Prosepoetry Stories

13 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 ──────── ˚ ₊ ‧ ⋆ ──────── There has always been an abyss residing in me. Something hollow and deep and empty. Something that screams to be heard. Something that aches for meaning in this haunting world. Through this collection I try to pick out the pieces of my heart and bleed out words that have haunted me. And maybe try to find peace with a truth that always scared me. because maybe this is how its meant to be : me, floating in the abyss of my misery ────────˚ ₊ ‧ ⋆ ──────── ⟪ h i g h e s t r a n k i n g s ⟫ #1 in poem (out of 199k stories) #1 in poetrycollection (out of 34.5k stories) #1 in words (out of 16.5k stories) #1 in poembook (out of 15.8k stories) #1 in prose (out of 9.07k stories) #1 in freeverse (out of 7.72k stories)

Part 1: Anatomy of Irreversible Destruction # 2 prosepoetry # 2 darkpoems # 1 abstract #10 poem # 2 existential The weak fear the break. The survivors want the anatomy. _________ A ten-step mapping of internal collapse. It traces the precise geometry of a self-destruction-from the first snapped choice to the blackened imprint left behind. This is what remains when the ego finally consumes itself. #darkpoetry

For everything that endures, season after season.

realms of stories and prose where imagination knows no bounds. weaving words into intricate tapestries vividly- seize the essence of epiphany, fairytales and eternal truths.

Random/disordered pieces. Generally written in a state of dreary haze of sorts. More lucid than brain fog yet with the oppression of hallucination. A wakeful dream; The sense of it, at the very moment it's written been clear, slips away when revisited later. It's rather useless by then. Passion never lasts. And I'm stuck romanticizing the ephemeral. <> Finding human writing/art/media apart from ai will become as pedantic as abstaining for organic produce from the conventional in a market. It all feeds the same anyhow: SFX Props? VFX CGI? GenAI? At some point, barely anyone would bother differentiating. The consequences overall lies in rumor and superstition with a scientific flavor. Getting ahead of the curb by acting on suggestions/hypotheses as mandates; could such gamble be afforded over and over? Doesn't gambling lead to a net loss on average? By the end of it, organic's the minority, as against automation, so will be humanity. Writing on itself as a form of sincere expression, like this, is a type of clownery. A doomed hobby, mutually outmoded as reading. Doomscrolling would've been a better use of time on my end. "Fast fashion" form of writing has always been the point for the mainstream. Writing's streamlined for a long while now. LLM-AI is that final step to maximize the output. Really, is it bad? Its a self-sufficient haven: Why complain over getting more of what one wants, like the want of reading? Quality in art is in the mercy of subjectivity. Not good enough? Want improvement?: Improvement is the expertise of ai. It's only natural. What can be done? I don't know: spiting against a tsunami will not prevent it from coming and washing everything away that's good. And sometimes it takes even the bad amongst the wreck. I'm here; Luddite. Inept. I can only wait to be swept away or drown by it. Whichever comes first. "Sent from my IPhone"🙏🌽⚽️ Cover: Self-Edited(Muhammad Siyah Qalam miniatures)

Here you will find fantasy poems, poetic short stories, and fragments of myth. Some were written in the quiet spaces between my novels. Some are echoes of worlds not yet born. And some were written in the early stages of creating Of Demons and Men, so you may get to know some characters in a different way. I just thought it would be fun to go though my old files and see what I think still carries weight. I hope you enjoy as I share them!

"They say the war is over. So why is the world still so loud?" For Matthew, 29 July 1944 isn't just a birthday, it's a mark of shame. In a post-war Norway that wants to erase every trace of Germany, Mattie is a reminder they can't burn. He only has two things left: a wooden boat in his dreams and Gutt, the teddy bear who knows all his secrets. This is a story of a boy trying to find a harbor in a world that has no room for a 'War Child.' Matthew is a Lebensborn child a product of a history the world wants to forget. Now, as the dust of World War II settles, he must navigate a life of silence, prejudice and shadows. While others see a 'Little Nazi,' Mattie only sees a horizon. He is waiting for the adoption ship, hoping that across the sea, someone will finally look at him and see a son, not a sin. Was supposed to be the "Perfect Child". But when the flags of the Third Reich fell, he was left behind in the cold Norwegian soil a living ghost of a fatherland that no longer exists. With a tattered teddy bear named Gutt as his only witness, Mattie spends his days staring at the horizon, waiting for a ship that will carry him to a home where he isn't called a 'monster.' But in the aftermath of 1945, some wounds don't bleed they just whisper. First title: Mattie God's gift of Lebensborn Second title: Tyskerbarn In the land of snow ___________________________________________ Update: Every Thursday and Sunday Draft: 26 July 2025

2023 for twelve people

DEAR SELF, YOU DON'T HAVE TO REPLY ©️ 2021 by RMAL

Lovely words, entwined with sorrow and speech, longing to erase a past within reach.

a personal prose poetry anthology updated hourly, monthly, or never at all

An arranged marriage to an infamously tyrannical lord sounds less of an escape and more like another prison sentence to Celestine. For someone that wants very little of life, she'd make well of this new life by doing what she did best: keeping her head down.

Histories that have been kept through unrhymed stanzas.

1 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑 ──────── ₊⋆☽◯☾⋆₊ ──────── Blood Red Roses is a 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒄 memoir of becoming, an 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 of myself, one fragile 𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒍 at a time. This collection traces my journey through the 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒆 and 𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒆𝒅 years of teenagehood. Through each poem, you would get a glimpse of 𝒓𝒂𝒘 and 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 moments of love, heartbreak, loss, confusion and even 𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒔 of 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚. The title is more than just a name : it is a 𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒐𝒓 of growth and acceptance . Each year, each experience was a petal 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 . Some were 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕 like teenage innocence while others were 𝒋𝒂𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒅, 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 with blood, 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 by heartbreak and 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒕 in reaching. Some were glowing 𝒓𝒆𝒅 under the eternal 𝒔𝒖𝒏𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 of euphoria while others were 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 due to the 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 of insecurity and 𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒔 of pent up emotions . But together these roses compose the bouquet of my becoming. Now I offer this bouquet to you, dear reader, and hope you find petals of your own and embrace the garden you are meant to be. ──────── ₊⋆☽◯☾⋆₊ ──────── ⟪ h i g h e s t r a n k i n g s ⟫ #1 in poesia (out of 15k stories) #1 in spokenword (out of 4.57k stories) #1 in personal thoughts (out of 2.5k stories)

Entry for the prose poetry contest Author: Deinma Jacob Prompt: Gratitude Wattpad username: @predictabledeeX

This is about all the unsent letters from Lathanein to Anonymous.

this is not pretty // this is not clean

a love split apart: ramblings from a time bereft of you

Crawling through fog with gravity pressed into my spine. They called it stillness. I called it survival. For anyone who's ever had to prove they were in pain just to be allowed to rest. 🪦

⌗ ⌇ ˗'ˏ ♡︎ 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗦𝗘 - 𝗣𝗢𝗘𝗧𝗥𝗬 ❜ ˎˊ˗ And I long for you still, my Taurus sun - Too close. Too much. I ache for you with all my raw and blistered prose, despite the wounds. 𝘋𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯. ☾︎ ☀︎︎ ☽︎ In which I write for my nameless beloved - because turning him into art is the only way i could hold him close without being scorched. 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧𝗦 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗩𝗘𝗗. PUSSYBABI- (05/22/2021)