I thought it could be nice to have a topic where we could collect and share poetry or other short texts that we wrote ourselves. I don’t want to narrow the contributions to this topic too much, they can range from poems to book reviews to (very) short stories to jokes or anecdotes or drafts of love letters or stories for your kids or speeches you’ll be making or even emails you’re very proud of. Basically any written piece that you’ve poured some of your heart and/or soul into. The only restriction I’d like to suggest is that it needs to fit in one forum post. (sorry @Gontranno47, but your “Privatising Freedom” book doesn’t quite fit this bill 
)
If you share your work here, do realise you leave it open to comment. In the best case this is abundant praise, but I’d also like to welcome constructive criticism in here. On the other hand, any kind of negativity towards work shared here that does not fall under “constructive criticism” can’t be accepted. I have yet to earn my “first flag” badge on this forum, but I’ll gladly earn it on such an occasion. Not that I feel such a warning is necessary in this community, but you never know who passes by in the future.
Anyway, here’s a little playful text I wrote.
Office romance: A stationery tale
The office floor of Dunder-Mifflin was like many of our age,
but not many know for which unlikely tale it set the stage.
It was a common floor: of desks, of lamps, of chairs,
Old files, yellow folders, and many other office wares.
A little stack of papers had a note pasted on her head.
It said: “ Warning: Confidential ”, in letters big and red.
Conny, as she was called, quite liked her sticky tag,
but she couldn’t help but wonder if it hadn’t become a drag.
The others didn’t like the note and gave her hurtful looks.
No place for her in drawers, nor on that shelf for books.
Conny started to wonder: “ Should I get rid of my colourful mark? ”,
" Cause of isolation, of nights spent alone in the dark. "
As she was sadly musing, quite some time had passed
before another bundle landed next to her at last.
She ruffled all her papers, and was quite pleased until
the new arrival settled down and said: “ I’m just a bill. ”
Despite Bill’s cruel warnings, love was in the air.
Did you see their width and length? They’d make a perfect pair!
Then there was Hope, assistant clerk, who forgot to pay.
Bill got stamped: “ Overdue ”, and was allowed to stay.
Now both marked in red, with a jolly label,
Bill became an animal, and turned tale into fable.
Soon he was on top of her, by grace of the archive’s colour code,
and right then no thought was spared for the money that Hope’s boss still owed.
After that night, Bill and Conny had grown. They had matured beyond the childish cadence that had accompanied their every move so far. After that night, they stuck together by virtue of some residual paste. They now had plenty of time to get to know each other. Bill started to fully realize how secretive Conny was, and Conny learned to live with Bill’s calculating character. Ash tree to ashes, paper to dustbin, they knew their love would surpass that endless, senseless cycle. They spoke about their future and tried to figure out how to stay together after the glue of their passion had dried up. Bill proposed the “Paperclip”, explaining how he had seen Paperclip-couples happy and content. Conny wasn’t convinced and knew in her fearful heart that the Paperclip didn’t mean a real commitment. She’d seen couples fall out, each going their own way, the Paperclip degraded to something only McGyver could use. She instead proposed the “Staple”. A common painful experience that would bind them more firmly. She was flexible as to how many staples to use and noticing Bill’s hesitation she didn’t insist on the whole shebang, settling for a little one in the corner, but Bill was adamant and said he needed more wiggle room. He also told of the ugly scars he had seen, torn corners of a broken bond, in case things wouldn’t work out. When it looked as if they wouldn’t find a compromise, a solution presented itself. Hole Puncher happened to overhear their conversation and gladly offered his services. He had binders on offer, spacious and private, in which they could retire. The only thing they’d need to do, at first seemed worse than fire. It wouldn’t hurt, it wouldn’t burn, their new friend did declare. Thus the old rhythm found them, still childish but they didn’t care.
Reverent H. Puncher gave them four holes, two. . for. . each,
Symbols of their promise, that neither of them could breach.
She went ahead, to prepare, and found a cosy binder,
Bill would surely follow, as soon as he could find her.
She waited in the darkness, two rings in her side.
But Bill was running late again. Or did he float and hide?
Conny spent a long time thinking, waiting for an answer.
Was Bill scared, or simply hurt, or was it paper cancer?
In her sullen sadness, Conny couldn’t keep it together,
And it wasn’t long until she yearned for the blissful shredder.
The truth was found when Conny heard that Bill was paid, then burned,
And thus another page of love was forever turned.
Though forever saddened and hurt to her very soul,
Conny will still declare that it’s the holes that make her whole.