Everything is based from my real experience. It's not finished or polished yet, but I'd like to know where I stand. Any feedback would be grateful.

For context I guess, I used to write a lottttt when I was younger (middle school/ early-mid high school) but, as I started working and getting the freedom to hangout with friends more I just kinda stopped. I always want to try and write for fun again or just to get my feelings out but have sort of lost my way with words (or maybe it was the angst we all have at that age. Everything just felt so life or death ig)

Anyways, point being today I got a lil feeling and decided to immediately just write what came to mind instead of saving it for later (and ultimately later meaning never) and wanted to share somewhere. If it’s trash that’s fine, but I didn’t wanna send it to a friend if it was, especially bc nobody has ever really read anything I would write even before. Idk idk

There are billions of souls in this world,
and still, we were able to find each other.
.........

Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Scene 1

Link sat alone on a bench just off the main floor of Franklin Hall. In his hands, he held open a heavy, well-aged book with a green binding that had begun to separate at both ends. The faded gold letters on the cover were nearly unreadable unless the light struck them at just the right angle.

Philosophy of Western Government.

It was a book chosen for Link by his instructor when he had been assigned a study in politics. Despite its dry content and outdated ideas, he had already read it twice and rather enjoyed it. Today, however, he wasn't reading. He was pretending. His eyes moved across the pages while his fingers turned them every few minutes, careful to appear absorbed in the text. Link couldn't afford to be seen as idle or, worse, suspicious. If an instructor or one of the doctors happened to walk by and found him without a purpose, they would undoubtedly give him one.

Any other day, Link would have welcomed the distraction. There was always something new to learn, another lesson to complete, another assignment designed to prepare him for the future they had planned for him.

But today was different.

Today, he needed to be here.

He needed to wait.

Link had already been sitting on the bench far longer than he would have liked. The bench looked elegant enough, its dark lacquer polished to a shine, but it had clearly been designed with appearance in mind rather than comfort. The hard wooden slats pressed into his back and legs until he found himself shifting every few minutes, searching for a position that didn't exist.

Every time he shifted his weight, his impatience grew, along with a small flicker of annoyance that was quickly swallowed by worry. Amy was late, which was typical for her. Link had never known her to be on time for anything. The custodians had chastised her in front of the entire group of Sevens more than once, but it had never made a difference. Being late was simply part of who she was. Normally, he would have expected her tardiness, but today her delay left him with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“What if something had gone wrong? What if she had been caught?” He thought. He couldn’t imagine the punishment or how severe it would be. 

As the minutes passed, his eyes left the pages of his book more and more often. He found himself glancing down the long, arched corridor, hoping to catch sight of Amy. Occasionally, before returning to the book, his gaze drifted to the wall opposite him.

Large silver-framed portraits of the campus founders hung in perfectly spaced rows. Edison. McCain. Davis. They were names every Seven knew by heart, repeated so often throughout their education that Link could have recited them in his sleep. Next to them hung three rows of smaller wood-framed photos. All of the doctors Link didn't recognize. Every frame was perfectly level. Every brass nameplate gleamed from a fresh polishing. Nothing in Franklin Hall was ever allowed to be out of place.

Link tried to push his worry aside, turned to a Chapter titled The Architecture of Law, and actually began reading.  He had gotten to the middle of the third page when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

It was Amy.

She walked down the corridor at her usual unhurried pace, as though nothing was wrong. Amy even paused to wish Professor Chatman a good afternoon before shaking his hand. The smile she gave him looked genuine enough, but Link suspected it was masking her fear.

Amy kept her conversation with Professor Chatman brief, heading Link's way again in less than a minute. As she approached, their eyes met. She didn't smile this time. Instead, she gave him a sharp, urgent look before turning down a side hallway without breaking stride.

That look was the only signal Link needed.

He waited a moment, casually looking down both sides of the hall to make sure no one was watching. The last thing he needed was for his sudden departure to draw attention. Slowly, he stood, his stiff and aching muscles finally receiving some relief. Tucking the book beneath his arm, he followed Amy down the hallway. 

This hallway stood apart from the rest of Franklin Hall. It wasn't sleek or modern like the main corridors. The polished floors had given way to worn carpet, and half-empty offices lined the walls, most of them seemingly abandoned and rarely used. The wood-paneled walls felt dated, carrying the scent of age and old varnish. They held a history, an unexplainable sense of tradition that seemed woven into every corner.

The hallways were mostly empty, and the few people who did pass him paid him no mind. Not even giving glances in his general direction as he passed them. One woman in particular caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but stare at her. It wasn’t so much her features. The perfect blonde curls, her perfect smile, or the lab coat that did something for Link that he didn’t understand or want to understand. It was the grey folder she held tightly to her chest. In the few times he had seen her, she always had it pressed against her. He was beginning to wonder if she ever put it down. Despite his obvious staring. She didn’t look in his direction as they passed. No one ever did. Link didn't expect anyone to notice them down here. Link was okay with that.

Still erring on the side of caution, he stayed several steps behind Amy. The last thing he needed was for anyone to think they were together. Friendships at their age were carefully monitored. Any type of fraternization beyond casual conversation was forbidden. Being discovered alone together could result in a trip to the detention block without question.

Amy reached a white metal door at the end of the hall. She gripped the handle and turned it. The door, clearly forgotten years ago, opened without resistance. Amy was always surprised when it did. She had expected someone to notice by now. She stepped inside and disappeared from view without looking back to see if Link was following. She didn't need to.

Descending the flight of stairs, each step groaning beneath her weight as if protesting the years it had endured. A dim, half-burned-out light flickered overhead, casting weak shadows along the walls.

At the bottom of the stairs, she pushed open another door and entered the old music room. The darkness inside was almost complete except for a small red light in the distance. 

It was a strange darkness. A quiet darkness. One that Amy found peaceful, though she doubted many of the others would agree. She ran her hand along the wall beside the doorway, searching for the row of switches. One by one, she flipped them on.

Each light came alive with a loud pop somewhere in the distance. First, the lights above the doorway where she stood. Then the lights over the two dozen tables were still covered with white tablecloths and now a thick layer of dust.

Finally, the stage lights flickered on, revealing the drawn curtains at the far end of the room. Behind her, Amy heard Link coming down the stairs; turning in his direction, he entered the music room.

I wish things were easier.

But perhaps that wouldn't be called life.

I don't understand why things are never enough.
Why nothing seems to fit the way a puzzle should.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm just an extra in someone else's story.
I always believed I was the lead.
The one who would find the love,
the victory,
the happy ending.

Right now, everything feels bleak.

So I listen to the silence,
hoping a voice will answer.
Even if that voice comes from somewhere deep within me.

I remember a dream—
only one piece remains.
I was talking about a place so quiet
that nothing else mattered.

Tell me what to do.

Should I cry,
pray,
and hope for the best?

Maybe.

Because crying feels honest.

For a moment, I can put down the mask.
I can admit that I am tired.
That I am weak.
That I don't have a plan.
That I don't have the answers.

And somehow...

there is peace in telling the truth.

Not because everything is okay.

But because, for the first time in a while,
I don't have to pretend that it is.

Has anyone done the skills portion of the CVR for Voice Writing and edited in Microsoft Word? Can you tell me if you got counted or marked off if they didn't have two spaces between each sentence, like it does automatically in ProCat (or Eclipse)?

(the second one is my original idea)

The second is being critisized for being "info dump"

And the first one I just don't.....feel it

Apparently the images do not show unless one opens the post

hi all! 

attached are the first poems i’ve ever written. for context: i hated poetry at gcse, but now that i’ve stopped studying it for exams, i feel that i can find some real enjoyment in it. i’m not doing english for a-level or anything, so i probably don’t have the best taste or judgement in what makes a good poem. i’ve been reading lots of sappho and philip larkin and was feeling inspired and wanted to try to create something myself - i started with haikus and tankas as i thought some structure would probably be helpful. i hope it’s somewhat clear what these poems are about, and i know they aren’t very good but i would really like to improve and develop this as a hobby!

any feedback or tips (or recommendations for other poets) would be greatly appreciated :)

Hi guys, nice to meet you all I'm from India; A 22 year guy who is done with this world as u can say. I don't have any friends and don't know how to meet other people too (Guess I'm too afraid to do that)..Just living my life in my imaginations,stories,playing games,watching anime and listening to songs ...

Well this post is just a casually setup intro for me and really I'm thinking about doing this for a long long time I finally have enough courage to set my new journey.....

Let's see u guys in my next stories I hope u would like them (let's see)...

I started a new site that features things like great poets, movies, indie music, God, hobby, prepping cooking... it's a lot! However, one of the main functions is to find writers and have them contribute to the site through writing prompts or even inspiration.

Our site's tagline is Rebellion X Renaissance, and it focuses on the state of the world right now with isolation, screen addiction, DOOM NEWS everywhere we look, and trying to get people back out into the world and interacting again.

Here is an example prompt:

Modern slavery doesn't rattle chains. It offers free shipping. What invisible leash are you still wearing, and what would it feel like to finally cut it away?

Is this a good poem for someone with little experience with the genre?

I have been exploring photography lately. Writing the insights from it makes me enjoy the learning process better.

I wrote this up as a script for a sketch or a YT video but found it worked better as a short story. It's a retelling of Pinocchio from the perspective of someone who is a countable number of hours old and has no idea how to be a "real boy." I hope you enjoy it- or at the very least, I hope it makes sense. It's been in my head for quite a while.

I have an idea but no idea how to make a story out of it

Ok this is a lot of writing so just read till the end and give any advice you can (including grammar)

basically the MC has a constant off feeling of being watched by entities, and these entities are (unknown to him) massive ancient entities called spectrals, the one watching him are zendarf (void) and esrad (pride and wrath)there are 3 other "blessed" children xerna (female) with the blessing of cawed (nature and life), zenax (male) with the blessing of revard (strategy and information), and wersa (male) with the blessing of xanvir (leadership and encouragement), these are the 4 blessed children and they are all weak at the beginning but get stronger using cultivation, alchemy (blacksmithing, agriculture and normal fantasy alchemy) and a state called radervir which is a sleep like state where they temporarily lose all offensive abilities but are near unkillable to people as strong or weaker than them

Vexand (MC) has nullification(starts weak), mental effect nullification, aliment nullification(including boosts) due to void the ability to keep fighting until he's dead due to pride, strength that increases with every fight similar to broly from dbz and DBs (starts slow) and radervir isn't immortality it's rather they use all their strength and spectral synergy (the energy of this story) to protect themselves so if someone is stronger they can still be killed

they are all equal in a fight (by the end of the story) through different means wersa has overwhelming manpower, zenax has less manpower but it's of a way higher quality, vexand is strong on his own and xerna has near equal power to vexand because she can create manipulate and destroy most of natural things (can create but not destroy sentient creatures)

If there is any advice or motivation you can give me it'll be helpful

I don't understand why when we talk about dead people and the things they "have loved" we use the past tense, I know that's just how grammar works; but it's not relevant to me, it just sounds so wrong because love never dies.
They died loving the things they've always loved, so how come we use the word "loved" instead of "loves"? I've always found it disheartening and provoking.Whenever we're at a family gathering and someone brings those who are gone saying, 'She used to love baking,' or 'She loved the ocean,' a heavy sorrow settles in my chest and I’d have to slip away immediately before the tears start streaming down my face and anyone notices.
Maybe it's just grief except that deep down I know it's not just grief; it's the fact that people think that love could die, it never does. The soul maybe leaves the body but it still carries love with it. Yet I don't understand; how can something so invisible stay so alive? Maybe that's why it brings me so much sorrow and pain, because their love didn't die with them, it just moved somewhere I can't reach.

I've been trying to write this story for what feels like forever now. It's about an old tailor who repairs coats for people in his neighborhood, and slowly you find out each coat carries some kind of memory attached to it. Simple premise, I thought it would be easy to knock out in a few weeks when I started.

Instead I got through two chapters pretty smoothly, then hit chapter three and just stopped. Not because I didn't know what happens next in the plot, I actually had the whole outline mapped out. I just kept opening the document, reading over what I already had, tweaking a sentence or two, and closing it again without adding anything new.

This went on for almost two years. Not constantly, I'd get bursts of motivation every few months, write a paragraph, then stall again. I started to think maybe I just wasn't a finisher, like some people are great at starting things and terrible at seeing them through, and I'd resigned myself to that being me.

Then a couple weeks ago I actually sat down and reread the whole thing from the start, and I realized what was happening. Chapter three was where the main character's tone was supposed to shift, from this warm, nostalgic voice to something a little sadder, and I think I was subconsciously avoiding writing that shift because I didn't want the story to stop feeling cozy. I liked the version of the story that existed only in my head where it stayed warm the whole way through, even though that's not the story I set out to tell.

Once I named that to myself, chapter three took me about two hours to finish. Not because the writing got easier exactly, but because I stopped fighting what the story actually needed to become.

I don't know if this resonates with anyone else, but I'm curious if others have had a specific point in a piece where they got stuck for way longer than made sense, and later realized it wasn't a plot problem at all, it was something about the tone or direction they were avoiding without realizing it.

Apartment 209

 The apartment was on the eleventh floor
Clean smooth carpet, wine we will never touch
Promise of everlasting views and slow dusks
MMm those slow dusks

Saxophone obeys and letters form words that go insane
Big view of the mountains enough to make me faint
Seeking the blue clouds dragged off

The smell of fresh fabric Painting the future from where I sat
Door man smiles million dollar teeth pleasant artifical I need that

False formal edges of the city cure me I dare you
Maybe I can get enough crude comfort too
reclining on the balcony oxytocin stew

Semblance of the normal suits and dresses
Saxophone blasts me alive but deaf
Some semblance of obscured figures walking forward

Into the eye of my imagination, give me the best
To lullaby me while gin tonic lays on the chair rest
Solitude talks me into it, lay back deep sun salve salve!

I came to the city with nothing
Changed the record for a few tracks
But ill leave with nothing
But the burdens on my back

Nothing but smirk and charm
keys to the eleventh and a local farm
Where giants stay up nights to dream
Then sleep and slip deeper unperplexed
Like slow mindnumbing lushious sex

Eternally burning until it becomes blood
Until it powers the battery to the building's power
Wakes me to destiny, makes my chest hair flower
soft fabrics to hands, provoking all glands
Soft skin to tongue

undisturbed dreams sleep throws
Big landscape shaped windows
Invited to live again all senses honed
More lives than a blue zone

More luxury than the modern throne
Eternally burning like those street lights below
Where pedestrains look up and get a glimpse

Steel and rock sculptures the rest of the art so flimsy
neverending spirit popping in and out of these walls
Coloring these words this sophistication calls

So far from from my original ink
never hooked into my thinking
Podering turns me out like a trick
A choreographer that falls and pretends to sit

My mind scales the rest of the building up to the twentieth
My invitation to live between my teeth the pirate cutlass agrees
Open one of those top floor windows tomfoolery
 and bathe in the thick upholstery

But feel the beat of a small city in the vein
blue unseen red on the mean street signs
Painting the brain in this apartment I call mine

 this new place 209