Alright, so ima start this thing called poem of the week. Basically, anyone can comment and leave a request for a poem request they want written about themself, someone else, or any topic. I'm starting this today, and the window to leave a request is the rest of today (the seventh), and the the 8th.
If your comment gets chosen, I'll pin it to let you know. The poem vid will come out Friday October 9th.
They call her Jane Doe because they don't know her name, as if losing someone's identity makes the world less ashamed. But she had a name before that night, before the headlines, before the fight. She had a laugh that belonged to her, a favorite song, a voice, a blur of little dreams she carried around, little pieces of joy she'd somehow found. She was somebody's daughter, somebody's friend, a girl with a life she expected to mend. She had mornings ahead of her, nights yet to see, a thousand small versions of who she could be. She walked through Cornell with a future in sight, never knowing her story would become a headline overnight. And somewhere between what happened and what came after, the world forgot there was once a girl behind the disaster. But I haven't forgotten. I see more than a case. More than a courtroom. More than a name without a face. More than a headline people scroll past at night, then forget by the morning's returning light. I see a girl who deserved to be heard, whose pain shouldn't be measured by every imperfect word. Because trauma isn't a script that stays perfectly still— sometimes memory fractures against a person's will. And while people debate what they think they know, she is still a person beneath "Jane Doe." She should never have needed a courtroom to prove that her fear was real, that her life could be bruised. She should never have learned how quickly crowds turn cold, how a woman's suffering gets questioned and told as something to analyze, something to weigh, instead of asking how she's doing today. So let the halls of Cornell remember her name— not as a scandal, not as a source of shame. Let every locked classroom and old campus door remember that silence protects nothing anymore. And if she cannot yet say her name to the sky, then let thousands of voices say it when she passes by: You are more than the night. More than what people claim. More than a headline that swallowed your name. You are more than the questions they endlessly ask. You are more than the weight of a terrible past. And if the world insists on calling you "Jane," then let that name become something stronger than pain. Because "Jane Doe" shouldn't mean girl unknown. It should mean: a girl the world failed to protect, but never succeeded in making less worthy of respect. And somewhere beneath all the noise and the blame, there is still a girl who deserves back her name.
I miss watching his hands glide across that brown-and-black guitar, like the strings had always known where his fingers were supposed to go. There was something beautiful about how effortless he made it look— how he could turn noise into something alive, something loud enough to fill the room and soft enough to stay with me long after the last note disappeared. And his eyes. God, his eyes. Dark brown, tired around the edges, but gentle. His glossy brown hair always seemed to fall just far enough to hide them, but somehow I could always find them. And there was that little mole on his face that I don't think he ever knew I noticed. He was tan from the summer, brown-haired, brown-eyed, always carrying that guitar like it was another part of him. He was in my band. For four months, every Thursday, I watched him walk in wearing his school uniform, and somehow Thursdays became something to look forward to. We barely spoke. If we did, it was probably only once. Maybe twice. But he wasn't quiet. God, no. He was loud, energetic, outgoing— the kind of person who could walk into a room and somehow make it feel smaller. He joked with everyone. Talked to our instructors. Talked to the other members. Laughed loudly. Was never afraid to be himself. And there was something about the way he treated people that made me notice him even when I had no reason to. He was friendly. Genuinely friendly. Softhearted in a way that didn't make him soft-spoken. And maybe that's what I liked most. Not just his eyes. Not just his hair. Not just his hands on the guitar. It was the person I got to watch without ever really knowing him. Four months of Thursdays. Four months of Nirvana. Four months of seeing him and pretending it didn't mean anything. And now, whenever I hear In Bloom, I don't think about the baby floating on the album cover. I think of him. Those dark brown eyes beneath glossy brown hair. His hands moving across his guitar. His voice somewhere in the room. That stupid, beautiful era I didn't know I would miss. I think that's what I miss most. Not just him. The era. The uniforms. The guitars. The Thursday afternoons. The songs we played until they stopped sounding like songs and started sounding like memories. I had almost gotten myself to forget. Almost. Until I went shopping. And somehow, he appeared again. Like fate had reached into an ordinary afternoon and decided to remind me. We passed each other on a narrow sidewalk. He was walking toward his car. I was walking into Ulta. And underneath that glossy brown hair, I saw his eyes lift from his phone. He looked at me. Up and down. Like he knew me. Like he recognized me. For one second, it felt like those four months hadn't disappeared at all. Then he kept walking. His mom said I looked familiar. And God, I wish I had said hi. Maybe I would've stopped him. Maybe he would've stopped too. Maybe we would've talked for a little while, caught up on everything we never got the chance to say. Maybe I would've found out what band he's in now. What songs he plays. Who he plays them with. Who gets to sit across from him now and watch his hands glide over the strings. Who gets to hear his corny jokes. Who gets to know that loud, energetic, ridiculously friendly version of him that I only ever got to watch from a few feet away. Maybe someone else is going to fall for him the way I almost did. Maybe someone already has. And maybe that's okay. Because for four months, every Thursday, I got to exist in the same little world as him. And now, every time In Bloom comes on, I get to go back. Not to the album cover. Not to the room. Not even to the songs. Just to those dark eyes underneath glossy brown hair, looking up from a phone on a narrow sidewalk, as if, for one second, he remembered me too.
OKAY SO YALL SAW MY POEM POST ABOUT THE GLOSSY HAIRED GUITAR PLAYING CUTIE RIGHTTT?? if u didn't go read it duhhh.okay so I think I needa explain why and how this guy got so stuck in my head. Btw this is also kind of a rant. Okay so first off, his eyes OKAYYY. His EYESSSSS. litera everytime i try to explain to my friends why he's so fine, I always come back to his eyes. They're like rlly dark brown and kind of tired looking while the rest of his face is like energetic and bright. It's such a pretty contrast and it complim his face sm. But his eyes arent sad if ykwim. Theyre just soft and kinda gentle looking. And he has this like SUPERRRR glossy dark brown hair.sometimes I couldn't tell if it was just really shiny or greasy. Anyways, his hair fell just over his eyes so sometimes u couldn't see them complete but somehow itd make u notice them MOREEEEE. And then there was this mole on his face. I dunno how to word that without it sounding weird help 😭 I also dunno why I reme that but wtv. Its like one of those tiny details about someone that your brain decides to permanently save for legit no reasonnn. He was also REALLYYYYY tan. He wasn't comple white, idk what he is. But just imagine like this brown eyed, brown haired, mole faced, tanned skin, guitar playing GODDESS BROOOO. LIKE ACTUALLY HES SO FINE. AND THE GUITARRRRR this is probably one of the biggest reasons I reme him so vividly. He wasnt only good at guitar, but if one of our drummers or keys players were out or smth, the band directors would just tell him to fill in. That's how good he was ahhhhh. And his hands just moved so effortlessly and naturally yk. It didnt look like he had to think about what he was playing, he just played it. He was great. His hands just glided across the guitar like they'd memorized every single friken note before he even started. It's amazing to watch. If yall saw you'd agree w me. But like it's actually genuinely beautiful how talented he is. He was so comfortable w his guitar. And then he was in my BANDDDDDDDDD I dunno if I mentioned that haaaa. I loved the nirvana covering band era. I don't think anyone can realize how permanently that era is attached to my brain it was so fun bro. Every Thursday for four months, we were in that sound proofed garage practice from 5 to eight. Every Thursday, he would walk in still in his school uniform. When u say it out loud, four months doesn't sound that long, but somehow it felt like an entire chapter of my life. Four months of hard work, and then we had our concert. After the concert we all went our separate ways and got placed into new bands. I hated it. And I still hate it. Those people were great. Anyways, I think that's why I don't even know whether j miss HIM or whether I miss the era of Nirvana where he was just there. It's so complicated ugh. Anyways it's almost 2 a.m. and I'm tired of typing. Gn peeps. Leave a guitar emoji if u read this far loll. 🎸
vball.mae.101^°
Join me and adi on roblox
3 weeks ago | [YT] | 47
View 2 replies
vball.mae.101^°
Alright, so ima start this thing called poem of the week. Basically, anyone can comment and leave a request for a poem request they want written about themself, someone else, or any topic.
I'm starting this today, and the window to leave a request is the rest of today (the seventh), and the the 8th.
If your comment gets chosen, I'll pin it to let you know. The poem vid will come out Friday October 9th.
3 weeks ago | [YT] | 158
View 35 replies
vball.mae.101^°
HEH JUST FINISHED CHAPTER 0 FOR MY BOOKKKK
3 weeks ago | [YT] | 50
View 5 replies
vball.mae.101^°
Guys I NEED some book ideas. Like gimme ur best ideas ever
(Writing btw not reading)
3 weeks ago (edited) | [YT] | 40
View 13 replies
vball.mae.101^°
My attempt on spreading Jane Does story:
They call her Jane Doe
because they don't know her name,
as if losing someone's identity
makes the world less ashamed.
But she had a name before that night,
before the headlines, before the fight.
She had a laugh that belonged to her,
a favorite song, a voice, a blur
of little dreams she carried around,
little pieces of joy she'd somehow found.
She was somebody's daughter,
somebody's friend,
a girl with a life
she expected to mend.
She had mornings ahead of her,
nights yet to see,
a thousand small versions
of who she could be.
She walked through Cornell
with a future in sight,
never knowing her story
would become a headline overnight.
And somewhere between
what happened and what came after,
the world forgot there was once
a girl behind the disaster.
But I haven't forgotten.
I see more than a case.
More than a courtroom.
More than a name without a face.
More than a headline
people scroll past at night,
then forget by the morning's
returning light.
I see a girl
who deserved to be heard,
whose pain shouldn't be measured
by every imperfect word.
Because trauma isn't a script
that stays perfectly still—
sometimes memory fractures
against a person's will.
And while people debate
what they think they know,
she is still a person
beneath "Jane Doe."
She should never have needed
a courtroom to prove
that her fear was real,
that her life could be bruised.
She should never have learned
how quickly crowds turn cold,
how a woman's suffering
gets questioned and told
as something to analyze,
something to weigh,
instead of asking
how she's doing today.
So let the halls of Cornell
remember her name—
not as a scandal,
not as a source of shame.
Let every locked classroom
and old campus door
remember that silence
protects nothing anymore.
And if she cannot yet
say her name to the sky,
then let thousands of voices
say it when she passes by:
You are more than the night.
More than what people claim.
More than a headline
that swallowed your name.
You are more than the questions
they endlessly ask.
You are more than the weight
of a terrible past.
And if the world insists
on calling you "Jane,"
then let that name become
something stronger than pain.
Because "Jane Doe"
shouldn't mean girl unknown.
It should mean:
a girl the world failed to protect,
but never succeeded in making
less worthy of respect.
And somewhere beneath
all the noise and the blame,
there is still a girl
who deserves back her name.
3 weeks ago (edited) | [YT] | 74
View 10 replies
vball.mae.101^°
Guyssss I'm gonna write a book. Any ideas or requests??
3 weeks ago | [YT] | 36
View 10 replies
vball.mae.101^°
What does this mean?
3 weeks ago | [YT] | 69
View 10 replies
vball.mae.101^°
I MISS HIM AHAHAY79B LHJ VR31IH OVEQFHUOVR EQUOHF 3HRIO1G RHO3U1
3 weeks ago | [YT] | 68
View 4 replies
vball.mae.101^°
I miss watching his hands
glide across that brown-and-black guitar,
like the strings had always known
where his fingers were supposed to go.
There was something beautiful
about how effortless he made it look—
how he could turn noise into something alive,
something loud enough to fill the room
and soft enough to stay with me
long after the last note disappeared.
And his eyes.
God, his eyes.
Dark brown,
tired around the edges,
but gentle.
His glossy brown hair
always seemed to fall just far enough
to hide them,
but somehow
I could always find them.
And there was that little mole on his face
that I don't think he ever knew
I noticed.
He was tan from the summer,
brown-haired, brown-eyed,
always carrying that guitar
like it was another part of him.
He was in my band.
For four months,
every Thursday,
I watched him walk in
wearing his school uniform,
and somehow Thursdays
became something to look forward to.
We barely spoke.
If we did,
it was probably only once.
Maybe twice.
But he wasn't quiet.
God, no.
He was loud,
energetic,
outgoing—
the kind of person
who could walk into a room
and somehow make it feel smaller.
He joked with everyone.
Talked to our instructors.
Talked to the other members.
Laughed loudly.
Was never afraid to be himself.
And there was something about
the way he treated people
that made me notice him
even when I had no reason to.
He was friendly.
Genuinely friendly.
Softhearted
in a way that didn't make him soft-spoken.
And maybe that's what I liked most.
Not just his eyes.
Not just his hair.
Not just his hands on the guitar.
It was the person I got to watch
without ever really knowing him.
Four months of Thursdays.
Four months of Nirvana.
Four months of seeing him
and pretending it didn't mean anything.
And now, whenever I hear In Bloom,
I don't think about the baby
floating on the album cover.
I think of him.
Those dark brown eyes
beneath glossy brown hair.
His hands moving across his guitar.
His voice somewhere in the room.
That stupid, beautiful era
I didn't know I would miss.
I think that's what I miss most.
Not just him.
The era.
The uniforms.
The guitars.
The Thursday afternoons.
The songs we played
until they stopped sounding like songs
and started sounding like memories.
I had almost gotten myself
to forget.
Almost.
Until I went shopping.
And somehow,
he appeared again.
Like fate had reached into an ordinary afternoon
and decided to remind me.
We passed each other
on a narrow sidewalk.
He was walking toward his car.
I was walking into Ulta.
And underneath that glossy brown hair,
I saw his eyes lift from his phone.
He looked at me.
Up and down.
Like he knew me.
Like he recognized me.
For one second,
it felt like those four months
hadn't disappeared at all.
Then he kept walking.
His mom said I looked familiar.
And God,
I wish I had said hi.
Maybe I would've stopped him.
Maybe he would've stopped too.
Maybe we would've talked for a little while,
caught up on everything
we never got the chance to say.
Maybe I would've found out
what band he's in now.
What songs he plays.
Who he plays them with.
Who gets to sit across from him now
and watch his hands glide over the strings.
Who gets to hear his corny jokes.
Who gets to know that loud,
energetic,
ridiculously friendly version of him
that I only ever got to watch
from a few feet away.
Maybe someone else is going to fall for him
the way I almost did.
Maybe someone already has.
And maybe that's okay.
Because for four months,
every Thursday,
I got to exist in the same little world as him.
And now,
every time In Bloom comes on,
I get to go back.
Not to the album cover.
Not to the room.
Not even to the songs.
Just to those dark eyes
underneath glossy brown hair,
looking up from a phone
on a narrow sidewalk,
as if, for one second,
he remembered me too.
3 weeks ago | [YT] | 58
View 7 replies
vball.mae.101^°
OKAY SO YALL SAW MY POEM POST ABOUT THE GLOSSY HAIRED GUITAR PLAYING CUTIE RIGHTTT?? if u didn't go read it duhhh.okay so I think I needa explain why and how this guy got so stuck in my head. Btw this is also kind of a rant.
Okay so first off, his eyes OKAYYY.
His EYESSSSS.
litera everytime i try to explain to my friends why he's so fine, I always come back to his eyes. They're like rlly dark brown and kind of tired looking while the rest of his face is like energetic and bright. It's such a pretty contrast and it complim his face sm. But his eyes arent sad if ykwim. Theyre just soft and kinda gentle looking.
And he has this like SUPERRRR glossy dark brown hair.sometimes I couldn't tell if it was just really shiny or greasy. Anyways, his hair fell just over his eyes so sometimes u couldn't see them complete but somehow itd make u notice them MOREEEEE.
And then there was this mole on his face. I dunno how to word that without it sounding weird help 😭 I also dunno why I reme that but wtv. Its like one of those tiny details about someone that your brain decides to permanently save for legit no reasonnn.
He was also REALLYYYYY tan. He wasn't comple white, idk what he is. But just imagine like this brown eyed, brown haired, mole faced, tanned skin, guitar playing GODDESS BROOOO.
LIKE ACTUALLY HES SO FINE.
AND THE GUITARRRRR
this is probably one of the biggest reasons I reme him so vividly. He wasnt only good at guitar, but if one of our drummers or keys players were out or smth, the band directors would just tell him to fill in. That's how good he was ahhhhh.
And his hands just moved so effortlessly and naturally yk. It didnt look like he had to think about what he was playing, he just played it. He was great. His hands just glided across the guitar like they'd memorized every single friken note before he even started. It's amazing to watch. If yall saw you'd agree w me.
But like it's actually genuinely beautiful how talented he is. He was so comfortable w his guitar.
And then he was in my BANDDDDDDDDD I dunno if I mentioned that haaaa.
I loved the nirvana covering band era. I don't think anyone can realize how permanently that era is attached to my brain it was so fun bro.
Every Thursday for four months, we were in that sound proofed garage practice from 5 to eight. Every Thursday, he would walk in still in his school uniform.
When u say it out loud, four months doesn't sound that long, but somehow it felt like an entire chapter of my life. Four months of hard work, and then we had our concert. After the concert we all went our separate ways and got placed into new bands. I hated it. And I still hate it. Those people were great.
Anyways, I think that's why I don't even know whether j miss HIM or whether I miss the era of Nirvana where he was just there. It's so complicated ugh.
Anyways it's almost 2 a.m. and I'm tired of typing. Gn peeps. Leave a guitar emoji if u read this far loll. 🎸
3 weeks ago | [YT] | 29
View 4 replies
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