WTF ... IS WTF!?
We are a collective of people who believe in freedom of speech, the rights of individuals, and free pancakes! We share our lives, struggles, frustrations, successes, joys, and prescribe to our own special brand of humor and insanity. If you are looking for a great place to hang out, make new friends, find new nemeses, and just be yourself, is your new home.

Spotlight: Writer's Block


Whore free since 2010.
In 2009 when I first joined WTF I sat down with a cup of coffee and read through the Writer's Block. WTF has been graced with some pretty amazing artists in all mediums but the point of this thread is to spotlight those works that might have otherwise gone unnoticed.

Every week/month/when I get around to it (hopefully) we'll be bringing you two pieces you might have missed but shouldn't have.

I've seen you with your bruised knuckles balled into fists, raised, with your back up against the Lake,
I've dreamed of our star pulsing in the cold, shining and reflecting, a shallow give but a vibrant take, brighter than the sodium arcs of old,
You grimace as tenements stand hollow, as new words are whispered and criminals prowl,
As children play and drunks sleep in hallways built before the world knew fire,
You've grown with a desire that no longer exists.

I've looked on as you've swayed and cried in grey skies while the shuffling masses forget their mother's names,
I've been there as you embraced a dying man in your arms and remained indifferent while rollers swirl, blame is misplaced, and policemen put ink to paper,
You've seen faces change and customs wane and trains rattle along tracks our grandfathers laid,
You're in love with the dregs, the hopeless, the helpless, the homeless,
A precinct captain in love with the pain.

I've known you to weep as young men march to and return from war, only to bustle their way to the Outland with families in tow,
I've watched you roll out your amber grid like bronzed lava fields flowing and glowing toward the infinite, calling home the bloodlines of flight-cases,
Those with stolid faces who moved in the middle of the night while their neighbors were still taking grenades,
From a distance you watch with a heavy heart and shrink as they grow,
Confident in their memory.

You're alone and adrift in the stars, from penthouses to the taverns and bars to the dead and the dying and brave women crying to the men who wake up on concrete with dreames and schemes of another world...'re It.
Life After Death
I'd rather do things on my own at times
There's things no one knows and I
Intend to keep this locked in my mind

I don't need a god
What I need is a promise
Don't need a christ
But a cross with me on it
Don't need heaven
But a place where I can rest
Life after you
Seems like life after Death

I don't need to care but I do anyway
I feel the breeze but I'm reluctant to sway
And this is how I choose to forever remain

I don't need love
What I need is a heart
I don't need light
I'm comfortable in the dark
Don't need hell
But a place to remain
Life after you
Drives me insane


Whore free since 2010.
I know, I know - I'm late:
Victore (silent "e"), Who, Daily, Listens to "Mon coeur s'ouvre a ta voix"

Victore, the clean space in
the vaguely settled dust,
the Sitter of the leather-arm chair
thinking with easy vigor.
Victore, his brow furrowed
(but not too deeply)
picturing his daily walk,
step by perfect step.

Victore pities each passerby,
weeps night and day, unending;​
such pitiful, sorrowful, grotesque monotony.
Even Buddhist are bored.
Victore alone hears the pain,
the pain of each doomed heart
who passes his daily path
and again the following.

Victore sees a woman now
who wore the same heels as before,
same roughly tied-back hair, empty-faced,
brown-eyed tragedy of life.
Victore leans back with a breath
of immense depth, to revel in
Victore's daily Messianic burden:
To release the children of death.

Victore is alone in Victore's vision
to release humanity of the dull-edged circle
By daring all to watch their backs
when they settle for breathing.
Victor has already changed history;
in barely a year, Victore(!)
raised the homicide rates by 2%
and nothing is common about that.
Within the killers mind.

I walk into this lonely room.
Looking for a place of greatness.
My life is so short, so i spare not time, think.
Thinking of all the things in my life.
Thinking of the chaos I started.
I relize that my life isent so great and is full of hate.
All the killing, All the chasing, what was I thinking.
I feel nervouse and wanted, gives me a happy feeling.
But should i stop, or continue with this madness.
I wonder, I wonder about the good side.
Is it worth expierenceing.
Is it worth taking the time to help the community.
Would it help me become a better person.
Will i be statisfied if i do these couragus deeds.
Will the society be great full of my deeds.
Or will i get shot down with great humliation, because of my past.
I need to try, think positive.
And i hear a bang, and feel a pain.
I look up and see the police.
I had got shot, my life is over, i died.
Because of my hate.
I got it, as i predicted, shot back at me.
and to only think of what i could have done with my life.
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Reactions: Jason and BRiT


Whore free since 2010.
This is my scream:
Here I write the prequel
no, it’s not a sequel
to a poem, a song, for untouched rights left wronged
a fight that lasts long
a collection of words you may find absurd
something of a disclaimer
a defamer
defamation of the message I’m displaying
for the sake of explaining
that I chose not to take the chance to act out
to scream
to shout
the sitcom soap opera scene
ridiculous in light of the real pains of the world
but done by all the boys and girls
but something most people have and need
I finally decided to do the deed, so I tick tack type out this screed

I don’t lash like my brother
or crash like my mother
but one day I’ll die like my father
so I ask why I bother
to continue to try to be the good son
when I know I’m not one
professional failer
detached minimized flailer
whiny angst, little is frailer in the light of what is
when I think what I have
when you look at what you’ve been handed
and know you’ve been taking everything you can
take a stab
but you still hurt
when you get caught in the lurch
of living
you no longer feel like giving
you still hate
and it makes me irate that I’ve never been able to make myself scream
to scream like I want to
need to
have to

this is my scream
for walks alone in the park
for silent tears dropped in the dark
because I could never do it before
never wanted more

this is my scream
for loves betrayed
for friendships waylaid
for good acts forgotten
and bad facts turned rotten

this is my scream
since I can’t find my voice
I have little other choice
it’s hard to rage
from inside a cage
but this is my scream

yeah, this is my scream
for chronic depression
a self-absorbed obsession?
some god teaching me a lesson
again and again and again
but I already knew
so here’s my comfortably middle class white boy blues

still, this is my scream
and it’s all I’ve got
so why don’t you go fucking rot
in hell if you don’t think it’s enough
say I ought to get tough
quit my bitching and moaning
egotistical groaning

yeah, maybe that's what it is
but still

This is my scream
Take a marker, draw Japan
Take the cue and hold my damn hand
We roam throughout the promised land
Forever cursed by the ampersand
And pull our heads up from the sand
And scream our single, last demand

Down with the king, down with the king
We won't let this be, the split between
The fuckers and fucked,
The haves and have-nots,
The rich and the poor,
The young and the old,
But as we grow cold

We know, the king is the city
The city should be king
But we get no pity
We're alone in the ring

Down with the king, down with the king
George Bush is no king, George Bush is no king
He's not our damn king, he's not our damn king

They say that we are created equal
But Dubya's pushing Bill of Rights, Sequel
Minus the rights, could this be a sign
Of things to come in this high time?
We need to torch it, light up and scorch it
Take to the street, march on our feet

Down with the king, down with the king
George Bush is no king
He's not our damn king
He's not my damn king
Down with the king.


Whore free since 2010.
The path, worn marrow deep
leads me again to stagnation
The space choked with growth
too solidly fibrous to civilize,
pitted by the bites of countless mouths,
too small to kill but not to change.
It hurts me just as much,
the both of us poised here at the top
Intimate as two strangers could get.
And just when I think my shell can’t take the pressure,
her lungs empty and I breathe her in,
watch her eyes go from windows to mirrors.
pink roses spread on green climbing vines
the background contrasts with hard gray lines
trapped in her tower, she gazes away
all around her the roses begin to sway
a voice calls from the tower's distant base
glancing down she sees outstretched arms, a familiar face
her vision blurs, she sees only her mother now
she tries to get to her, but doesn't know how
she leans farther, farther, farther still
nearly falling, she desperately grasps the sill
her mother's arms beckon. "I'll catch you" she calls
she lets her fingers slip; trustingly she falls
plunging down now to her mother's embrace
she sees something troubling, a flicker in her face