found objectby alafoelChaptersjasperPoem for Luna (Are we so great and powerful?)agateThe Apples in StereoSilence.Those Two Lovers!Passing conversation in canterlot market.marbleComing DownHow it feels to hurt. (Poem for Luna)limestoneEquestria Girls (friendship)jadeEquestria Girls (magic)Necrotizing Fasciitisuntitled (pinkie pie)jasperthe fire rose in stasis, held in its prison of rock. the swirls and whirls and bands that make up your face. Smooth, cold, still. Burnished and Cared: Stood there, held for decoration. That jasper on the shelf. That little fire rose inside, burning away its soul. Poem for Luna (Are we so great and powerful?)Luna, you came to visit me. You came to speak and see, to talk to me. Our future prosopography, everything I can be, that we can be: Our little play of humanity. What can you be? Little more than a dream. Drifting off, my never-end. My only friend, my pretend! Our pretend, us, us all. Every one. Everyone. Our dream, of us, the little hopes of community. The self made by committee, as our only choice to be. What are we if we can't be seen? What are you if never invented? Are we so great and powerful? To never fall and fail? That's not what greatness is, you say. But to fall and stand back up. To fail and keep on trying. To know it never ends and take solace in that. Are we so great and powerful? To never need each other? That's not how power works, you say. But to exist within a system, to know that you can depend. To know that when you leave things will change. Luna, you came to visit me. A sea of stars, those stars I see! A mane so great it could never be. A voice so powerful, inaudibly. A hoof that touched my heart inside, a heart that faded, those tears I cried. A single wish to fall and divide, that single wish, the one I lied. And as I saw that you weren't there, that time was still, no fear, no care, I knew myself as only I could. I knew myself as others would. agateMemories are funny. They sit there, dormant. Waiting. Waiting for the moment to snap back and ruin you. They hide themselves in little things around you. The agate was small, I had it on that shelf for for months. It blended right in, til one day I held it again. And I remembered everything right back to the beginning. That agate. Every single thing. Every day I saw it and thought thought nothing. Why now? Why this agate? Nothing else your hooves touched… Why you? Why me? that agate… waiting for the moment to snap back The Apples in Stereothe salt in the air has bore through my sense left its stain of rust and disappeared i no longer taste it on my tongue the air is clean my thoughts are not you standing there brandishing your wings! the words i never wanted to use: chiseled, rippling, glistening, hot how can i not? this hole through the side of my skull where restraint and logic once lied this plug unplugged, letting out, now, a tedium of dust i see you and and feel you still on my body that hoof slung around my back though it has since moved is still right there, i can feel it proudly brandishing the patch you left the fairies dance in gardens as you walk by the clouds swirl themselves into your dreams the floor beneath me is furnished is hardened with steel that once weighed down on me that hung overhead but now only steadies my legs that lets me stand here in front of you that lets me stand here and speak for the first time in my life i am speaking clearly Silence.sits down, and takes notice of the picture frame hanging at a slight angle and does her best not to move. Resists the urges to stand back up and fix it. Suppresses the twitches of horn, keeps mind blank as can be. Distractions are what cloud cloud the mind, pull creativity to its dead end. “artist’s block”. but continues to stare at the frame, the picture inside. with her sister, smiling, a memory. a life. To run in the same three circles, chunks of brain reworking, nothing new to spout but reimagined and regurgitated offals of past experiences and past dresses sewn patchwork to make nothing new. something new would flow, so with eyes straight ahead, at the misty dust nothingness of a clean space. and ears straining not to hear bird song from outside but only the brain’s own vibrations. If possible. And the hoof that bounces reflexively at the end of a jittery leg, must soon silence too when the conscious mind notices. jittery legs, bouncy hooves, are not ideas. not ideas, not dresses. but soon one will come. if it takes all day. and knocks on the door are not dresses and pangs of hunger are not dresses and romantic novels are not dresses and flutters of wind are not dresses and yearning muscles are not dresses and empty hearts are not dresses and tired faces are not dresses and sleepy eyes are not dresses and morning suns are not dresses and gloomy minds are not dresses and cogitations on thoughts on overthinkings are not dresses and time spent alone in uncomfortable chairs are not dresses and none of these are dresses Those Two Lovers!let riverrun of Adam twice, it’s tide’s millennium stand, two ponies once just stallions, fade to one as grand. And weathered on, and let badge hold: that Apple one side, Wings present t'other. and Two as One and One as Two and always will have been. And let ask, now, little colt: those tears. Those tears! you never let yr.self cry: do they flow now, in jest? or trickle out of closeness, compassion? Can they really betray something so Simple and True? That sadness presents, here and now, itself inside you? Nervous young Thing, Stallion of two. let yr.self be known! Family and Friends can try, inspect empty heart as home. empty, as it is, as it was of water: salt of tears! yet, too, of river, that stands just beyond thine roan. empty, now, with room for love room to grow and try! little blossomed orchid sticks, rooms within as should. Let it grow! and water now! and pierce it with the sun! a little place to crawl about, and petal in those veins. Is he but an orchid too? Grown inside your heart? Try and reach and feel that coat. and let end fade, restart. Passing conversation in canterlot market.im not laughing at you i just think its funny the way you shake your wings that little shake you dont even notice i dont i dont like when you laugh at me like that it makes me feel bad im not laughing at you im just laughing its cute it doesnt feel cute when you laugh at me i know i know you dont mean anything by it but when youre laughing in my ear it doesnt feel cute i dont want you to feel bad dont try and guilt me im not im sorry im sorry im sorry i want to feel good i know i dont always feel good i know usually you make me feel good i dont i dont like when you make me feel bad youre better than that not a lot of ponies are better than that you are i dont like when you make me feel bad im sorry i i l im sorry do you should we we could go somewhere for coffee okay thatd be nice i really shouldnt its past noon but i might as well if you dont want no i do i want to i want to go with you you did it again that shake that little shake marblemarble holds beauty. that's what ponies tell me, the statues they saw. chiseled by hoof into beauty. in galleries, you find it in galleries. marble manipulated by tools and instruments. changed to reflect our own form. mutilated. marble holds beauty, it does. why do we have to hurt it to see that? can't we find it as it is? is marble really only as good as what we can form from it? i like marble. i think it's beautiful. i don't want it to change. i don't want to change. i just want to be beautiful. Coming Downand my breathing starts back up starts up more regularly and my chest softens and the light is shining through the window and my fur feels so warm in the sun and I can see through the window see the trees just outside as they bristle in the wind and the blood and cotton has fallen from my ears and I can hear the birds outside again and they're singing their songs their little chirps singing in the trees and the bed beneath me is so soft and the tears still haven't stopped but they don't feel so bad and I can see the little specks of dust floating about in the sun and I can see the sun through the window and I can see the sky outside and I can feel my heat beating and I can feel my heart filling up with all the love I was ever given and I can see every pony I ever loved so clearly now in my head and the bed beneath me feels so soft and I can't believe I ever forgot how much I want to live How it feels to hurt. (Poem for Luna)Take one last look: at the weight on your shoulder, the weight of this boulder, you choose to carry up and down this mountain. Luna, who are we helping here? To sit in puddles and reminisce of rotten vices and open wounds of every bad thing we’ve ever done. Wouldn’t you be free, with shoulders unburdened? To stride further and stronger, to rush on with out a care. Wouldn’t we get there faster? Wherever it is we’re going. Must you see yourself suffer for what is written in stone? for what is plain to see if one looks. Do you have to look? And as I poke and prod the scars left ‘cross my legs and as I hoist my own boulders too, as I sit in space alone. No one is hurt. because their tears are done but ours still flow? because the biggest mistakes are not to be retold. because when your shoulders are clear, when your legs move with ease it becomes so much easier to step over the ponies that you love. because we need to remember how it feels to hurt because no one should ever have to know how it feels to hurt. limestoneare you afraid? that you might crumble? it’s okay. i’m scared too. i don’t want you to crumble but you don’t have to pretend like you’re strong. there’s nothing wrong with being weak. there’s nothing wrong with being soft. sometimes i swear i swear i could see inside you. Equestria Girls (friendship)sickening to think you could have always had this if you tried. to take three steps back, and find yourself here. Amongst your peers. peers you never had back home in your world your own personal prosopography, stretching back yards and miles of lonely lonely turf weeds pulling out of clumps of dead grass that you never thought to tend to. it’s different, of course, but it’s all the same. When hasn’t it been? Those faces you see, you could swear you saw if you tried hard enough faces when you were young smiling too. They weren’t there. Were they ever? if you tried hard enough standing right there hand in hoof in hand in were you always this lonely? little books found in cracks and corners of rotting memory never probed for lack of need a colt who cried when you said no why now? but here. in front of you. flesh and blood. that same river flooding back to you younger years in dress up ahead, the puppets that swing and canter fold over you in their dances that seem so close but feel so far you don’t need this little drops of swirls of dancing in your head laughing at you begging you to take one more step into that same river telling you you can breathe underwater young, young, young, young people having fun it’s sickening to jadeThose tears welled in my eyes, as thoughts dwelled uncompromised, little rock of jade looking back at me. I remember who you were, let memories slow and defer, little rock of jade staring back at me. Your gift a poem, your heart a song. I can't help myself. Has it been so long? Little rock of jade crying back at me. I can see and wish and hope forever, I swore one time I'd leave you never. Little rock of jade calling out for me. Everything reminds me of you these days, all that I did wrong, and still do, this haze, little rock of jade sitting in the trash. Equestria Girls (magic)I ball my hoof my hand into a fist. Squeeze. Open and Close. Veins web, muscles welt. it’s disgusting isn’t it? I hate it so much. To see that flesh writhe. Open and Close. Is this me? It couldn’t be. Those wrinkles… Folds of flesh and skin, storm about those knuckles. Bones. Flesh. No fur. Open and Close. And the mirror. The mirror! This is me. This is who I am. This is disgusting. A horrid visage wrapped taut on degenerate skull. I Squeak and Shuffle Mouth and Jaw into place, out of place. It moves back. In the mirror, it moves as it should. But why should it? This isn’t me. I hate myself. I want to go home. I want my body back. Open and Close. Mouth and Jaw. I forgot what it was like to… Necrotizing FasciitisThe Grey and Black rippling across my chest rippling through the open wound oozing with salt of tears and blood in little flame licks of pain, that prop up from the background hum that thrum, works itself through me the little throbbing wretch you left me The heart thumps while it can, your touch leaving only dead flesh flesh that once wrapped itself around you grew bitter in your absence now only serves its own rot. It’s easier to stay here, in bed without the pain rippling to its head too far overboard to tear me to shreds where you once lay beside me hoof tracing fur, touching chest now bare of coat accepting only torn, bloody flesh. Dead flesh. You are the witch that killed me. Queen of the Frauds, that played perfect. Perfect, changeling, changing, playing pretend that you were special. That your touch wouldn’t rot me to my core. You’re not special. And I hope whichever whichever pony you’ve found, I hope they see through you. I hope you’re rotting too. untitled (pinkie pie)Pinkie, why are your poems so sad? when all you do is smile Pinkie, can’t you just be glad? with the things you have all the while Pinkie, don’t you want us to feel good? don’t you want to make us laugh Pinkie, do you want to be understood? aren’t you meant to make us laugh Pinkie, we know that this isn’t you. so why do you keep writing these Pinkie, what do you want us to do? unchecked feelings you’re trying to appease Pinkie, we liked you the way you were before. do you have to write these little odds and ends Pinkie, we liked you when you used to smile more. do you even still care about your friends Pinkie, you need to stop writing these. you really need to stop writing these Pinkie, you really need to stop writing these. you really need to stop writing these
jasperthe fire rose in stasis, held in its prison of rock. the swirls and whirls and bands that make up your face. Smooth, cold, still. Burnished and Cared: Stood there, held for decoration. That jasper on the shelf. That little fire rose inside, burning away its soul.
Poem for Luna (Are we so great and powerful?)Luna, you came to visit me. You came to speak and see, to talk to me. Our future prosopography, everything I can be, that we can be: Our little play of humanity. What can you be? Little more than a dream. Drifting off, my never-end. My only friend, my pretend! Our pretend, us, us all. Every one. Everyone. Our dream, of us, the little hopes of community. The self made by committee, as our only choice to be. What are we if we can't be seen? What are you if never invented? Are we so great and powerful? To never fall and fail? That's not what greatness is, you say. But to fall and stand back up. To fail and keep on trying. To know it never ends and take solace in that. Are we so great and powerful? To never need each other? That's not how power works, you say. But to exist within a system, to know that you can depend. To know that when you leave things will change. Luna, you came to visit me. A sea of stars, those stars I see! A mane so great it could never be. A voice so powerful, inaudibly. A hoof that touched my heart inside, a heart that faded, those tears I cried. A single wish to fall and divide, that single wish, the one I lied. And as I saw that you weren't there, that time was still, no fear, no care, I knew myself as only I could. I knew myself as others would.
agateMemories are funny. They sit there, dormant. Waiting. Waiting for the moment to snap back and ruin you. They hide themselves in little things around you. The agate was small, I had it on that shelf for for months. It blended right in, til one day I held it again. And I remembered everything right back to the beginning. That agate. Every single thing. Every day I saw it and thought thought nothing. Why now? Why this agate? Nothing else your hooves touched… Why you? Why me? that agate… waiting for the moment to snap back
The Apples in Stereothe salt in the air has bore through my sense left its stain of rust and disappeared i no longer taste it on my tongue the air is clean my thoughts are not you standing there brandishing your wings! the words i never wanted to use: chiseled, rippling, glistening, hot how can i not? this hole through the side of my skull where restraint and logic once lied this plug unplugged, letting out, now, a tedium of dust i see you and and feel you still on my body that hoof slung around my back though it has since moved is still right there, i can feel it proudly brandishing the patch you left the fairies dance in gardens as you walk by the clouds swirl themselves into your dreams the floor beneath me is furnished is hardened with steel that once weighed down on me that hung overhead but now only steadies my legs that lets me stand here in front of you that lets me stand here and speak for the first time in my life i am speaking clearly
Silence.sits down, and takes notice of the picture frame hanging at a slight angle and does her best not to move. Resists the urges to stand back up and fix it. Suppresses the twitches of horn, keeps mind blank as can be. Distractions are what cloud cloud the mind, pull creativity to its dead end. “artist’s block”. but continues to stare at the frame, the picture inside. with her sister, smiling, a memory. a life. To run in the same three circles, chunks of brain reworking, nothing new to spout but reimagined and regurgitated offals of past experiences and past dresses sewn patchwork to make nothing new. something new would flow, so with eyes straight ahead, at the misty dust nothingness of a clean space. and ears straining not to hear bird song from outside but only the brain’s own vibrations. If possible. And the hoof that bounces reflexively at the end of a jittery leg, must soon silence too when the conscious mind notices. jittery legs, bouncy hooves, are not ideas. not ideas, not dresses. but soon one will come. if it takes all day. and knocks on the door are not dresses and pangs of hunger are not dresses and romantic novels are not dresses and flutters of wind are not dresses and yearning muscles are not dresses and empty hearts are not dresses and tired faces are not dresses and sleepy eyes are not dresses and morning suns are not dresses and gloomy minds are not dresses and cogitations on thoughts on overthinkings are not dresses and time spent alone in uncomfortable chairs are not dresses and none of these are dresses
Those Two Lovers!let riverrun of Adam twice, it’s tide’s millennium stand, two ponies once just stallions, fade to one as grand. And weathered on, and let badge hold: that Apple one side, Wings present t'other. and Two as One and One as Two and always will have been. And let ask, now, little colt: those tears. Those tears! you never let yr.self cry: do they flow now, in jest? or trickle out of closeness, compassion? Can they really betray something so Simple and True? That sadness presents, here and now, itself inside you? Nervous young Thing, Stallion of two. let yr.self be known! Family and Friends can try, inspect empty heart as home. empty, as it is, as it was of water: salt of tears! yet, too, of river, that stands just beyond thine roan. empty, now, with room for love room to grow and try! little blossomed orchid sticks, rooms within as should. Let it grow! and water now! and pierce it with the sun! a little place to crawl about, and petal in those veins. Is he but an orchid too? Grown inside your heart? Try and reach and feel that coat. and let end fade, restart.
Passing conversation in canterlot market.im not laughing at you i just think its funny the way you shake your wings that little shake you dont even notice i dont i dont like when you laugh at me like that it makes me feel bad im not laughing at you im just laughing its cute it doesnt feel cute when you laugh at me i know i know you dont mean anything by it but when youre laughing in my ear it doesnt feel cute i dont want you to feel bad dont try and guilt me im not im sorry im sorry im sorry i want to feel good i know i dont always feel good i know usually you make me feel good i dont i dont like when you make me feel bad youre better than that not a lot of ponies are better than that you are i dont like when you make me feel bad im sorry i i l im sorry do you should we we could go somewhere for coffee okay thatd be nice i really shouldnt its past noon but i might as well if you dont want no i do i want to i want to go with you you did it again that shake that little shake
marblemarble holds beauty. that's what ponies tell me, the statues they saw. chiseled by hoof into beauty. in galleries, you find it in galleries. marble manipulated by tools and instruments. changed to reflect our own form. mutilated. marble holds beauty, it does. why do we have to hurt it to see that? can't we find it as it is? is marble really only as good as what we can form from it? i like marble. i think it's beautiful. i don't want it to change. i don't want to change. i just want to be beautiful.
Coming Downand my breathing starts back up starts up more regularly and my chest softens and the light is shining through the window and my fur feels so warm in the sun and I can see through the window see the trees just outside as they bristle in the wind and the blood and cotton has fallen from my ears and I can hear the birds outside again and they're singing their songs their little chirps singing in the trees and the bed beneath me is so soft and the tears still haven't stopped but they don't feel so bad and I can see the little specks of dust floating about in the sun and I can see the sun through the window and I can see the sky outside and I can feel my heat beating and I can feel my heart filling up with all the love I was ever given and I can see every pony I ever loved so clearly now in my head and the bed beneath me feels so soft and I can't believe I ever forgot how much I want to live
How it feels to hurt. (Poem for Luna)Take one last look: at the weight on your shoulder, the weight of this boulder, you choose to carry up and down this mountain. Luna, who are we helping here? To sit in puddles and reminisce of rotten vices and open wounds of every bad thing we’ve ever done. Wouldn’t you be free, with shoulders unburdened? To stride further and stronger, to rush on with out a care. Wouldn’t we get there faster? Wherever it is we’re going. Must you see yourself suffer for what is written in stone? for what is plain to see if one looks. Do you have to look? And as I poke and prod the scars left ‘cross my legs and as I hoist my own boulders too, as I sit in space alone. No one is hurt. because their tears are done but ours still flow? because the biggest mistakes are not to be retold. because when your shoulders are clear, when your legs move with ease it becomes so much easier to step over the ponies that you love. because we need to remember how it feels to hurt because no one should ever have to know how it feels to hurt.
limestoneare you afraid? that you might crumble? it’s okay. i’m scared too. i don’t want you to crumble but you don’t have to pretend like you’re strong. there’s nothing wrong with being weak. there’s nothing wrong with being soft. sometimes i swear i swear i could see inside you.
Equestria Girls (friendship)sickening to think you could have always had this if you tried. to take three steps back, and find yourself here. Amongst your peers. peers you never had back home in your world your own personal prosopography, stretching back yards and miles of lonely lonely turf weeds pulling out of clumps of dead grass that you never thought to tend to. it’s different, of course, but it’s all the same. When hasn’t it been? Those faces you see, you could swear you saw if you tried hard enough faces when you were young smiling too. They weren’t there. Were they ever? if you tried hard enough standing right there hand in hoof in hand in were you always this lonely? little books found in cracks and corners of rotting memory never probed for lack of need a colt who cried when you said no why now? but here. in front of you. flesh and blood. that same river flooding back to you younger years in dress up ahead, the puppets that swing and canter fold over you in their dances that seem so close but feel so far you don’t need this little drops of swirls of dancing in your head laughing at you begging you to take one more step into that same river telling you you can breathe underwater young, young, young, young people having fun it’s sickening to
jadeThose tears welled in my eyes, as thoughts dwelled uncompromised, little rock of jade looking back at me. I remember who you were, let memories slow and defer, little rock of jade staring back at me. Your gift a poem, your heart a song. I can't help myself. Has it been so long? Little rock of jade crying back at me. I can see and wish and hope forever, I swore one time I'd leave you never. Little rock of jade calling out for me. Everything reminds me of you these days, all that I did wrong, and still do, this haze, little rock of jade sitting in the trash.
Equestria Girls (magic)I ball my hoof my hand into a fist. Squeeze. Open and Close. Veins web, muscles welt. it’s disgusting isn’t it? I hate it so much. To see that flesh writhe. Open and Close. Is this me? It couldn’t be. Those wrinkles… Folds of flesh and skin, storm about those knuckles. Bones. Flesh. No fur. Open and Close. And the mirror. The mirror! This is me. This is who I am. This is disgusting. A horrid visage wrapped taut on degenerate skull. I Squeak and Shuffle Mouth and Jaw into place, out of place. It moves back. In the mirror, it moves as it should. But why should it? This isn’t me. I hate myself. I want to go home. I want my body back. Open and Close. Mouth and Jaw. I forgot what it was like to…
Necrotizing FasciitisThe Grey and Black rippling across my chest rippling through the open wound oozing with salt of tears and blood in little flame licks of pain, that prop up from the background hum that thrum, works itself through me the little throbbing wretch you left me The heart thumps while it can, your touch leaving only dead flesh flesh that once wrapped itself around you grew bitter in your absence now only serves its own rot. It’s easier to stay here, in bed without the pain rippling to its head too far overboard to tear me to shreds where you once lay beside me hoof tracing fur, touching chest now bare of coat accepting only torn, bloody flesh. Dead flesh. You are the witch that killed me. Queen of the Frauds, that played perfect. Perfect, changeling, changing, playing pretend that you were special. That your touch wouldn’t rot me to my core. You’re not special. And I hope whichever whichever pony you’ve found, I hope they see through you. I hope you’re rotting too.
untitled (pinkie pie)Pinkie, why are your poems so sad? when all you do is smile Pinkie, can’t you just be glad? with the things you have all the while Pinkie, don’t you want us to feel good? don’t you want to make us laugh Pinkie, do you want to be understood? aren’t you meant to make us laugh Pinkie, we know that this isn’t you. so why do you keep writing these Pinkie, what do you want us to do? unchecked feelings you’re trying to appease Pinkie, we liked you the way you were before. do you have to write these little odds and ends Pinkie, we liked you when you used to smile more. do you even still care about your friends Pinkie, you need to stop writing these. you really need to stop writing these Pinkie, you really need to stop writing these. you really need to stop writing these
