so i've joined a creative writing class, and it requires us to do workshops and compose free verse poems and prose for our peers. my workshop is coming up soon so i'd love if you guys could read my work and tell me which one i should use. i'm terribly insecure about my poetry simply because i'm a complete amateur at it, but hey, that's why i took the class: to sharpen my skills. so here's what i've done so far~


side note: i had to write a love poem, and kask suggested that i write one from a perspective i could relate to: toru's. so i tried that, but everything came out haphazard and chaotic (honestly, it fit toru perfectly but i didn't think it was a strong enough poem.) so i tried to do something a bit from tristan's point of view. i might not have done him justice but i tried my best ^^

temptation temples
Cinnamon lips, spice
tinted breaths, break
the breach that once estranged
your scent from mine. Melted smog,
your yellow streak* drips down
your back a cataract of fingers.

Petal soft touches, water
color souls, the pink of
my mouth shepherds salty shivers as
my skin sweats the fever of
my silent confessions.

Our collection of canvas, soaked with the milk of
our love, bleeds into one.

*yellow streak is often a literary idiom for cowardice

side note: the next one was a confessional lie poem, meaning we had to write about something that sounds like a confession, but is in actuality a lie. the title for this poem was actually supposed to be "voice of reason" but i made a typo and liked the sound of it so it stuck. i wanted to make this poem a sort of partner for the one above, which is why i used a similar language.

voice or reason
Outlets in eggshell walls
beckon me with their empty maws
to touch the crypts of electric tongues.

Joints jolted. Atoms salted
with metallic stares, toothless gums, static
sucking on my finger.

Shocks on spindles. Spinning swindles,
these voltaic ribbons massacre nerves
under tender pink skin, threaded with pins.

Kinesthetic voices
in the plaster sang
directional routes
to a socket of pain.

Masochistic malaise, my impulse a fuse.
Bursted colors of reasons to touch
Reasons to stray
spilling, eagerness filling
my canvas core to my tingling tip.

With sensations spiced,
I answer the surge, the urge,
to trace those glossy faces again

while dolls as my audience, unblinkingly
ceramic, silently swallow their wisdom
behind painted lips.

i felt like making a sig, because i haven't made a graphic in forever and i needed to see how rusty my skills have gotten. i don't particularly like putting graphics in my sig, but i thought i'd might as well share it with you guys in some way. so i put it in here ouo.

edit: sig ver. 2

toru drabble pt.2
Silence munched away minutes, Satoru�s trembling lips struggling to part for the dusty words he�d saved for this moment. There was a chuckle, low and twisted in the throat of a brother who had matured into a stranger, shedding along with his childhood every distinguishable memory his elder sibling held dear.

�Speak up Aniki,� Yuzuru crooned. �This could very well be your only chance.�

The honorifics were mockery, a perfect taunting. Dirtying the recollection of a time that the boy behind this ugly sneer had once addressed his older brother with affection, soft syllables sharpened over time to gnaw at the honor of the disowned eldest. Yet, despite knowing it was a strategically spoken barb against his pride, Satoru clutched his phone between two grieving hands, his face stricken with heartache as the words that used to make him smile came through the receiver in this new harsh tone. More potent than any jeer at his stripped reputation was the sound of his childhood name, venomously crafted to befoul its cherishment.

Closing his eyes, Satoru drank the thrashing words, knowing that this delicate connection to his past life could only last so long. He was determined to capture the sound and wrap it in something fond enough to painlessly look back at.

�Yuzu,� he choked out, ragged and weak. �How are they? Are they� are they happy?�

�Why does it matter?� Yuzuru snapped back almost instantly, his retort alive and waiting for his predictable brother. �They got rid of you. They hate you. You know that don�t you? So why, after all these years, do you still care about them so goddamn much.�

Satoru flinched, his brother reaching a level of rage that was not unlike the childish tantrums he often performed in his earlier years. �Ple��

�Shit Satoru� just stop.� Behind the younger�s brash tone there was a waver of confidence, his snide remark sounding weary and hinted with the slightest sign of misery. �Forget about us.�

another small drabble because runie misses toru
Pulling one arm up�bent at the elbow, he rested it on the crown of his head as he twisted to glance at his furrowed side. He played his body like a xylophone with his fingertips, dragging them while he grimaced.

Now he understood the uncomfortable glimmer of concern in his friends� eyes, the shudder that punctuated the hugs Naoki frequently gave him before whispering in his ear that everything was okay, that he didn�t have to worry anymore, that they were safe. Tristan would force his way into the apartment, pleading for entrance while the grocery bags hanging from his wrist knocked against the door. He�d grin, lay out all the ingredients and fill the ghostly apartment with spices that created the illusion of it being a home. Cayenne, turmeric, garlic. The phantom smells of cooked dinner lingered after Satoru cleaned his plate and his enduring best friend reluctantly left with a sad smile and the soft click of a lock. Empty platters of crumbs and pulled-back cellophane littered the counter with all that remained of Tristan�s culinary gifts (which he�d sneakily left behind even after Satoru�s modest protest).

His body worked like his mind now. Depravation had a way of dealing with extremes. Not hungry. Ravenous. His wasted body was clammy with the effort of healing, his face ragged with the new exhaustion of functioning like a human being again.

He lowered his arm, knocked his elbow on the sink and into the basin a razor fell with a clatter.

Bending, Satoru plucked the shirt from where it blanketed the tops of his feet, bunching it at the collar and tugging it over his head. He stared at himself in the mirror while he searched for the armholes, trying to reverse his shedding. He prayed that it hadn�t shrived like a snake�s exoskeleton, that it wouldn�t crack and dissolve as he tried to climb back into the old self these past few months sloughed off him.

The shirt fit, the hum of the vanity light skipped with the light's flicker.

But that unrecognizable face in the mirror was there.

Time, it takes time. He whispered his mantra as he palmed the light switch and shuffled out of the darkened bathroom.