. Her eyes which flicker with ticking handles, her body that gently blows with winds, never stopping, never relenting. I despised religion. It seemed useless to me. Why must humans find comfort in something entirely make believe, simply to soothe their fraying nerves about the emptiness which accompanies death? I had never understood such notions of metaphysical comfort. God cannot save you if he was real, nor would he want to. I felt an overwhelming need to pause and close my eyes, to soak up the limited peace I was granted, and so I did. The sounds around me blocked out from my consciousness as I leaned against a wall, arms crossed in sync with ankles. The breeze wafted through the air, twisting and curving around objects and blowing clothes with reverent tenderness. My heart pulsed within its soft cage of bones, beating in rhythm with my thoughts. Not far away a man held a saxophone and began to play, bending with the notes of his music, which sounded like teeth. If teeth were made of jelly. Attacking the psyche with trepidation. The notes curled around my eardrums as I listened, wondering what he was playing. Eyes cracked open and I saw him, mere feet away with a filled hat of money resting beside him on the dusted ground. A face so serene, eyes closed in passion for his muse, he played as if the world knew no more than him, and him only. As if he was the only person in this world, and we, as people, were onlookers for his gratifying craft. He seems more like a God than whatever fantasies others believe in. Physical, close and real. I blink and he smiles at me, eyes opened and peering into my own as he lost himself with the tantalising music he orchestrated. My body jerked back slightly in shock as he did so, caught off guard. To my left I hear a little girl chanting “Guarda! Guarda, Fratello!” And skipping towards the other happily, deep dimples poking into her cheeks as she dropped a few coins into his hat. She bumped into me and excused herself. When I saw her face completely, it seemed animalistic and deformed, as if Satan himself had kissed her eyes individually and embraced her being. Eyes sunken and pupils that seemed almost serpent-like. Her teeth as she smiled were quite dull, yet her canines seemed to be sharper than average. Looking up at me, the girl’s small tongue stuck out in jest, a tongue riddled with a crimson hue before her teeth clicked against each other in a laugh when she had passed me. I couldn’t say anything before she took off, disappearing into the crowd.

[nveracht]

Wrote a short story. An Italian Captain during the 1940’s gets wrapped up in something, but he doesn’t know why, or whats happening.

This is PART 1.

— — — — — —

What is life, if not a fabrication of memories clumped together and shoved within one’s mind? When I first looked into your eyes I saw nothing but bleakness. A hollow tube weaving through time and space, wakefulness and sleep. A man cannot be immortal, but when I tried to touch your face I felt ecstatic, like a man on top of the world, undefeated. You tick and sway as you go by, never stopping. I had wanted you to stand still just for a few moments, but I knew if you did, the entire world would cease its movements. A summer morning lights the room, rays of sunlight branding open curtains, toddling in clumsily through filtered air. A bird faraway hums a small song, a magpie no doubt. I smell nothing but my own misery sweltering with humidity around me, even if I am pressed hot by warmth from the sun. May seems dull. The year 1947 seems excruciatingly boring. Lashes flutter as eyelids lift, pupils constricting. I wake up and glance around, touching my sternum cautiously. Sometimes I feel as though my life is slipping through the smooth edges of my fingers, even if that is not the case. Another day of futility is what I succumb to. I get up quickly, the soles of my feet plastering themselves on the cold boards of the floor, sending jittery tingles throughout my legs. To my left there is a mirror. The man in that mirror seems gaunt yet striking. Shadows painting under his eyelids, coated by half-lidded weary eyes that shroud orbits of darkened chestnut within them. Sometimes I cannot recognise the man staring back at me. He seems far-fetched, a product of whatever has come of this world, but I know I cannot hide behind his skin forever. My hand reaches for the metal of the door handle, the door swinging open with a soft thump. The day is bright and new, and yet my thoughts linger on the previous cacophonies of sound from last week. Which was not ideal. I don’t particularly enjoy the act of thinking. Not when my ears prick when the pinch of a beak taps against sullen wood, or lips move with coarse and delightful words, echoing out from the streets below, praising the new morning dawning upon wobbling foals of emerging socialism.

A sharp succession of knocks gently bombard my door as the minutes tick by, growing more incessant and irritable. I walk over and open it, only to find myself facing a small child of antiqued clothing. He smiles and yet, it seems to be rather distasteful and shallow. His clothes are oversized, eyes wide and mischievous, flitting across the inside of my house, whatever his gluttoned eyes can lay upon. Atop his head a crown is placed, glistening with moist triumph. For a few moments I assume he is a mere figment of my gargling imagination, for a boy such as himself cannot exist. He does not blink, unnervingly so. Without ceremony his voice churns from deep within his shrivelled chest, tenderly booming with childish jubilance. “Why did you kill my father, signore?” He asks with great enthusiasm, bouncing on his heels, the crown shifting and nestling around his flaxen locks. For a moment I simply stare, taken aback by his boldness. I considered asking him about whether he had been on anything unreliable recently, or whether he was psychologically ill, but I refrained, unsure of whether this was a dream touching the edges of my mind by God, or some sickeningly vague fantasy gnarled and mangled from my time as a soldier. I blink and his back is turned, feet sprinting away from me. He seems almost physiognomic in movements and nature, teeth chattering with retrained cackles as his shadow disappears from sight, melting into a corner around a faraway street. Sun-dazed, I stare dumbly at the spot he preoccupied in front of me, lips tugging into a barely concealed sneer of contempt. What a strange morning. I thought to myself, immobilised by confusion. Above me, cerulean hues of sky crack, rubble crumbling down and dropping onto the street. The sky is breaking, heaven is singing its hymns, blowing its ancient trumpets and claiming the end of humankind. Well, I didn’t want to die. Not yet. I am too young for such ignorance and loss of levity and life. Fingers curl around the sleeve of my shirt, crinkling into soft fabric and tugging. My feet comply with the force and I blink. The skies seemed normal as I glance up in fascination, momentarily stunned by what I had seen. A man’s voice rustles into my ears, awakening my present consciousness. I turn my heels and see his face, kind and humble yet strangely concerned for whatever reason. “Are you okay?” He inquired, sounding confused himself. His hand brushes at my sleeve, removing dust and rubble. Strange. I wonder where the rubble had come from. I nod my head in affirmation, “Yes, I’m quite alright.” His eyebrows pull together subtly, crinkling a small patch between his eyes. He nods behind me, and I look. On the floor lies a heap of rubble, dust and concrete. It seems my ceiling has partially collapsed. The ground seems as if it breathes, or perhaps it is merely nature's breath pulsing out of her lungs lustily. I thank the man for his service, the service of tugging me out of harm whilst I was slightly inconvenienced by the musings of my own thoughts, particularly about the boy. A lump festers and blocks my trachea, and suddenly I thought the entire world was somehow against me, and wanted to cry until my eyes pruned. The man’s touch seemed mellow, projecting a casual sense of relief. He felt physical and close, unlike that fantasmical cherub of tyranny.