/lit/ - Literature

>>8880788
Its sad but decay of memes is part of the dialectic. To the better memes to come

>tfw I went all the way to Berlin to visit Stirner's grave
>tfw I heard a whisper "it was just a spook" and look around to see I was alone
>tfw I broke down in tears when I realized what a fool I was

I don't mean to sound edgy, but I really dislike everything I write. But I love writing moreso than reading, so it becomes a strange love/hate relationship.

I don't really think anything i've written deserves to be gratified, but the best gratification i've gotten was for a collection of 21 poems that I gave to an ex-girlfriend. She cried while reading them.

One of the poems is actually greentext, another one is just a page long rant. It's really pathetic, one of the poems pretty much complains about the friendzone. All of them are shit, though. I hate the fact that she likes the poetry almost moreso than the poetry itself.

These two that i'm posting are the least worst of the compilation. Please shit on these things
--
5th Floor Lights and Drinks and Presents and Conversation

We do this each year,
grab and gather up,
lovely human beings,
into a tall winter room.
The people who,
with their present smiles,
and unobstructed laughter,
dance around a green tree
and dance to beats and poetry.
All the while you,
selflessly prepare a meal,
worth all the passion you cook it with,
with flavours that absorb your love.
Every friendly friend,
looks at you,
cherishing their dinner,
and their greatest champion,
who brought them all together.

Suddenly, the many drinks you mixed dryly,
and the crazy characters,
whom you approached slyly,
all spiral slowly in the unforgettable night,
of freely spinning light,
and drinks,
and presents,
and conversation.


----
Remembrance

I'd like to be,
more than a footnote,
in your memory book.

My life deserves an,
arm note.
No, at least a thigh.
Something large enough,
to remember days,
gone by.

And if you're cold,
burning memories to stay alive,
let my ledger at least be second,
or third.

And if love was once the word,
then speak it two,
or three,
times more.

I don't mean to sound edgy, but I really dislike everything I write. But I love writing moreso than reading, so it becomes a strange love/hate relationship.

I don't really think anything i've written deserves to be gratified, but the best gratification i've gotten was for a collection of 21 poems that I gave to an ex-girlfriend. She cried while reading them.

One of the poems is actually greentext, another one is just a page long rant. It's really pathetic, one of the poems pretty much complains about the friendzone. All of them are shit, though. I hate the fact that she likes the poetry almost moreso than the poetry itself.

These two that i'm posting are the least worst of the compilation. Please shit on these things
5th Floor Lights and Drinks and Presents and Conversation

We do this each year,
grab and gather up,
lovely human beings,
into a tall winter room.
The people who,
with their present smiles,
and unobstructed laughter,
dance around a green tree
and dance to beats and poetry.
All the while you,
selflessly prepare a meal,
worth all the passion you cook it with,
with flavours that absorb your love.
Every friendly friend,
looks at you,
cherishing their dinner,
and their greatest champion,
who brought them all together.

Suddenly, the many drinks you mixed dryly,
and the crazy characters,
whom you approached slyly,
all spiral slowly in the unforgettable night,
of freely spinning light,
and drinks,
and presents,
and conversation.
Remembrance

I'd like to be,
more than a footnote,
in your memory book.

My life deserves an,
arm note.
No, at least a thigh.
Something large enough,
to remember days,
gone by.

And if you're cold,
burning memories to stay alive,
let my ledger at least be second,
or third.

And if love was once the word,
then speak it two,
or three,
times more.

>there are "people" on lit RIGHT NOW who haven't gone to Berlin and paid their respects to Stirner

Is happiness a spook?

>>4951594

I've seen a photograph of him before. And if he didn't exist, who's buried in here?