Casper The Poet

I love poetry but dont have my own dead poets society or poet's corner so I'll post here.

[poetry-writer]

Intro post

Hi I'm Casper, I use he/they pronouns, and I love poetry.

I don't have my own poet's corner or dead poet's society to share my works, so this is where I'll do that.

Despite being pretty shit at poetry (trigger a bunch of scrunched up paper being thrown at me. pls someone get this reference) I enjoy it, and that's what matters.

Also I'm a minor so don't be weird

[poetry-writer]

OMG OUR FRIEND GROUP SHOULD HAVE OUR OWN DEAD POETS SOCIETY

THAT WOULD BE SO COOL

lowkey we should

[poetry-writer]

Ledger of a Living Ghost

You wake as condensation on your own glass, a thumbprint of breath on the window of bone; your body moves forward, a well-dressed impasse, while you trail behind it, incorrectly sewn.

You butter your toast with a knife made of air, the blade going through it, through plate, through your hand; the kettle screams warnings you don’t think to hear, steam braiding a future you won’t understand.

In meetings, your voice is a moth at the pane, dusting the fluorescent hum with its wings; it leaves a faint powder of almost-a-name on memos, on minutes, on permanent things.

You nod as though gravity authored your spine, as though you were fastened to cause and effect; yet secretly drift like a torn valentine that missed its intended and fell incorrect.

It isn’t that choice is a costume you wear, you feel every lever click under your skin; each word is a match struck to oxygen air, each pause is a cellar you’re sealing within.

But consequence ferments in barrels of years, a vineyard that fattens on weather and wait; by harvest you’ll be past the reach of its shears, a rumor of pulp at the lip of the crate.

So you cross at the red with a shrug of the eyes, imagining impact will cancel your debt; you plant little storms in the soil of replies and tell yourself thunder forgets to collect.

You flirt with the edge of a rooftop at dusk, the tar still exhaling its petrochemical prayer; below, all the windows blink sodium musk, a hive of tomorrows you won’t have to bear.

There’s comfort in thinking you’re already smoke, a smudge in the lungs of a calendar’s page; if ash is the afterword fate never spoke, why fret over sparks at the lip of the stage?

Yet under your ribs something feral and bright keeps score with a chalkboard of marrow and nerve; each gesture you make leaves a bruise in the light, each mercy withheld has a curve it will curve.

You know that the ledger is patient as mold, that interest blossoms in damp, hidden rooms; the door you don’t open grows hinges of gold, the love you don’t water develops its tombs.

Still you rehearse being less than your weight, a draft in the corridor, thin and aloof; you practice the art of arriving too late, of slipping like rain from the eaves of the roof.

And maybe that story is only a veil: you call yourself vapor to soften the blame; but even a specter leaves oils on the rail, even absence can answer to name.

So stand in your kitchen of chrome and of tile, feel how the floorboards remember your tread; the future is slow, but it travels in file, and it follows the living long after they’re dead.

[poetry-writer]

this was meant to be for school about a fictional character but then i projected a bit too hard.

Old Enough

I am old enough to know what slammed doors mean even when they say it was just the wind.

Old enough to understand why the plates rattle in the cabinet when they use each other’s names like weapons.

But too young to pack a bag and decide where my life goes.

The judge decided. Or maybe they did. Or maybe it was over long before anyone said the word divorce out loud.

I live with my mother now because she is “better.” That’s the word everyone uses. Better.

Better doesn’t mean kind. Better doesn’t mean soft. Better just means less damage.

She says if I don’t appreciate life in her house I can go live with my father.

My father, whose name in this house is always followed by lazy selfish impossible failure.

She throws the words like darts and doesn’t see how they land in me.

You’re just like him when you forget to rinse your plate.

You’re just like him when you sigh like that.

You’re just like him when you sit there quiet like you’ve got something to prove.

I start folding myself smaller, trying to edit out the parts of me that belong to him.

But half my face is his. Half my laugh is his. Half my silence is his too.

What am I supposed to do with the math of that?

Sometimes I imagine a house that is only mine. A sink full of dishes no one is angry about. Silence that isn’t loaded. A door that closes and means privacy not exile.

I count the years like someone scratching lines into a wall.

Four more. Three and a half. Three.

It feels like waiting for a train that I can hear in the distance but cannot see.

I am old enough to understand that love can rot from the inside out.

Old enough to know that adults can be wrong and still be in charge.

But too young to choose which parts of them I get to keep.

So I carry both of them inside my ribs, her outbursts, his sharpness,

and I build, quietly, in the back of my mind, a blueprint

for a place where no one tells me to leave to prove I belong.

[poetry-writer]

This was for my english class and i wrote it on the most dangerous writing app or whatever it's called (ill link it at the bottom) but essentially the concept is that if you stop typing you lose all the work you've done and you have 5 minutes to do it.

The Boy & The Gun

Kill the boy. The gun shouts at you.

It shouts over and over for you to kill him. Who he is, You do not know. All you know is that he exists and he wants to kill you. So you must get to him first. Before he finds you in the waking world. And attacks you as he does each night. Stalking you through the resting world. Threatening death upon you.

You never see him. Never see the face that promises the end of your life. That wants your essence to fade. That will kill you with the very gun, That shouts at you each day. Metal and violence betraying its owner.

The trigger will be pulled. The bullet will hit your head. As it pierces through bone and flesh, As it breaks through sinew and veins, Your blood will splatter, Coating the floor with all that remains of you, Crimson seeping into wood, Until the stained ground is the only thing That remembers the man who once walked these halls.

This is where you will meet your end. In the rooms that have contained you all these years. All these years you have been alone. Since the dreams started and you pushed them away, Scared everyone you once knew and loved could be The boy who haunts you.

You know there is no purpose in leaving. He follows your mind, A dark cloud hovering over you. And as much as you have tried, A man cannot separate himself from the mind That makes up all his being.

So you wait. Wallowing in your home. Alone forevermore. Until the boy will come and take you from this misery.

You don't know when he will arrive. You don’t know if he has been stalking you through life, As he will one day do through death. If he is a child that lingers around corners, Waiting for the moment he can take your soul.

As you wait, You have come to be waiting in hope, Instead of the anxiety of before.

So when he arrives as you knew he would, you let him in.

And as he raises the gun to your head, Only then does the face unblur. And you see his eyes reflected back in the mirror As you pull the trigger to take your life.

The Most Dangerous Writing App. If you stop typing, all progress will be lost. Now with over 500+ writing prompts to choose from.

[poetry-writer]

Your really fucking bad at pietray. Kill you're self

what. what is pietray. is that meant to say poetry??

also you're self?? do you mean yourself?? what the fuck is this???

[poetry-writer]

Within the Horse of Hollowed Wood

The timbers groan; the darkness breathes like men, and sweat runs cold along the greaves of war. Odysseus speaks, his voice a serpent’s thread, “Hold fast, hold faith; the dawn will open Troy.”

I taste the sap of pine, the tang of fear; my brothers breathe like hunted beasts in snares. The air is thick with prayers the gods ignore, and hope lies coiled beside the edge of dread.

We’ve trusted cunning more than any spear, his mind, our prow; his guile, our unseen sail. Yet I, who’ve stood through ten years’ storm of blades, feel tremors now in faith and seasoned heart.

If dawn betrays us, we shall burn as one; if not, then fire will fall upon the town. The fates will weave their pattern, bright with blood, and we shall call it glory, as men must.

Yet if we live, the journey home is brief, a gentle wind, a calm and faithful sea. No fool would wander months upon the wave, when Ithaca lies but a league or three. Surely the gods are weary of their games, and grant swift passage to the wise and brave.

Odysseus’ eyes are bronze in candle-glow; they shine with plans no mortal fully knows. He smiles, and I remember: men like him can trick the world, and still be lost at sea.

The horse now groans; the gates of Troy give way. The wheels lament; the earth beneath us moans. I press my palm against the hollow wall, and feel it tremble, beating like a heart.

Not wood, not war, but something deep and strange: the pulse of doubt, of mortal thought confined, the sound of men who dream of peace and home, yet ride in silence, guided by deceit.

[poetry-writer]

Odysseus & Penelope

When long-lost winds bore him from Ithaca’s shore, Through tempests wild and gods that wove his fate, His heart kept turning toward her evermore, The patient queen who held her vigil late.

By day she wove, by night undid the seam, A tapestry of hope against despair; Each thread a whispered prayer or distant dream, That love might sail home on salt-stung air.

And he, though drawn by sirens soft and sweet, By trials cruel and monsters vast and grim, Found strength in thoughts of her, his anchoring beat, The light that made all shadows fade for him.

So time relented when he crossed the sea, And faith, long tested, blossomed, finally free.

[poetry-writer]

Achilles & Patroclus

Upon the plains where bronze-clad heroes throng, Two figures move as one through dust and flame; The swift-footed, the fierce, the bold and strong, And he whose quiet courage steadied fame.

No minstrel’s harp could tell their bond entire, A tether forged in youth, refined by war; In camp, in counsel, kindled by desire, Each held the other dearer than before.

When Hector’s spear felled gentle Patroclus, The world grew dark for Greece’s brightest son; Grief turned to fire within Achilles’ chest, And wrath drove on what sorrow had begun.

Yet in the end, beyond the mortal fray, Their names entwine, death cannot take away.

[poetry-writer]

The Epic Of Hyacinth And Apollo

Proem Sing, O Muse, of love that kindled beneath the sun, Of beauty mortal yet immortalized in bloom. Tell of Hyacinth, prince of Sparta’s shining plains, And of Phoebus Apollo, golden-haired archer, Whose heart, though crowned with light, was pierced by love’s own dart. Speak of joy divine turned sorrowful, Of how the fairest flower sprang from death, And how even gods must grieve what time cannot restore.

The Descent of the Sun God From high Olympus, where ambrosial winds Weave through halls of crystal and the lyres of heaven never sleep, Apollo looked down upon the lands of men. He beheld Laconia, realm of stone and olive, And there among the youths of Sparta’s bloom Shone Hyacinth, radiant as morning dew on marble.

His stride was grace itself, His laughter the sound of water meeting sunlight; No nymph, no mortal maiden, nor even god Could claim such light within their mortal frame. The hearts of mortals stirred at his passing, Yet none so deeply as the god of day.

For love, unbidden, stole into Apollo’s breast. He who had tamed the serpent Python, Who guided the hours and kept the order of the heavens, Found his will undone by a single glance. He left his silver-bowed chariot in the sky And walked the earth clothed in the guise of man, That he might stand beside the youth who shamed the dawn.

The Days of Companionship Long were the days that followed, Golden in their joy and endless in their song. The god and the boy were seldom parted, Together they hunted along the Arcadian slopes, Chased deer through whispering groves, And bathed in cool river pools at dusk.

Apollo taught him the secrets of the lyre; Under the olive’s shade they played, And music rose that silenced even the cicadas. He taught him to read the stars’ slow language, To trace Orion’s belt, to name each wandering flame. And Hyacinth, bright of mind and swift of heart, Learned as though his soul had always known.

The people whispered, For they saw a god in love with his creation. Yet love, when pure, fears not the tongue of envy; And Apollo’s joy was vast as the light he ruled. He crowned Hyacinth with laurel and set about his brow A circlet of woven sunlight. Never had Olympus known such tenderness As between the god of the sun and the prince of men.

The Wind of Jealousy But envy has roots that drink from shadowed wells. Zephyrus, the western wind, unseen but ever watchful, Had long loved the Spartan youth in secret. Oft had he brushed his cheek as a gentle breeze, Or stirred his hair when he lay dreaming in the fields. Yet Hyacinth’s gaze was turned to brighter flame, And the wind god’s heart, once soft, grew bitter.

He watched from afar as the two companions laughed, And where laughter rings too loud, envy finds its echo. He whispered to the grasses, He stirred the dust in quiet wrath, And swore that joy so radiant must fall.

The Game of Fate It was upon a day of midsummer blaze That destiny stretched out its hand. In the meadow of Amyclae they played, Testing strength and skill in friendly sport. Apollo, ever eager, raised the shining discus, A disc of bronze that gleamed like a fragment of his own sun.

He cast it high, higher than eagles dared, And the heavens rang with its singing flight. Hyacinth, fleet and fearless, ran to meet it as it fell, His eyes alight with youthful fire, His every step a prayer to please his god.

But Zephyrus, lurking among the reeds, Sent forth a gust sharp as a spear’s edge. The discus turned, treachery disguised as chance, And struck the boy upon the brow. A sound like thunder broke the air, And Hyacinth fell upon the ground, His lifeblood darkening the sunlit grass.

The God’s Lament The field grew still. Even the cicadas silenced their shrill songs, And the breeze that had murdered fled in shame. Apollo dropped his disc and knelt beside his love, Gathering the fading form into his arms.

“O cruel Fate,” he cried, “Was my light given only to witness darkness? O youth most dear, whose laughter outshone the lyre, Do not leave me to the silence of eternity!”

He tried with all his art to call the soul back, He whispered healing charms, He pressed his hand against the wound, He called upon Asclepius, upon all gods who tend the frail, But none could unbind what death had claimed.

So the god wept, and his tears burned the earth. The heavens dimmed, unwilling to outshine his grief. The Muses themselves came down in mourning veils, And from their sorrow sprang soft petals, Rising from the boy’s spilled blood like breath reborn.

A flower of deepest violet unfurled, Its scent heavy with the memory of love. Apollo named it Hyacinthos, And swore by the Styx that his name would never fade. He set a festival among men to honor him, And every year, when the sun is brightest, The people of Sparta gather and sing, That love might be remembered even in death.

Epilogue – The Immortal Bloom Now when spring returns and fields awaken, And the air is warm with the promise of dawn, The hyacinth blooms again upon the meadows. And though no god descends in golden form, Those who look upon its tender face Feel, faint but sure, the warmth of Apollo’s sorrow.

For beauty, though it dies, is not forgotten. Love, though it bleeds, outlasts the sun. And every blossom whispers to the wind, That from loss is born remembrance, And from remembrance, the divine.

[poetry-writer]

Becoming Dionysus

They say he was born twice, but really, he was uncovered, peeled from the rind of mortality like a grape swelling toward wine.

First, a mortal cry, a mother’s hands, trembling, a spark of lightning still clinging to his skin.

Then the ash settling, the world dimming to a silence only the gods pretend not to hear.

Zeus, with thunder tucked behind his teeth, lifted the child, too soft, too bright, and hid him in the warm dark of his own divine flesh. A womb of sky and storm. A second heartbeat syncing itself to eternity.

And when he emerged, not born, but declared, the vines uprooted themselves to follow.

Ivy curled like green flame around his ankles. Pan flutes started singing on their own. The world tipped slightly, as if drunk on what he might become.

Exile carved him; madness taught him; ecstasy claimed him.

He learned divinity from the wild things, from the way a panther’s gaze refuses apology, from the way wine turns grief into something that can dance.

By the time he reached Olympus, he did not ask for a throne. He arrived with a procession, women crowned with moonlit frenzy, lions pacing like shadows made of muscle, the scent of crushed fruit and broken boundaries.

And the gods, old, polished, perfect, shifted in their seats as if a new season had entered the room.

Zeus only nodded, recognizing the echo of his own thunder in the young god’s smile.

So Dionysus took his place, a god not of order but of openings, of losing oneself to find the truth that shivers beneath the skin.

Born twice, but made once, in the moment the world realized that even chaos deserves a crown.

[poetry-writer]

Hecate, Keeper of the Crossroads

At moon’s pale gate, where threefold shadows meet, She whispers paths the living dare not take, Hecate guards each soul with silence sweet.

Her torches burn where mortal fates retreat, She stirs the veil, and dreams begin to wake, At moon’s pale gate, where threefold shadows meet.

Dogs howl her name; dead winds kneel at her feet, The darkened sea reflects the spells she’ll make, Hecate guards each soul with silence sweet.

No prayer escapes her night’s unending beat, She binds the stars for prophecy’s own sake, At moon’s pale gate, where threefold shadows meet.

Through silver mists, her power circles neat, Between all worlds her woven threads will snake, Hecate guards each soul with silence sweet.

So wanderer, heed her, when roads compete, Choose well, or stray beyond what dawn can wake, At moon’s pale gate, where threefold shadows meet, Hecate guards each soul with silence sweet.

[poetry-writer]

The Stone Remembers Sisyphus

The stone rolls down though he must lift again, He climbs the slope beneath the scorching sky; Yet still he rises, though his toil is vain.

The gods look on, unmoved by mortal pain, His breath grows harsh, but still he will not cry; The stone rolls down though he must lift again.

A futile task no wisdom can explain, He strains against the hill that won’t comply; Yet still he rises, though his toil is vain.

Each dawn he starts, his will the sole refrain, A rhythm set by fate he can’t deny; The stone rolls down though he must lift again.

In endless struggle he has come to find his reign, A freedom in refusal to comply; Yet still he rises, though his toil is vain.

And though the slope may mock what he attains, He meets the stone with steady, quiet reply: The stone rolls down though he must lift it again, Yet still he rises, though his toil is vain.

[poetry-writer]

Ballad of Pandora: The God’s Revenge

Prometheus stole the flame of dawn, And gave to man what gods kept gone, The gift of fire, the spark of will, That gods swore never to distill.

For that bright theft, the skies grew grim, And Zeus devised a price for him: A chain, a rock, an eagle’s cry, His liver torn, yet would not die.

But torment’s tide was not yet through, The king of gods still had his due. “For man must feel what gods disdain: The weight of sorrow, birth of pain.”

From sacred earth and holy flame, He shaped a woman, gave her name. Each god adorned her, kind and cruel, With grace and guile, a perfect tool.

Athena’s mind, Aphrodite’s skin, Hermes’ tongue, and Hera’s grin. A crown of beauty, heart of clay, And in her breast, the seed of dismay.

She was no gift, though gift she seemed, But vengeance, sculpted, sweetly dreamed. A lure, a trap, divine design, To end the fire Prometheus signed.

To Epimetheus she was sent, With one intent, malign, unbent. Though warned by brother bound in chain, He took her hand, and sealed the bane.

The box she bore, a mystery sealed, A curse in golden wood concealed. No mortal’s heart could long withstand The weight unmeant for mortal hand.

The lid was lifted, breathless, wild, And all the evils, once beguiled, Flew shrieking out to plague the skies: Disease, deceit, and endless lies.

The gods looked down, their vengeance done, The fire dimmed, the darkness won. Yet Hope remained, a trembling guest, A mercy Zeus forgot to test.

And so they called her humankind’s first sin, As if she’d known the trap within. Though she was wrought for ruin’s role, They damned the clay, not he who stole.

Prometheus bound, his brother grieved, But she, the weapon, was deceived. Condemned by men, by myth, by lore, Forever named “the bringer of war.”

Yet tell me, world, who truly fell? The one who questioned, loved, and knelled, Or gods who forged her just to break The fragile hearts they helped awake?

Pandora, made for others’ crime, Still scorned in song, through endless time. A woman blamed for godly schemes, For opening what was built of dreams.

So when they say “She doomed us all,” Remember who first set the fall, For Zeus’s hand, not hers, was dire: She was the box, He was the fire.

[poetry-writer]

(this is a spoken word poem)

Almost isn't Anything

It didn’t start like this.

It started out with a kid who got gold stars.

A kid who handed in worksheets with neat little answers and watched adults smile like he’d done something miraculous.

A kid who learned, too early, that applause has conditions.

A kid who was only praised for the 100s, for the perfects, for the “well above standards,” for the way he followed rubrics down to the word until they looked like they were built for him.

A kid who was given academic awards so often it stopped feeling like a celebration and started feeling like a contract.

A kid who learned that anything less wasn’t just wrong, it was a disappointment.

Not for others, just for me. The shame was always meant for me.

Everyone else could score a 40% and I’d still look at them and say, “You did great. You tried. You had a bad day. You’re still brilliant.”

And I’d mean it. Every. Single. Time.

But me? I raised myself on a diet of numbers and the numbers trained me to believe that anything less than the very top was a freefall.

Atelophobia. Atychiphobia. Words no one taught me, not when they mattered. Not when they were forming.

Fear of imperfection. Fear of failure. Fear of slipping. Fear of breaking character. Fear of being the human version of wrong.

Most people know the word perfectionism. They know it means organized, ambitious, impressive.

They’ve never heard the phobias it's often mistaken for. They don’t know the terror. They don’t know the panic that chews through my ribs every time I pick up a pencil.

They don’t know the way my hands shake when a test hits my desk, because tests aren’t tests, they’re traps, they’re cliffs, they’re the moment the mask might split down the middle.

And god, oh god, that mask feels thin lately.

Every answer I write feels like a place where I could be exposed. Every question is a doorway to collapse. Every tiny hesitation feels like the mask slipping sideways just enough for someone to look in.

Every test is a threat.

Every score is a warning.

Every 100 is a reminder that next time there might not be one.

And there’s always a next time.

There’s always another chance for the façade to crack open and spill out the truth, the truth I still don’t know how to name.

What am I so afraid they’ll see?

That I’m scared. That I’m shaking. That behind the silhouette is a kid who never learned how to be anything else.

A kid who built an identity out of applause and doesn’t know how to exist without it.

A kid who hears others say, “I don’t care if I fail,” and tries to mimic the sound like learning a foreign language through clenched teeth.

I say, “Oh, if I get a progressing, whatever. I don’t care.”

But the lie burns on the way out. It vibrates wrong. It splinters.

I care. I care so much it feels like my organs are folding. I care so much that pretending not to is its own kind of failure.

And the spiral, the spiral always comes.

Later, alone, I tear myself apart for every small imperfection no one else could see.

Because anything less than perfect isn’t “human error.” It’s exposure. It’s proof. Proof that the pedestal I’ve been raised on wasn’t real, that the praise was brittle, that the identity I built has cracks running through it.

I don’t hold others to this standard. Never have. Never would.

I see them stumble and I say, You’re allowed to be human.

But me? I don’t get to be human. Human is failure. Human is frightening. Human is the thing I was never praised for.

Others were, just never me.

Looking back it was probably an oversight. An accident. Someone was meant to, but never did. But now the fear is ingrained in me and it won’t be leaving any time soon.

So I keep the mask on, tighter and tighter even as it digs in, even as it bruises, even as the edges cut.

Perfection is the only shield I’ve ever known. And even though it’s cracking, even though the pressure is shredding me from the inside out,

I cannot let it break.

Because the moment it breaks, the moment the façade falls, I’m terrified the world will finally see what I’ve been running from:

Just a kid who only ever felt worth something when they were perfect. And who still believes that anything less is nothing at all.

[poetry-writer]

haven't posted here in a little while bc i had a lot of shit to get done for school. ill post some of the stuff ive done lately in a moment

[poetry-writer]

The Ballad Of Icarus

In Crete’s deep heart, where shadows twined, And marble halls in silence breathed, The master craftsman Daedalus Forged wings from wax and feathers sheathed

Within the labyrinthine dark, Where beast and man were close confined, He dreamed of skies beyond the stone, A boundless vault for heart and mind.

He warned his son of gods above, Of Helios, whose fierce bright eye Would melt the wax with burning light, And Poseidon's waves that lie Below, to drag the careless down, If balance swayed or flight ran high.

But Icarus, with spirit wild, Pushed warning’s voice aside with guile, For surely beauty such as this Could never bring the heart such calamity.

So from the cliffs, they launched as one, Two shadows gliding through the blue, The maze, a fading phantom, Far beneath the vast and boundless view.

And Icarus, aflame with joy, Felt freedom’s fire blaze in his veins, His laughter rippled through the air, Unfettered by earth’s mortal chains.

Drawn ever higher by desire, He sought the sun’s imperial flame; But wax dissolved, the feathers fell, The truth his father spoke became.

Yet as he plunged through radiant air, A smile split his lips, serene, For he had pressed his mortal lips Against the face of the divine.

He kissed the sky, that burning god, A lover’s touch, both sweet and wild; The burning vastness held him close, Though fleeting, gold as setting sol.

To taste Olympus’s sacred breath, To dance with fire beyond the sea, This fleeting grace, this deathless flame, Was all the world could grant to be.

He did not cry as others tell, He laughed, a sound both fierce and free, For he had touched the face of dawn, And found his place in ecstasy.

Then down he fell through breathless blue, Through clouds that whispered soft goodbye, The sea rose up to cradle him And hush the boy who kissed the sky.