i am not a poet
i am simply cataloging my life
and saying it pretty.

poems are always about love and hate,
the great dramas of life.

my world is a quiet one,
and all i have to write about
are small dreams and
little moments.

i have heartbeats that would be a sin
to forget so
i immortalize them the only way i know how:
flowery words with no rhythm

[Hrm.]

[Looks like the whole first half of X has gone missing.]

[Well, I can’t let that happen.]


Sometimes, I wonder if X thinks of me.

         i sure do.



X is not desired as an object, but a person.


X.
24.
2.
4.
6.
Cardinal.

[Well.]

[That was quite a night.]

                 [Sure is getting boring around here, considering i only wrote this dingy warehouse ****** scene into canon.]




[You know what?]

[***** it, let’s write something while X is asleep.]

Afternoon

the       cold       autumn      air      feels      like       it      ‘BURNS’
        gently strokes my skin
the brisk, autumn air
very
      very
           lightly
    smells of
petrichor ‘and decay’

the partly cloudy sky bears
‘6’

     light
‘cardinal red’
drops
                that gently rest on my face
‘they burn’

this feeling

       its so ‘horrible’



[Oh great. looks like she wasn’t asleep.]

[She was learning.]

[Alright, I’m in.]

                           [Oh, goodness.]

[Well, that’s quite the scene you’ve made, X.]

                          [****** under the guise of suicide?]
[And despite that, you STILL couldn’t even do that right, dismembering the poor corpse?]
[In an abandoned warehouse?]
[Really?]
[While this whole scene is borderline grisly, I can’t help but laugh.]

[Ahaha....]

[I really did write this into existence, didn’t I?]

[A lover turned murderer.]

          [God, this is getting heavy. think i’ll stop with the sad stuff for now.]

          [Especially after seeing what I created, and the trouble it’s caused.]


[Wait, what was that?]

[Is that...]

[It is!]

[X is trying to get back in.]

[Welp, that’s out of her grasp, even with her power. So as long as i stay in here, I should be safe.]

[Ahahahah. She’s probably swearing like a sailor, wanting my head on a silver platter, huh?]

[Though I can’t hear or see you, I can sense you.]

[And I’m sorry to say that this game you have made is one you cannot win.]

[Alright, I don’t know how else to say this, but...
You know Unsafe?
I only made 3 parts.
I keep getting wind that there’s a part 4.
I’m starting to think that SHE continued it somehow.
How she did is beyond me, considering she isn’t exactly real.

Oh yeah.

       You might want a little clarity as to whom i am referring to.

Alright. so, the series X is written about a mystery girl that is called (or rather represented as) X, no?

Well, the reason she’s called that is because nobody knows her name.

I never gave her one.

Getting back on topic, it’s supposed to be written by another fictional person, whom for the sake of continuity, we will call W. Now, W and X were in love, very much so. W is offed, X mourns, yadda yadda yadda, et cetera, et cetera. Well, I felt that in order to give X more clarity and depth, that i’d have to write a second series, One that is written in the perspective of X. This premise became what you now know as Unsafe.

But, for some reason...

As I continued writing Unsafe, it felt more and more like I wasn’t even writing.

It’s like she had extended into my subconsious, from the fictional world in which she dwells, and into my pen.

Luckily, she’s easy to identify. I write her in ‘a special way’ as opposed to my [normal] writing.

Wait.









Alright, Don’t be alarmed, but She MIGHT (this is a big might) have escaped the domain I made for her,

Unsafe,

And into my Notes.

I cannot tell if it’s true or not, as this notice is considered it’s own poem. I cannot interact with my Notes until I decide to leave any poem that I am currently in.

But more importantly, this also implies that she is SENTIENT, and no longer needs me to convey her thoughts and actions.
Hell, she might be fighting for control over my account as I write this!

Ahahaha...

I really ******* myself over, huh?

Anyways, if you see her, tell me IMMEDIATELY! Just whatever you do, DON’T interact with her! In her current state, she is most likely extremely hostile.
I do appreciate you reading X and Unsafe, but this is getting a liiiiitle serious here, so uh...

Please take caution! I couldn’t live with myself if one of my readers LITERALLY GOT KILLED OFF by one of my works.

I’ll update you guys if anything meaningful happens.

In the meantime, I think I’ll go somewhere...

Familiar.]

my mind
  s
    p
      i
  n
s

the colors

all of the COLORS

the cardinal red
the 6 drops

i cannot stay here
                i cnnt sty hr’

but my mind
                MY MIND
                                IS
STUCK IN
A RECURSION
                          MY MIND
                                        IS
        STUCK IN
        A RECURSION
                                MY MIND
                                                IS
       ­         STUCK IN
                A RECURSION
                                A RECURSION
a
recursion

‘i know’


                                       ‘i have to get out of here’

So I'm sitting here, right?
Thinking of something to write.
It's not going very well, if I'm honest.

Like, I can't really think of something important to say...
Poems are meant to be poignant, though, aren't they?
Something worth time and effort, like a parable, or learning how to drive.

If you're interested, it hasn't been that long,
But I underestimated my own ability to shut down at will,
To run head first into dead-ends.

What is a poem, really?
That's not rhetorical, I am genuinely confused; my default state.
How many feet do I need in a line? I only have two to spare.

And if I give them away, how do I cross the finish line?
So I'm stressing over where to put the stresses
So my head's as blank as the verse in a Shakespeare play.

So I'm losing patience quickly, like a drunk doctor,
Or some similarly silly simile-slash-simulacrum,
Simulating the deepest of sympathies for myself.

Wait...Did I just do it? Did I just write a poem?
I think I did. I mean, I probably wasted your time in the process.
Sorry about that. Really, I am. How do I finish this?

Thanks for listening!
Wait, no...
The end!
No, hold on! I can do this...
Have a nice day!

Ah, whatever. You get the point.

Now,
Don't you tell me to chill.
Like the Beastie Boys I've
got a license to ill.
Over-confident for
insecurity's sake.
An ego so big
sudden drops could
cause a quake.

Now,
Shake-Sha-Shake
                    it up.
A poem so apathetic
it might give a ****.
Wanting to rap; also
wanting to write --
don't mistake my words
for something tight.

Whenever I begin to write a verse,
   I rarely know quite how the work will end;
I try to keep my subjects somewhat terse
   and use the form to make the scansion bend.
I find the meaning somewhere halfway through
   the writing process, where it's leading me;
and try my utmost not to overdo
   the metaphors and sappy imag'ry
(for sentimental verse we hardly lack
   among the countless writings of our time).
I speak of love, but more so I stay back
   and think of other matters for to rhyme,
and when I reach the end and writing's done,
it's not long ere the next work is begun.