This isn't really poetry, but it is a short story I made that I wanted to share:
Pictures
By: Sundex
I was in a small room, tied to a rotatable chair as 4 pictures hung on walls surround me. I did not recall how I got to this place, but I knew I wasn’t leaving even if I tried. I had no choice but to look at the first picture, labeled, “Spring.”
The picture’s setting was a park. Leaves were slowly sprouting, the grass is low, and there was a bench in the middle of all the serenity. I see myself in this picture, but only as a child frolicking in the fields while another person from out in the distance was watching me. They looked timid and scared, two qualities I remembered having when I was young. The more I looked at the picture, the more details I saw, such as creatures from the forest watching from the outskirts of their homeland. There were other children playing at the playground in the background, none of which I could give names for.
Suddenly, the chair rotated itself, turning me to the next picture: “Summer.” The same park made up the setting of the picture, but with a couple notable changes: the grass was taller and vibrant, the trees had their green leaves, and the animals came out of their hiding. I was in this picture as well, but as an older man. The same person from “Spring” was also right beside me, showing a little bit of age as well. Hand in hand, sitting on the same bench from before, we watched a kid, who surprisingly was the only kid at the playground. No other human was there. It was just me, the unidentifiable person, and the kid.
Another rotation, this one slower than the last, as it turned me to the next picture: “Autumn.” At this point, I could assume that the setting would be the same park. It was the same setting, but a much different aesthetic. The animals were cowered away at the outskirts of the forest once more, there were no children at the playground, there was no grass, and there was only one character in the picture: me. I was staring at myself, as I was sitting on the bench with a tear running down my face.
I did not have enough time to comprehend the picture, for I was turned around 90 degrees more before a thought landed in my head. “Winter” was an unbearable sight. Snow had covered the entire scene, and no animals existed even in the outskirts of the forest. What did exist, however, was my own body dangling in the air with a tree branch as my Gallows. Likewise, I was dangling between emotions outside of the painting, with my mind as my Gallows, depression as my noose, and hope as my elevated platform.
Suddenly, I was tilted upwards to see a fifth picture that I was never aware of. It had no title, unlike the rest, and a different setting: Heaven. I always pictured it similarly to a dream, where you can always be happy. This case was no exception. I noted two happy people that I remembered seeing before: the unidentified person and the kid. At that moment, I noticed that I wasn’t in that picture.
And that is the moment I fall.
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Re: Poetry Thread
Oh, The Inexorable
Oh, the inexorable passage of time;
My balls are covered in slime.
As you traverse the doldrums,
My penis cums.
Oh, the inexorable state of being
Until you die, but I’m just busy peeing.
While you philosophise,
My head is between fat thighs.
Oh, the inexorable decay;
I’m fucking, so it’s okay.
Though we all become dust,
The pussy I eat isn’t fussed.
- Seizurecube
Oh, the inexorable passage of time;
My balls are covered in slime.
As you traverse the doldrums,
My penis cums.
Oh, the inexorable state of being
Until you die, but I’m just busy peeing.
While you philosophise,
My head is between fat thighs.
Oh, the inexorable decay;
I’m fucking, so it’s okay.
Though we all become dust,
The pussy I eat isn’t fussed.
- Seizurecube