ABDL Story Forum

MUD Poems by Dahlia

For about two years I’ve been relatively active over on the AB MUD, which, if you’ve never been, is a pretty cool ABDL-themed textual roleplay platform. Check it out!

Anyway, a couple of months ago, I created a new character, and I decided that this character loved writing poetry. So I write poetry as this character, using the MUD’s note system. In other words, if it sounds like the pretentious ramblings of a precocious and possibly dysthymic fifteen year old girl, that’s exactly what I’m going for.

I just figured I’d post them so that more than a handful of people might see them. If you do ever meet Dahlia in the MUD, please keep in mind that this is not in-character communication; she is very private about her writing.

Oh, and one last thing: the constraints of the less-than-perfect note system mean that none of these really have titles. Every time you see “The note reads:”, that is a new poem.

The note reads:
Cultural reclamation cascading over me chocolate waves in a dead man wonderland
Splash splash I’m drying myself off now
Sticky Sickly Sweet
Providing nutrition to ants
Infesting the foundations of your image

Patience young grasshopper
The world is not as it should be
But it’s still good enough to take a breath
Or on every other Saturday
A look in the mirror

But Father, what about FGM?
Shush hush huff puff
Who let you in here?
I love you, honey, but
Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain

The note reads:
Wrapping my brains around your brands
Apprentice to an architect of weathervanes
Fearing the confrontation between ideas and callow feigns
Bragging on my resistance to some iocaines

Superstrings and sillystrings
Are my most beloved easy-peasy things
Developed just to let me flap my wings
Destined to envelop the world in rings

Catching the light with luck on my wrist
Watching the world turn reorient and twist
Taking all my showers in Lavender Mist
Who can say how the dead fish makes a fist

Epictetus was once one of us
Fact checking the natural omnibus
Never erring stumbling or pausing to cuss
Makes me wonder how one is to go plus

Universal needles directed into infinitesimal grooves
Decisions made only by those it behooves
Showing it in some glass pyramidal Louvres
Reversing to emulate all the mirror’s moves

The note reads:
Dusty leaves swirling through hollow streets
Population: eighteen thousand shopping carts
Meaning is defined only by what we leave behind
So I keep on searching for the person I forgot
Head just almost kind of barely above the water’s surface
That someday I might see the stars again
And be the real person that my mother told me I could be

Flying perpendicular to conifer cones
Nestled in soft pale grass
Too young to understand my place in the world
Yet already too old to care
It is only by releasing my consequences and corporate sponsorships
That I can find wholeness in the wonder of daylight
And be the real person that my mother told me I could be

The note reads:
I have no time for morphology.
What the world needs is etiology.
But on performing the first autopsy,
invisible teratogenic glyphs proliferate.

In the future I see episiotomy.
If you can’t get your head out of the gutter we’ll cut you out.
Happy to be of service to designated platitude packages.
Please donate to my reelection campaign.

Roles choosing neither society’s nor mine.
Ascending a mountain yet too steep to climb.
Flailing about in an expanse of brine.
One day I’ll catch a glimpse of divine.

The note reads:
Eschewing obligation listening to squeak machines.
Observing comings and goings of Goethe and cummings.
Barely barbecuing with Barbarossa and Barbarella.
Mentioning Mencius minus manipulations of Men.
Ken Burnsing over burns kinda beyond my ken.
Tolkien the Ringmaster and technician of tongues.
Le Corbusier’s lilac monolithic Liliths loom over lungs.
Do I dare disturb the
Vroomiverse? Doomiverse? Roomiverse?
These are my Versiverses.

Re: MUD Poems by Dahlia

No matter how precocious, I don’t see the last one coming from a fifteen-year-old. I’m iffy on the penultimate one as well. If she were in my class, though, I’d definitely have told her to keep working on this one:

Dusty leaves swirling through hollow streets
Population: eighteen thousand shopping carts
Meaning is defined only by what we leave behind
So I keep on searching for the person I forgot
Head just almost kind of barely above the water’s surface
That someday I might see the stars again
And be the real person that my mother told me I could be