Roserade's Writings

Roserade

Roserade

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Roserade
So this is a thread where I can post some short stories or poetry I've written. Any feedback is incredibly appreciated!

Us and Loss

We mourn for those born in recent days.
I cry and cry and place candles in memory of death no child can handle. Those doomed infants born in these days where around every corner Death diabolically stands for the dead, tempting genocidal murderers with his hypnotic maledictions. Hell rains repeatedly from above and there's nothing we can do other than be yellow and cower from the fellow with the scythe and the cloak. I choke, on longing for love and longing for peace. Waterfalls collapse down my face, stained with agony for the world and grieving for those who have been lost.
I've experienced too much of this agonizing annihilation of innocents as I've aged. War upon war upon war upon war, fight upon fight, another virtually defenseless victim for Death to violently snag with his vice grip.
Something simply must be changed.
Advancements, enhancements, anything to halt the hurricane of heartbreak currently plaguing the world. Unbeknownst to these young ones exists a world of war and bloodied hands. They wade through innocent thoughts and wishes of hope and happy endings, brains brushed clean of bruises. They expect freedom and peace and so, so much love.
These hopefuls should receive their wishes.
 
Interesting piece, really quite profound. And it's interesting that you've focused on really getting behind the emotions of pain and loss associated with war. Was there a particular time or occurrence which prompted you to write this?

I also enjoy writing on this topic. Two weeks ago I had my first formal interview with my 92 year old grandfather, who is a WW2 veteran (Royal Armoured Corps). In the past he often mentioned an interest in compiling stories about the experiences of his time in the war, and what life was like. Well now we've finally started, and from interview recordings I've already got almost 40 pages of written material. When it's finished, he'd like to distribute bound copies to family members. And I understand that key message in your piece: as a young guy who's always had everything that I needed, I couldn't even begin to imagine the impact that war has on young people and their families.
 
While it wasn't specifically a war that prompted me to write it, it was the day of the Orlando shooting that inspired me, as four different things happened that day and it seemed like humanity had lost its... Humanity, for a day.

And I completely agree. I'm just a fourteen year old guy who has everything he could want or need, and I've only ever looked from the outside in. I wanted to place myself in the shoes of somebody who really understood the pain of war.
 
Bard in the Woods Part One

When Midnight Man and Nightmare Man
met in a ramshackle vill',
People hid as fast as they could,
Frost drew accustomed to sill.
And Shadows danced and Shadows pranced,
and the Sun cowered and fled,
and Demons and Sins cackled and chortled,
and room was made for the Dead​

The words flowed gracefully from the Bard's mouth as guitar chords sounded through the Forest. Animal eyes gazed through the vegetation, intrigued by the soft tone of the music weakly echoing off of tree trunks and shrubbery. The Bard played his guitar smoothly, despite the tricky underbrush attempting to tangle his ankles; he had been in the Forest for quite a while and so had become familiar with the seeming attempts to make him stumble.
He was traveling, though to where was an excellent question. He was a peripatetic, simply wandering, possibly north, south, or possibly in circles, until he came across a new Forest Settlement for him to entertain. Perhaps the most extraordinary thing about the Bard was that no matter how lost he seemed to be in his venture, he never lost hope or purpose, which is a tremendous feat in the Forest.
Because the Forest is known for its evil.
 
Wow, forgot about this thread. I haven't written anything in a long time, which I should get back on, but in the meantime, enjoy From the Airplane, which I wrote over a year ago and ended up getting put on buses around my town.

From the Airplane

Blinking lights,
Midnight silhouette,
Wire of a river,
Tiny headlights of automobiles commuting.
My circuit board of a city at night
bears infinite intrigue.
I, spectator, sit transfixed.
Never has a simple town
been so significant to me.
 
So as a few of you know, today was my first day of high school. And while high school is cool and all, I really didn't want to move on from eighth grade. So I did a ton of reflecting on my past three years on this earth yesterday and today, and this is the piece that came out of it. Is it good? Hell if I know. But it's a reflection on myself and where I am, where I'm going, and that's all that matters to me.

It is currently untitled.

So we move forward.
As I write this, with a headache gnawing at my frontal lobe, words form kaleidoscopes in my head. A memory splashes a deep purple among the reds, greens, blues, yellows of sorrow, joy, fear, reflection. A streak of pink dances across my eyes, and I grow melancholy. Another year of kaleidoscopes has passed; another year of rainbows and shades, which had shined vibrantly, then became corroded by the river of the flow of time. Red: the feeling of her beautiful lips against mine, mine against hers. Cyan: his infectious laughter filling a once-silent room with the essence of life. Gold: the first spotlight to blind my sight in a stage I now call my home. Grey: the sensation of cool water lapping my legs, roughened by the wind yet delicate as a mother's touch.
I wish I could embrace these colors forever. The season is ending, and with its ending, a different beginning commences. A new beginning, new experiences, new memories, new us; and soon my colors, even those as intense as stars, will fade and fade, and become replaced.
But as much as I wish for it not to, my kaleidoscope will change. My greens will become blues and my yellows will become pinks and my whites will become blacks. The future is before us, all of our kaleidoscopes shifting and changing. And so, I will change.
And when the day comes that my colors corrode and fade and become replaced, I'll be ready.
I'll move forward.
 
You have a beautiful way with words. I would totally buy a Roserade poetry book.

(That's poems by the Mario Boards user, not poems about the pokémon.)
 
I couldn't have said it better.
 
A double feature for you today.

The first one was a poem I wrote for my girlfriend on her birthday last year. She had a really bad experience the day before, and I was hoping to raise her spirits. We have since then broken up, but it's interesting to see where I was then.

Hailey's Birthday Poem

I can't help but stare.

Loving eyes, gorgeous smile.
Often she feels insecure, but she doesn't see the immeasurable beauty emitted from her being.
Vocals and words cannot express the joy I feel every time I make her laugh.
Every time her eyes interlock with mine my breath is swept away.

Youth though we may be, I still feel a love towards her unlike anything else.
Others may scoff at that claim, but she is mine, I am hers, hopefully
Until the end of time.

Heart beating fast,
Air catching in my throat;
I am
Lovestruck by the way she talks, she jokes, she makes
Every day better than the last.
Young wishes made to shooting stars could never amount to the blessing I've received.

Blood rushing to my face.
Underneath I am broken, but with her I am fixed.
Red cheeks, blushing,
Darkness within my head, dispersed.
I love her.
Clutching her hand in mine, I am
Keeping her close, as long as possible.

Where I am now:

Now

The center Sun
extinguished,

Contradicting
the Point of
Us.
 
Silky Hill With the Stars

I recall
(with the vividness of the sun)
the stars, dancing kaleidoscopes and jigs
across the alabaster roof of the alabaster church.

I recall
the breeze, tentatively scuttering
across your (goosebumped) arms,
tickling the skin and rising you up until
you, too, tumbled through the painted night.

I recall
the glistening luminescence of your eyes,
bathed in gold by the show (for us),
as soothing and glimmering as the lake-water's surface.

I recall
awe and wonder crystallizing from your lips
from atop the silky hill we claimed ours,
staying for hours, until we, too,
tumbled through the painted night and danced
kaleidoscopes and jigs (with the stars).
 
Here's a really experimental piece I'm working on for school.

Blue

your t i t d fan
w s e tasy drawing in m
y
eyes eyes
until shudders
s h i-v-e r r r d
o
w
n
my back
& all becomes a
b u
l r in the light
...light
light...
...
soon im blinded blinbdeyd fbliendeard
let me b out
stum le of this [all](every
)
Hhell
 
Year

How fast the times are moving.

When the threaded snowflakes flutter onto my flushed face
I will have realized
noticed
The time,
vanishing before
us.
Tumbling
away
Away
with leaves of a toughened oak.

Yesterday I was a mock fool,
and tomorrow my feet will quake like a stallion
and soon stars will collide and spear our hearts
and time will have
left.
twirling a parting ribbon dance with the flakes and my breath and my
thoughts.
 
Couldn't let Raregold one-up me.

The Bard in the Woods universe is an interesting one for me. You're probably wondering why I haven't posted the rest of the first story in this thread, and it's because it was written about two years ago now, and looking back on it, I'm not satisfied with its quality. Most likely I'll rewrite it soon; however, it's a world I loved to craft, and I've returned to it multiple times throughout the past two years, refining and expanding the Forest and its connections. Unfortunately, I've only written one other short story in that time, which I'm refraining from posting here due to some gore. But my adventures with Bard in the Woods is not over yet, and I'm really excited to continue forward with it.

Through the woods, through the gale
Here stumbles upon the Nightmare, hail!
His crooked frame Staring through Man,
Twisting his Breath with his twisted Hand.

The Pistol's glimmer gleaming grey,
The Man's eyes, red, running away;
And soon the Earth turned to Sand
As Man sank, Subconscious canned.

Yet there's Hope, with gleaming strings,
Twisting about the Greedman's wrings,
With Faith-held Wings dropping their sheen;
The Midnight looking to find the Mean'.​
 
Not

Strike against my forehead
and tell me
Once,
twice
My pain is not the throbbing thorns
And my hellhole is not the
cradling white;

Tell me
Three
times
My hair is not a fractured mirror
My hands do not tear at airborne flesh
My legs are not broken wanderlust
My heart is not rolling with gasps
My tears are not twirling petals
And I am
not
this.
 
A reminder that I always accept feedback, so please let me know if you have any thoughts, suggestions, or criticisms for my writing!

Burning

I.

Eyes ablaze, heart not.

Thump... thump...
It rolls,
throbs in our chests,
and yet,
Where's the human blood?

The blood,
It's staining red in
a red roaring blaze, making
forming,
the backdrop of our severed thoughts;
Made by us, for us.

We lit the match,
and yet, perhaps...
...perhaps
We belong to the licking blaze
Rather than our blood.

II.

The Phoenix, born from
flame, licking, breathing
Fire, searing our eyes,
scorching
our
minds.

We no longer belong to the Fire,
nor does the flame belong
to us.
We
Are
the Fire.
Forming every bloody wing
of this Phoenix with
our drenched Arms,
One
Drenched
Arm.

Born by fire, reborn
by
Fire:
We breathe ash as one,
and exhale
words, watching every
idea boil in the
roaring Sun.

Talons; our desires.
Beak; our lust.
Coat; our collectiveness.
And we
slit
every rat,
strike
every hawk,
swallow
every ember.

We are Phoenix.
I am Phoenix.
There is only Phoenix.
Only Flame.
Only Fire.
Only Are.
 
Remembrance, But Not Quite the Same

I reflect, as the water reflects its companion sky
Because when recollection pools on your tongue
And your thoughts form
your fragmented mirror
And you cast your eyes hazy upon yourself,
it isn't Yourself.
And soon yesteryears melt into yesterdays
and all the while your world
continues to turn, your mind
continues to wander upon pricked feet.
It isn't Yourself.

But soon
You too will recall the shattered words
and the false promises
and the lost virtues
and the late nights until two a.m.
and the laughter you behold within your palm
and the goblet of youth you sipped from
and you will find yourself.
Yourself of now,
whatever now means.
 
You want thoughts? Ya git thoughts!

Awe-inspiring.

Also I've read a fair share of poems and novels myself, so I can say that your writings are pretty much beyond their quality in the poetry department. Consider yourself victor.
 
Momo

I want to pave my eyes in concrete and never look ahead, only now, only was.
I want to envelop with the same storm that's raging through my splintering skull.
I want to collapse onto you until my legs are no more legs than they are stumps.
I want to cry a new waterfall upon this very house, collapsing the sky about us.
I want to pull you close until there is no feasible space between us and make the words “I love you" have meaning in your ears and in your beautiful eyes.

You need to go.

I want you to stay.
 
In case you couldn't tell, that last poem was addressed to my dog; we called her Momo a lot. The name actually started because my mother thought it was a synonym for weirdo? I guess it must've stemmed from Mo(e), which I've heard used a couple of times. The name Momo stuck around though, and I would make comments about how she was our Princess Peach. Momo means peach in Japanese, and we spoiled her a lot; she did this thing when she laid down where she crossed her paws as if she was royalty. I'm going to miss that.

As with any loss, there's always the seventy two different emotions that are just buzzing in your head. Thankfully, art is a pretty great way to release some of them. I'm still in pain, of course I am, but I took to writing a lot yesterday, and it felt wonderful to just let go in that way.

Real

You wouldn't want this
and yet
Here
I am
on the
bathtub floor
with pained Breaths
As ragged
as
Yours.
 
Dream

It was 11:38 (pm)
On the
School playground
when I asked if
You
would be mine.

You
let out a
Breathless giggle
And only smiled
(serenely)
In response.
 
OYrv8JN.png


Ridley is into literature.

Sorry, that sounded too hilarious to ignore.
 
Summer Thoughts

Lay across the sunburnt grass
and count
One,
two
as the evening clouds
dance away from your fingertips
and your thoughts soon turn to
Simpler times,
when the world was as painted
as it is
Now.

Three, four.
Let the muted greens
drift you across a calm sea
as the people pass,
Undertered,
while you only float,
swaying with the cool breeze and your
Thoughts.

This is what you remember,
This is what you've wanted again in your palm for
So
Long.
Too long
have you waited for
This moment
to arrive.

Five,
six.
Lay back across the sunburnt grass,
and think of
Now,
think your purest
Thoughts.
Close your eyes
in
Bliss.

Seven,
eight.
Because this is what life
should be.
 
Grounded in Thought

Being
Grounded in Thought
means not
that my head
cannot
Soar
above
the clouds;

Nor that my
ideas cannot cause
rippling Waves
beneath your
Balancing feet;

Nor that my words
cannot assist to
Shape
the
whole
World.

Words I Like

I like the word "cascade"
because it
stre
am
s
down your tongue
just as
it Should.

I like the word
"petal"
because it ats
flo
and flut
ters
wherever it wishes
to Go.

I like the word
"balance" because
it stays
equal
right on the
tip of
my Tongue.
My Tongue.

I like the word "bro
ther" because
it
doesn't
tear
the word from
my small
Mouth.

I like the word
"me" because
Why?
Because
it's me
Nobody
me
You can't.

I like
the word.
"Yes."
Because I never
never
need to
say No.
There's No.
 
Witnessing Hands

It was not
My fault
your crooked fingers coiled
about the silver barrel,

Not My Fault
you
splintered your toughened hands
upon impact
with the
g i l d e d floor.

Not Mine
when the animation
trickled like i
nk out of
every inch
of your sinful appendages,

Nor Mine
when
hands became no more
hands
than
Cold, Broken
stone.
 
As I've mentioned before in my ask thread, I'm back in my writing class this year, which means a whole lot more writing is happening every day for me. For the sake of not spamming this thread, I'm drawing out when I post, but most likely with a greater number of pieces to compensate. In the meantime, though, here's a longer one I'm fairly proud of.

Counting on my Fingers

The first time
I experienced
Death,
I did not know what it was.
So with a beaming morning face and young, rose cheeks
I recounted stories of apple peelers
and collecting stones and stories
and playing lazily
with him.

The second time
I experienced
Death,
I did not know what it was.
So when she passed amongst those in her home,
I was instructed to go to the den
and busy myself.
I booted up the rickety computer
and played Bejeweled;
and I broke the rainbow gems,
while their hearts broke.

The third time
I experienced
Death,
I did not know what it was
until three days after.
I had known what the word meant,
but not what
Death
meant.
It took a downpouring sky
a scruffy soccer field
a pencil and a notebook.
to know Death.
I cried,
but not enough.

The fourth time
I experienced Death,
I knew it.
and yet
it did not stop the guilt, the dumb.
Death was no longer a concept,
it was my dog,
and my dog was
Gone.
It's one thing
to be dead, and another
to be Gone. I felt
as though
I was
Gone.

Sometimes, I find myself
hopeful
that by some magical circumstance
some miracle
she will be laying, sprawled, across my bed
when I wake up drowzy,
her paws will clicker-clack
across the kitchen floor,
that I'll finally have my unbridled love
and comfort and
home
back.

But all I can do
is prepare for
the fifth time.

The fifth time
I experience
Death,
I will know who it is
and I will not
Not
Never
be
Gone.
 
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