Abstract Stories

A paradise of cuteness...you say? Then, perhaps the eyes watching us are just...candies? A compilation of poems I made during my visits to Cutopia.

Jax can't let go of the fact that Ribbit abstracted. He's never been the same, and he refused to get close to anyone. Except for when Pomni comes. Jax naturally wants to hang out with her. Jax wants to spend time with her. He can't go through it again...

You were exploring an abandoned building with your friends when.... You found an old headset in the middle of a truth or dare round, and now it wont come off. You are faced with a purple rabbit in overalls, a jester in blue and red, a doll, the king of a chess board, a bunch of shapes pieced together, and a ribbon with a tragedy mask clutching a broken comedy mask. But also teeth with eyes in the mouth, oh and a bubble! You're met with a question that still lingers in you're mind. "What's you're name?" You don't wanna accept this new reality, but you just might be forced to. Slowly this ai of teeth, known as Caine, has started to seek out your approval and interaction more than the others, its almost like he's attached?

THE BLACK HEART: Anatomy of Evil "Each Moon is a breath of evil, each Table a root that grows in the dark, each Cross a nail in the sky." Evil is not a historical accident: it is a breathing organism. Throughout the centuries, the wolf Gork hunts the primordial essence of Vorgash-a fire that devours the souls of tyrants and sheds its skin as eras pass. From the flames of Nero to the divine calculation of Napoleon, through seven Moons of blood, darkness evolves, learns, and refines itself. But at the end of the seventh Moon, the hunt changes. Evil no longer dwells in a single man: it has become a nation. The Dark Sphere is born-the collective mind of the Reich. Amidst the mud of the trenches and the cold rhythm of a war that moves with the precision of a train schedule, soldiers like Lothar, Ernst, and Hermann become cogs in a brutal order that admits no variations. There is no more room for initiative, only for simultaneous execution. Only for the void. The Black Heart is more than a historical novel. It is a mathematical and metaphysical journey through 7 Moons, 10 Tables, and 7 Crosses. It is the account of when humanity ceased to be flesh and became dust under the weight of a perfect structure. Are you ready to discover what beats within the Black Heart of History?

Reflection? Rejection? Connection? Correction? Deflection? There really is no point, is there?

"I have...grown very, very tired old friend. This war has taken its toll on me as well as every bot involved." 'I was not given a choice...I had to take on the burden of responsibility for millions of lives and the destruction of our planet. I...I never wanted to become a prime. The only reason I spoke up at that pit-forsaken council meeting was because I wanted to help Megatronus restore our society peacefully. Not only did I lose my love, but I lost my freedom too. Can I escape from this war?...Can I give up being a prime and return to being myself? ... Can I be Orion Pax again? And more importantly...can I be free?'

Just some poems about life, myself, or whatever pops into my head. I don't even know if these count as poems but poems is the closest thing to define them I think.

come on, don't be afraid i love to see the waterfalls of hope that fall out of your eyes © dearyuqi

The sun was bright as soft rays filtered through the canopy of giant trees. Ria stood by the small cafè that felt peculiarly out of place. Wood whose color was stripping away every day, paint that was washed out in a misty shade and an ambience that was too quiet for a cafè. She checked her watch with slow blinks. It's really early in the morning and she has school to hurry up to. Where's her aunt? Birds chirped here and there and she sighed while playing with the tassel of her bicycle. She could almost fall asleep as she leaned on her bicycle handles, folded her hands to support her head. "Hey" The sudden voice made her jerk upright, "Yes?" She asked, more confused than surprised. The voice belonged to someone tall and lean. His face shone in the bright sunlight against the coldness of the concrete pavement. His hair shone golden brown where the light danced. His features still a bit hazy due to the distance, Ria blinked slowly. Colors started to become desaturated blue as a distant voice echoed, "I will forget you. I will never look back again" For a moment Ria was trying to find the resemblance she could almost find familiar. (Also this is on-going work. I just want reviews and advices as I am a young writer and have ambitious concepts, please help me out!)

A spiraling mind‑scape of ink‑black theory and luminous paradox, where ideas fold into themselves like cosmic helixes and contradictions bloom into new forms of truth. It's the quiet hum of libraries at midnight, the shimmer of equations that feel like prophecy, the soft ache of a mind outgrowing its own architecture. This world is built from recursive thoughts, fractal meanings, and the electric tension between what you know and what you're becoming - a place where knowledge is alive, unstable, and always on the verge of transforming into something stranger, sharper, and more beautiful.

stuck in sadness after his wife left him, a lumberjack goes to investigate the sound of a woman's distress

I have heard that the sirens sing themselves apart. highest : #50 in poetry

Words, I guess. For myself, my nonsensical self. Perhaps putting them down will make more sense to me. So don't except a masterpiece, Because like I said it's all simply, Words to sedate the confused in me. I don't expect anyone to read any of these, but if you do; then great.

This is a comprehensive thought process on Mathematical Platonism. A belief that simply supports Plato's idealism with math. The main point being "The true reality is in the abstract. Infinity defines the fabric of logic, and the language that infinity uses is math.", the author also hints on other topics by presenting some details. Materialism and modern society structure is moderately criticized in some parts.

Like the title says, each chapter is the brain child of boredom. If boredom had a brain- god what a depressing brain. Just some Art, here and there. Maybe some food.... Enjoy! :D #8 in Abstract

What if truth was never singular? What if reality was not a line, but a fracture splitting endlessly into dimensions where the same idea becomes many, and many ideas become one? This isn't a book of answers, It's a trace of thought that refused to stay still after the question ended. Something that began as an exercise on paper, but didn't agree to remain contained inside it. Here, logic isn't a tool, it's a mirror that breaks when it reflects too much. The mind isn't one space, but a collision of invisible layers, where contradiction's not error, but structure. Truth doesn't stand, It shifts, reality doesn't hold, It multiplies. And the human being isn't a center, but a passage between dimensions of perception, memory, and thought that never fully align. These are fragments of something that couldn't remain a fragment. Paradoxical truths, written from the edge of a system that never finishes itself. And perhaps... from a place where finishing was never the point.

In which I try to write a short poem ☯it's not long before you're stealing☯ Copyright (CC) Attribution-NoDerivs 2014 HolyHephaestus

Just my drawings. Different art styles and designs. Might have some poetry. Hope you like it!

A series of a teenager's mental secretions, living through the distorting lenses of a bell jar. Inspired by Sylvia Plath.

In One's room, Black Hole dreams and wishes things are normal and work out. (Or, a set of prose poems that dive into a silly circle's months of captivity.) CW/TW: Dissociation, Unreality, Isolation, and The Slightest Bit of Psychological Horror. Also, there are some GIFS just in case there's any sensory sensitivities. There isn't any flashing but be safe :) !!