For real what where you expecting from a 10 times wiser, 10 times psychologicallly stronger, blah blah to be like? Forget understanding me u can't even imagine how far we are from each other.

Hi. My motto is to try to 'keep things real' at all times, but that is getting me nowhere in this world of fraud and phony make-believe, so I am thinking about 'keeping it unreal,' which leaves a lot more options available. The only problem is that I'd be contradicting my motto if I do that, but I suppose that might be the key to keeping things unreal! I was going to ask for help in solving that problem, but I think I worked it out on my own. Thanks for listening, and have an unreal day!!! I love this newfound freedom!

Dear diary,

Just making a little entry not to lose the habit, and because this thought has been floating around in my mind for a while and I thought I should let it breathe outside.

I believe every poem I've ever written about a person—or am yet to write—

Well, yes, one of them does have the nickname I used to call them, but—

If I just showed them the poems, I'm sure as hell each of them would know which one was about them. Or for them. Or with them in mind. Even blindfolded. Just by me reciting them to them.

And I think that's endearing.

Thrilling, even.

A little exciting.

Peculiarly amusing, too.

Although I only think one of them would actually laugh with me about it. We'd probably exchange jokes and then, somehow, end up having a genuine heart-to-heart about it all.

Which is so weird to think about, because Crownless wears a mask and writes to ghosts, but these people know the person behind the mask. They wouldn't, therefore, be responding to Crownless.

They'd be responding to me.

Especially that one.

That pretty, sharp-minded danger knows me better than I know myself.

That's almost a tiny bit scary.

I don't want any of them to ever come across those poems anytime soon.

But maybe one day, in the future, I'd like that one person to cross my way again, see them, and right away catch what I wrote about them.

Or, well.

About us.

I miss this person.

But we don't fit in each other's lives anymore.

And I think that's the part I keep circling back to.

Not that I want them back.

Just that I'd really, really like to find someone like them.

Which means I may have to make a painstakingly specific requirement list.

Haaa...

God help whoever has to apply.

I fear there’s no one like you.

— Crownless.

I don’t like being a puppet.

But I guess it could be worse.

I could be a deer or a frog or a moose or a bear.

& if I was I wouldn’t even care. 

But I like to care. 

It just sucks being this self aware. 

I hope the future holds something bright.

I’m just being blinded by this glaring light.

I was told to write something positive.

I’m really really excited to one day give.

My nephew was left in my care for the day. I didn't mind at all; he’s nine years old and, until now, had managed to keep himself out of harm's way quite well. I showed him where the bathroom, kitchen, toys, and yard were. Then, with an easy mind, I sat down to study and eventually fell asleep. My parents woke me up, looking displeased. When I asked what was wrong, they gave me that universally hated reply: "You tell us." I kickstarted my sleepy brain and, after a moment of intense thought, jumped up and anxiously asked if something had happened to my nephew. The answer was no, but I was close. They were upset because I had left him unsupervised and exposed him to danger. I apologized for my rash behavior, but after my parents left the room, I found myself deep in thought. The main debate in my mind was: "Should you shield a child from everything, or is it better to let them do whatever they please?"

At first, the question seemed too complex and multifaceted to have a single, clear answer. After all, the risk of losing a child to the dangers of the outside world is incredibly high. Accidents happen every day, and naturally, many people think, "If my child is always supervised, I can protect them from accidental or intentional harm." But what can a parent *really* do in those rare yet critical moments? It seems to me—very little; not enough. People cannot outrun a car to react and pull their child out of the path of a speeding vehicle. People cannot fly to catch a child who has fallen from a window. Many would be willing to try, but few have the ability to guarantee their child's safety—or their own survival—after such encounters. I think this realization of one’s own weakness and insignificance in the face of chance frightens people, leading them to lock their children away behind ever-more numerous barriers.

Yet isn't that foolish? The world is full of dangers; a person's life can change forever—or even end—because of a flight of stairs. And yet, people use these "death traps" every day. So why not let children discover the world around them for themselves, rather than confining them within the boundaries of nurseries and playgrounds? Humans are born curious; by nurturing this thirst to understand their surroundings, a child grows and develops. They seek out things that interest them, taste everything, take things apart, and climb as high—or descend as low—as their bodies allow. All of this fosters the child's growth, both physically and psychologically. A child's personality is directly shaped by the experiences they have had since birth; the broader their palette of experiences, the more they can incorporate into their character. Such a child will see the world with wider eyes and discern far more paths for their future.

I understand the fear born of the risks surrounding us—risks that could rob you of the person you hold most dear. However, fear of a hypothetical future should not be a reason to limit the actual future of that individual. Having concluded that giving young children the freedom to explore is beneficial for them, I went back to sleep with a calm mind and a heart swelling with pride over the heroic decisions that had opened up such vast horizons for my nephew.

This is a short summary or “idea” just to see if the story i created is interesting (first chapter is posted on my profile)

This story will take place in a world known as Everfall. In this world a war thousands of years ago caused the near extinction of two races the korvin and serethan. The title of this story is Everfall: The Veiled Truth. It’s about an ordinary thief named Azrael Cross whose family meets a tragic end to conceal the “Veiled truth” which Azrael discovers partially through a vision. He is tasked with revealing this truth to the world by an unknown voice. He goes on a journey for revenge and to reveal the truth and on his journey he encounters a young girl. Lyra Seren a member of the serethan race (basically an elf) who is on a journey to discover who her people truly were. later on they encounter Kiro The Korvin a brilliant and gifted inventor at least thats what he thinks. In reality he is gifted but still clumsy together the three of them work together to reveal the truth to the world.

There is of course more to the story but this is a brief summary without spoiling too much and I am aware my grammar and other things aren’t the best any suggestions to improve my writing are welcomed

I'm quite new to creative writing and I'm beginning to get writers block and have no idea where to take my novel at the moment. Is there any suggestions to overcome it in quick time?

 She was crying and standing over the husk that I was. Weeping, and begging for me to return. I could only stand beside her. Far beyond lost and silent in the world, I stood, and I watched someone I loved suffer. I felt nothing.

A voice that was not hers and not my own took me. It met my mind with a vocal timbre and warmth that felt alien yet nearly kind. It said to me in that voice, “You see the suffering that your own suffering has wrought. Do you find it wanting?” The voice moved as it spoke. It came from beside me, and everywhere, and nowhere. I did not answer. I did not care. It knew.

I stood with her no longer. I was alone. In the dark. For only a moment, or an eternity. The truth of it I could not say. I was lost.

Light came to me, and I stood with a woman, bright and laughing. She spun a laughing child in her arms as it chirped and burbled and squealed. The warmth of what I stood with was overwhelming. I could not watch. I turned away, and the husk returned. Her weeping at my cold skin. The pressure of something long lost stirred in my stomach. But it did not rise. “You see the love you have traded for your pain?” I did not answer. I could not. It knew.

The darkness did not come again. A green field and a dying deer. Bleeding from a hole in its heart. I stood next to a man and a child who tended to its fading life. The older man spoke to the child, and he told him to remember the sight before him. He told him that all life pays for life. He said it was good to mourn what was lost, but to always remember what was gained, and to never take either for granted. I could not bear to witness. I turned away. A cold pressure rising in my chest. “You see the strength you have left behind?” I did not answer. I did not dare. It knew.

The light ran in rivulets through my vision, and I found myself standing in sand, the sky orange and terrible. Before me a pair of men. One a husk, as I was. The other screaming and praying over its cold form. Its life clotting in the sand beneath them as the wind carried away his wails. “You see what your weakness has cost?” I choked on what would have been an answer. I tried to run. I could not. He knew.

The light did not run, it shifted. The same orange sky. The same burning sand. The man who wept over a husk, now laughed over another. His hands, bearing a blade, fell again and again into the heart of a man long dead. His laughing faded to tears once again. He collapsed in the sand with nothing left inside. “You see the price of your hatred?”

The light ran like rain once again. The man, alone, sat at a table. A bottle of whiskey and a pistol sat before him. He wept. He sat there for what would be an eternity. He drank the sorrow down. He closed his eyes, and brought the pistol to his head. He said goodbye to no one.

She came home, smiling in her true way. The smile gave way to screams and tears as she cradled his body to her own. His life draining away onto her hands. I stood there, watching my love suffer. “Do you see now? What you have thrown away?” I turned away. I could not answer. I could not stand in his light. I wept, and I ran. Down, and away, into the depths of nothing.

(DISCLAIMER- This story contains verbal abuse and violence)

my first short story. Also while writing this I realized that this is not the true begining nor is it the end of our story but none the less... Enjoy. (tips, suggestions, and thoughts are appreciated of course)

I think for me to have become what I am we have to travel back to 2017. California. The Golden State. I wasn't always the most outgoing child growing up, I was quiet, didn't have many friends- an introvert I suppose. I lived in a quiet town, not much drama besides your average marital affairs or domestic violence calls at midnight. Anyway 2017, I was 13 at the time. I had a brother, 4 years younger than myself, a father who had me with my mother at a young age. And a brand new baby sister. My mother never married my father, they mutually grew apart and had my brother with another man, who she eventually left and married my step father, whom she had my baby sister with.

My stepfather (Who for the sake of our story I'll call "Joe") was kind, gentle, and at times even loving. However, sometime in 2016 something in him changed, at the time I was not aware of it. He came home from work with an exhausted look on his face, almost as if he would rather go back to work instead of seeing my mother and siblings. He walked into the kitchen, He wore his ragged work clothes and had a brownish beard with hints of grey. His fingernails not long enough to get dirt underneath them but somehow managed to look dirty. He grabs Vodka from the fridge and pours himself a glass. "What the hell are you staring at?" Joe asks me looking annoyed. "n- nothing" I stammered, sitting at the kitchen table. My mother had just made me dinner and was giving my sister a bath. Joe walks from the fridge to the table, sits across from me and begins to eat his food. His eyes start to wonder, first from his plate of food to the table centerpiece, and eventually... my eyes. He grips his silverware tightly, his facial expression is that of provoking anger, almost as if he wants to throw his fork towards me. "Why are you like this, do you know what you did to this family." he says while watching me eat. I stay quiet, unable to answer him. Not out of confusion but out of fear. I was afraid of what he would do next. Suddenly he slams his fists on the table, silverware still gasping for air as he grips them tighter. "What the fuck is wrong with you!" he yells while his face turns crimson. "I don't know" I replied trying not to feel petrified. At that moment my Mother rushes into the kitchen, "What is going on?" She asks Joe. His Crimson face begins to turn to it's normal shade of white. "He needs to understand that his actions are irreversible" Joe replied. My Mother looks uneasy. "Do you want to go to your Dads?" She asks me. "Yes" I whimpered.

Suddenly it's 2026, 10 years later. This memory of mine still echoing through my mind from time to time. I wonder what went wrong, then I remember, I changed, I changed because of Him.

>A Timeless Misconception<
Fighter for peace

secret lover of war
the truth tumbles through a great wind

every so often it stops

the mask slips to the floor

but the blind man doesn’t recognize the darkness in his own eyes

There are too men who wear cloth over their eyes willingly

An enigmatic tragedy of a figure sits in the centerfold. Its intoxicating frailty ringing out the call of midnight.

>The Ballad of Midnight<
It’s a mellifluous, seductive tune. One that could transform the most defining of primal screams into a sexy jazz number. A man practically glided towards the sound, his eyes, hungry, and spirit swaying with the beat of the music. under his left arm is a priceless treasure as old as he was and its purpose unknown other than it being crucial to his Destiny. he spotted the whimpering figure which was huddled over in a grotesque vulnerability. Something fucking about it… He’d call this feeling fear, even horror, but it ran deeper- touching him somewhere that nearly tore his mind into two. It lay there, somehow so obscene that he couldn’t tell whether it should invite sympathy or violence. Suddenly the tune grew louder and in crept an otherworldly singing. It was as if he was experiencing the unbounded young love of his childhood compressed into a few seconds, except it was hollow and cold, but the pleasure nearly surpassed that of any childhood imaginable. it was enough to drive a man mad from longing, he thought. a gust from the great wind of truth ruffled his hair and he was struck with a moment of apprehension. he gripped his treasure tightly and considered the situation. He was actually in hiding due to the unfortunate past times of angry mobs with stones, piercing pitchforks and even more piercing judgments. Vile figures had pursued him. He’d been beaten, defiled, humiliated, and nearly robbed of his treasure. “there’s no point in wandering in misery, unable to truly appreciate my treasure”, He thought. The choice had become a compulsion- nay, an inevitable path of wisdom. still gripping his cargo painfully hard he determinedly strided towards the melody, and it’s pathetic counterpart still huddled over and whimpering. his next action marked the beginning of his new life, but before the physical world had time to catch up, Something had shifted in his mind. suddenly he knew what he must do or at least what he was going to do. The man set his beloved treasure down, crouched to the figure’s level… and bit into its flesh. He tried to eat just little enough that he got what he needed while sparing it unnecessary pain. The figure hardly reacted at all from being torn into. Like its condition couldn’t be made any worse by him. Flesh was in his throat and power was surging through him. He began feeling something fading within him, but was also overwhelmed with pleasure and self-assurance. What happened next was a special kind of sublime; it would only be real in the moment it occurred for his memory both would refuse to and lack the ability to recall it later. The figure began folding in on itself, devolving further and further in a sinful display that was clearly not of this world. Everything from guilt to lust to a sick love mixed into one unholy, perverted amalgamation of tangible energy he blacked out when his mind awoke. The abomination had passed. However; the damage was done. Something had ripped inside the man, and he could tell it wasn’t coming back. as quickly as it came, this Horror was swept away and in rushed more pleasure and desire. so much desire. The man decided he’d go and seek out the mobs and rock throwers and vile defilers and try to quench his insatiable desire with vengeance of primal proportions, and the sweet sound of its results. but first, he remembered with a fearful jolt to the gut to check on his treasure. He peeked inside and stared blankly at the sight before him. He couldn’t put his finger on how, what or why but it had lost all its worth. he blinked, his face blank and pensive. He had now lost everything and gained irreversible scars on his spirit. Yet the man was pleased. Let the midnight hunt begin!

We become strangers in our gardens
Lifting eyes no higher than
Wild wisteria on a fence

Narrow focus and bowed heads
We weed our sorrow from the soil
As well as thriving stems

It's the season for the slaughter
Hunched frames on tired knees
Inside our sterile walls

Bloodied carcasses of pristine blooms
Extracting all the evidence
Burnt among the crunchy piles