Scribbles 'n Bits

Tag: writing

  • Tantalizing Tips: Laziness is the Work

    I often get questions from new readers about where the inspiration for my work comes from. Simply put, it often doesn’t. I rely primarily on a process of laziness that pays itself off in the long run.

    This process involves roughly 3-4 steps of meager time investments – generally opportune times when I’m bored or not busy anyway. Initially, I gather ideas by writing down characters, story snips, one-liners, etc. that pop into my head. This is often inspired by the world around me, but not necessarily so.

    Step two includes connecting these ideas. Sometimes I peruse notes and sometimes new ideas come to me as I conglomerate these loosely bound whizzes and quips.

    Finally, depending on editing and/or publishing, these last one-two part steps put it all together. I paint my finishing touches and clean up anything that feels disconnected.

    That’s it. You’ve made poetry.

    I don’t do it this way for every single piece, note. Sometimes I do a whole piece in one setting and sometimes it takes the course of several months to years to finalize a poem or short story. It all depends because I don’t invest a lot of time into willing ideas to the surface – I often find this does not work anyway.

    TLDR: How to write poetry the scribdbits way

    1. Gather data (ideas and concepts) – continuous.
    2. Organize – per piece.
    3. Edit and publish – per piece.

  • Lemonade day breeze

    @scribdbits

    Lemonade day breeze • #poetrytok #poem #daydream #lemon #micropoem #abstract #AI #aiart #mixedmedia #surreal #writersoftiktok #writertok #writingcommunity

    ♬ The Girl Who Stole My Tamagotchi – Hot Sugar
    more on my tiktok and twitter
    lemonade-day-breeze

  • salient

    I listen.

    It’s my job not to pay attention, but I listen.
    I like to hear them laugh
    and enjoy each other.
    I love their stories and their snores through
    a well-earned nap.

    I like to hear their families say,
    “Jacob turns eight this year.”
    Actually,
    that’s Carl you’re thinking of,
    but that’s okay.

    I weep inside for
    their breakup’s, their hard times,
    their mom’s sick.
    They piece my heart back together
    when they ask their
    other
    if they’ve eaten. They called
    just to ask that and if
    they could pick anything up.

  • down

    I catch myself wanting

    to break this bottle

    over the teeth

    of the fence directly left -

    to sit and cry

    a little,

    but I’d just go back in

    and buy another. 

    Also, I gave up crying

    for lent, 

    permanently. 

    Hit one on the first floor,

    because my muscle memory

    says, “down.” 

    Have I really become so afraid

    of intimacy that I’d sabotage

    anything resembling 

    just so I could go get let

    down. 

    How that bell rings

    around my head:

    You have it in you to die,

    coward,

    but not to live. 

    You’re lucky my guilt

    outweighs my disgust.
  • Fevers and Chills

    Fevers and Chills

    With black tendrils
she sways,
down her forehead
and brushed back
with toned, olive polish.
Her clothes fall freely
with her legs,
her breasts,
her feet bare
when she can 
help it. 
Subtly, into back
she fades - 
no, 
like the backdrop 
walks with her.

  • Cheap talk

    What does that even mean?
You cannot have your cake
and have it eaten too. 
It takes two to tango, 
honey,
and talk is cheap. 
So, I speak by the hour,
and pass collection 
when the hook penetrates
your soft, upper palate.

  • Stains

    Trigger warning – violence, graphic depiction: please read with your own safety in mind.

    Pages: 1 2

  • While In

    Subverting patience
one expectation at a time.
I like to weaponize 
existentialism - 
it’s my kink.
I don’t even like the music,
I just know you
like me for listening. 
What a ball,
a beautiful wedding. 
So pulls the oxen 
on cart. 

Pardon me a moment
while I spiral 
out of control here.

  • Tri Cyclic

    I did nothing
but watch
helpless
as the young
of my generation,
the gifted
and beautiful,
trapped themselves
in the same 
dead ends 
we hated the old
for wasting their
lives on.

I’m sorry.

  • Welcoming

    From birth
your time, 
they say,
will come.

Your family 
excited,
the papers,
you sign.
Guns flare. 

The uncles, 
the grandads,
the fathers - 
those left - 
they say, 
your time 
will come.

You sign,
they cheer,
you fight,
they boo.
Your war 
will come.