# Instinctual Variant Stackings and Your Language Style: Written or Spoken



## marzipan01 (Jun 6, 2010)

Le9acyMuse said:


> @marzipan01 The answer I give may not be truth, as I only muster what I can by my gut. But I shall try in the same spirits that I've done the others in. Hm..... I'm skeptical about what I'm devising from that poem. As far as my understanding goes, I tried to sense SP from it, but I cannot. I tried my damnedest, too. lol I don't sense any part of that that comes off as possessive or stating a stance in respect to an object and effectively subjugating it. I feel nervous about it, but I wanna say sx/soc. I do catch some SeXual elements in that poem. And your style doesn't resemble mine, of the soc/sx, in how you osculate what you write about. I can only get so close to my subjects. My style is more flighty. Yet yours rings somewhat familiar. I'm feeling sx/soc, but could you post me another work of yours?



I think you're right. I thought I was so/sp but I think you have a firmer grasp on what sp is, exactly. 
Here are the poems I posted in the ENFJ poetry and prose thread: 

Words such as “Transgressive”

The organic scrawl of passion
held under the fluorescent light
in the stagnant, stuffy classroom
among the polished desks.

The body of the piece
dismembered
into mere iconic memories.

The breath of poetry
bruised and broken
stuffed into a box
to serve as an example
of some movement:

transcendentalism

post-modernism

transgressive.

Visions, pain, passion,
tired fingers bleeding from their writing callous,
lives cracked with desperation,
palms caressed
in prayer that

someone

might

one day

understand their words.

An entire life
summed up
in ten words or less.

The mentality that
scorned Thoreau’s nude frolicking
and tossed Bukowski to the streets
curls its lips
and slaps their names on test packets.

Thoreaus, Bukowskis, Kafkas, Poes, and Vonneguts
sift to the bottom of the classroom pools
that they might crawl
among the rats and empty bottles
dropped by their more diligent peers 
and beg for 
a spare pen and a leaf of paper. 

“Primitive Art”
On the shelf labeled “Primitive Art” 
is a book 
explaining the intricate garments 
worn in ceremonies by the Native Americans
region by region
glimpses of cultures.
Primitive
Skeletal
Archaic
as opposed to
haut
sophisticated
developed
As though a culture strove to become developed
and failed
like a man whose shelves are lined with books he never reads
about cultures he calls
primitive.

"Woman"

ugly man without balls 
suck my dick

insatiable heifer 
feed me 

heartless bitch 
hold me

insufferable retard
teach my children

overemotional nutcase 
love me 

ungrateful cunt 
create life

"Night"
Darkness is a crisp canvas upon which the spirits cry
from their hair shake dreams that flutter and fall like stars into my heart.
Wind chimes ding 
A train rumbles on rickety tracks 
just me and the keyboard clicking on in the night.

"Waste"
Sunlight dazzles against 
the yellow wrappers
soda cups with blazing red stamps
flimsy rags
half eaten sandwiches
and a severed human hand.
Rust colored liquid
sourly stings my nostrils 
as it trickles from the pile 
and gushes down the gutter.

"Sacrifice"

We were at their mercy. 
We wanted freedom.
We wanted it 
and it was ours 
but at what cost?
No one ever asked the price.
The price was blood
ours and theirs 
crimson bubbles gushed and spilled 
over the soft mud
the forest paths
the sidewalks. 
The cost of freedom 
sweet free---

STOP.
He shakes his head and says,
Without money no man is free.

So, now, all we want is money
We want it
and it is ours 
but at what cost? 
No one ever asks the price.
The price is blood
ours and theirs
crimson bubbles gush and spill 
over the hot desert sand
the ocean tides
the mountain passes.
The cost of money
beautiful, 
shimmering, 
glittering, 
gorgeous, 
splendorous mon---

STOP
He shakes his head and says, 
Only these three small coins are yours the rest are mine.

Before you protest, 
you've already received a plaque
that reads: 
Thank you for your sacrifice.
~The Vampires


Sx/so is becoming more obvious to me now. Embodiment of an idea leading to a comment on a larger social context. I believe you are correct, sir! Thanks so much for your help.


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

@Owfin What topics do you usually run across your mind when writing? In the instance of _"Summer_,_"_ or your attempt to use Spring, did you choose them just because you live in an arid location like the desert? Or do you relate to those seasons somewhat? I don't want to think you just picked a topic like it was a school thing you _had _to do. lol If you have more, please post.


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## Owfin (Oct 15, 2011)

Le9acyMuse said:


> @Owfin What topics do you usually run across your mind when writing? In the instance of _"Summer_,_"_ or your attempt to use Spring, did you choose them just because you live in an arid location like the desert? Or do you relate to those seasons somewhat? I don't want to think you just picked a topic like it was a school thing you _had _to do. lol If you have more, please post.


My spring attempt was something I was writing before, in LATIN. But once I had to start looking things up (for what spring is like in other places), I felt like I didn't really have the experience to work with it on. On the other hand, I knew a lot about summer.

My summer one was not an obligation at all, I posted in the thread because I felt legitimately inspired to write a poem. :happy:


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

@Owfin Why write about a season? I'm trying to pick your brain more.


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## Sina (Oct 27, 2010)

@marzipan01 , you're among the finest poets I know


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

@unico How does being a Seeker and sp/sx coexist within you to affect your language style? You say you've been described as speaking in a dreamy manner. Is that the result of the coexisting? Is the Seeker (469 tri-type to those wondering) a dreamy type? Hm, I feel that is true. So, through a dreamy lens, we'll say, your language filters through your sp/sx stacking. It comes off as dreamy, but what of the sp/sx that is still there? I wonder how it is expressed, as it must be. I'm thinking that in some measure we should speak in a way that typifies our variants (according to my theorizing). So, while you may come off as soc/sx, what parts may still come off as sp/sx? How would you describe to someone what art means to you? Forget that you're typing and put yourself in the scenario in real time. Just tell me the approach you might take.

As for your poem, from reading it I'm studying more the ways in which I'm seeing the sp/sx style surface differently from user to user. I recall Boss's poems, as she is also sp/sx. Her "claim" of comfort was the racy stimulation of reading and other lascivious materializations. Your claim to comfort in this poem seems to be your view of love's integrity. Then you, similarly to Boss, either have at it, or you have at a threat to your claim. If your goal is to not have your love abused or shamed, defaced, to indulge in it peacefully or any way you please, you must quarantine the threat. Boss did not quite have a foe in her writings. So, it's an interesting shift I'm observing.

Both your intents are set on your claims but the intent of your writings are set differently. Boss chose indulgence and femininity. Your choice is guardianship and immobilization. You really lay into the threat to your possession, tearing him apart, so to speak. The different orientations of the SeXual energies between the two of you has caught my attention. SX is intensity, be it love or war. This raises my awareness of the number of ways each instinct could be used, according to its strength. SOC is peace, discord, assimilation and even envy. SP is clinging, labor and a sense of repression. So many possibilities and modes of attacking/embracing any subject.

But, yes, due to your style I could fill myself with your feelings. I could feel your separation. You made sure to shape the target so we could almost see his innards rather than his surface. You revealed your proneness in having fallen for the target and became flesh yourself through words. And your style doesn't overload the reader. It's like being nude under a towel. Just baring it all, but in moderation. Even though every bruise is distinct.


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## cyamitide (Jul 8, 2010)

Le9acyMuse said:


> @Owfin This one is tricky. My brother is an sp/soc, I believe. Similarly with soc/sp I was having difficulty catching on to a hypothesis for this stacking.


If you take a look at the very bottom of this article at the flow section, it has a few prototypical descriptors listed for these stackings. That should give you some more information to form a hypothesis on how to differentiate between similar stacks like sp/so vs so/sp or sp/sx vs sx/sp. Reading that section, the differences became very evident to me.


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## Owfin (Oct 15, 2011)

Le9acyMuse said:


> @Owfin Why write about a season? I'm trying to pick your brain more.


Because I wanted to write about it? Most of my poetry tends to be about larger topics like that.


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## possiBri (Jan 4, 2011)

cyamitide said:


> If you take a look at the very bottom of this article at the flow section, it has a few prototypical descriptors listed for these stackings. That should give you some more information to form a hypothesis on how to differentiate between similar stacks like sp/so vs so/sp or sp/sx vs sx/sp. Reading that section, the differences became very evident to me.


HOLY CRAP. That page is great! I am for sure Sp/Sx. In fact, after being certain about that I read through the chart above those descriptions, and I am also sure of my 7-3-9 tritype because of the last section of that chart.


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## Owfin (Oct 15, 2011)

This is definitely true for me as a Sx last:



> and feel flattered that someone wants to spend time with them


_Very_ flattered. I don't tend to assume people like hanging around me that much.

I don't think I'm as calm and dispassionate as the Sp/So description states, but I have been described as "laid back" by someone else. When I asked how that could be, they said I'm low maintenance and not demanding. Things I never really thought about myself as...


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

@Owfin Then I'm at a loss for how it relates to your stacking. I know that chosen topics don't have to relate to stacking all the time, but we always write from a perspective via which we view life. The stackings can say a lot about how one leads his/her life. My dilemma is that I just can't tell if you relate to what you had written. If you were inspired then you must have felt something. That's the explanation I'm looking for; why a season and not an astronaut; why a girl runaway and not an emancipation; why the analogy?

But maybe that's part of the style as well. It could be that your words are meant to be crisp and lack implications. That it is what it is and should be taken as such. I don't know, but is that somewhat true? Sorry if it seems I'm reading into it too much. It's part of what I'm here to do, however. lol


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## brianstorm (Dec 20, 2011)

Interesting, dont know if it's actually true but i'll give it a try.
Im not english speaking, this is the first time that i write poetry in another lenguage, so im not so good, but sounds like a challenge so i'll do my best 

*Im caged in my holy
I speak louder and louder
And scream for the holy ghost
I see you holy, i know you holy

You saint fxck
One more time for your heaven
In your body sacred
God, holy, sh!t
I love you with my true self

I love you babe
Just love, ask and you'll get it
Just punch and answer me
Holy baby hungry
Im here for you

Bloody savior 
You're nowhere
I lost my holy
Holy woman god, i see right through you
Ya' know

Holy tongue 
Of my beloved God
Holy wet tongue
Im still dry
Turn me on
Try, try, try, and you'll get it*

Lips of my holy woman
I saw them today
Holy dirty naked
Dont love you anymore
But come here, give it a try

Im a holy shy
I cant stand your holy smile
I puke one more time
Just for your flesh and your dirty eyes

Your'e "San Isidora"
God sent you here 
Your beauty in the holy bus
Goes nowhere, nowhere is the place
Your sexy sex self
Hits me right there...

-----------------------------------

-----------------------------------

*Hate'em all
We're all
Scared of them all?
Just get up and attack
No need to scream or cry

Black sun, white moon, crazy stars
Are there for you
This is the wise falling sky
Dont be scared you little pretty girl

Wise falling sky
Go there and attack
Nowhere, you know
Just be quiet and dont listen
Go there and kick some ass

Open your legs for them
Or for me better
Dont understand the letters
You write like sh!t
But im nowhere for you
Im in the wise falling sky
Just for a few words
Im out of time...*

My writing style is usually like this. Maybe i let myself go with my emotions too much, but i like it, flows natural and this is actually the point of writing poetry
@Le9acyMuse A perspective/review would be welcome.


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## NingenExp (Apr 4, 2011)

I'm not an assiduous writer, but if I am writting, it's always something short but expressive. It has a personal resonance, but in someway, when I write, I try to tell people something, to make them wonder. Sometimes they're just ingenious or reflective questions. Besides, I'm mexican and even if I can understand english quite fine (with some vocabulary exceptions and incorrect grammar), I write mostly in spanish (if it can be called like that).

_I refuse the idea that my Earth revolves around the Sun glittering in your eyes
It is the flame within my heart that keeps me moving
A star enlightenment that propels me to look forward
To go beyond your smile
To reach my infinity
Because I'm the Universe
You're just a planetoid!_

About my variant stacking, zip it, I do not have a clue. I was sure of my self-preservation instict vibe, because of the self-sufficiency I was stubbornly chasing for. I have always denied the sexual in me, because even if I want intimacy so badly, it's difficult for me to achieve it. Making the social first, feels more like me, mostly because of the struggle to fit in and because I have made some mistakes in that sake. I thought about sp/so, so/sp or sp/sx, just because they feel more from my side of behavior. But I'm not sure at all. It seems I'm not getting well the instinctual variants.

Edit: I was wondering if it would be a good idea if I translate one in spanish


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

@_brianstorm_ I barely skimmed it and I felt impinging SeXual energy. I'm starting to feel like a Tarot card reader... ugh. I made a guess and thought sx/sp because of a lack of a standard worldly perspective among the characters. Afterwards, I perused your poems and the sx solidified. I knew it was there, but I wasn't sure in what quantity. By the way, I felt overwhelmed merely by reading the first line of the first poem. It was reminiscent of what the description of SX/SP had depicted.

_"sx/sp: Intense, often a stab-in-the-chest sensation, leaving me in tears without knowing why. Fantastical but much more concentrated in a few inner images. Can be abstract, animating dead objects into their field of contemplation. Embodiment of another human, thing, or idea is common in their writings."_

It rings true, because I was unsure why the words were affecting me like that. Like hot-bloodedness burgeoning in the pit of my belly. Needless to say, it was intensive in feeling. I kept reading and I saw that the way you approached other characters (any character besides the narrator) was controlled. You treat the objects (in this case, your idea of the "woman god") in your writings as if you are aware of their essences. Whenever I sense the Self-Preservationist energy, I see objects and artifacts being encompassed in a sphere of ownership. It's focused mostly on something's use rather than on what feeling it imbues in you (though they often go hand in hand. it makes SP and SX quite similar in my eyes). You know the essence and you want to experience it with every means of your existence.

Your writings help readers to be witness to their very own out-of-body experience in that it can bring emotions to readers in ways that seem foreign to them. Maybe not all readers, but I as an soc/sx felt this phenomena full-frontal. Seems to me that sx/sp writers will not be ashamed, usually, in being forward when revealing their points and meanings. They will be precisive and impressionistic all at once. That's an advantage of this stacking. It comes naturally, and it's devastatingly penetrating. I wonder if sx/sp (along with sp/sx) may be a favorite of lore within historical literature. On another note, somehow it is not easy for me to grasp much beyond the power. You entrance the reader very well, but I'm left to wonder what lies beyond the trance you induce. I feel like I've been taken on a stupendous ride and I'm able to overlook some things for the greater thrill of it. I could definitely tell the fixation in the first poem was so present, palpable, that is was stupefying. I liked how you seemed to be in a trance yourself. The end of the first poem hit me like coming off of a high might feel. It was dramatic, but not very sustained I suppose.


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## Owfin (Oct 15, 2011)

Le9acyMuse said:


> But maybe that's part of the style as well. It could be that your words are meant to be crisp and lack implications. That it is what it is and should be taken as such. I don't know, but is that somewhat true? Sorry if it seems I'm reading into it too much. It's part of what I'm here to do, however. lol


Yeah, I don't feel like my stories are expressions of my life; I feel like they are stories. I never really felt like art was an expression of myself either.


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## brianstorm (Dec 20, 2011)

> I'm starting to feel like a Tarot card reader... ugh.


Lol... But it seems that you know your stuff 



> I felt overwhelmed merely by reading the first line of the first poem. It was reminiscent of what the description of SX/SP had depicted.


Yeah, after i wrote it i thought that maybe it was too intense. I didn't post any guess of my type because maybe this will led you to a preconcived impresion. 
But yeah, im very sure that im Sx/Sp



> I kept reading and I saw that the way you approached other characters (any character besides the narrator) was controlled. You treat the objects (in this case, your idea of the "woman god") in your writings as if you are aware of their essences. Whenever I sense the Self-Preservationist energy, I see objects and artifacts being encompassed in a sphere of ownership. It's focused mostly on something's use rather than on what feeling it imbues in you (though they often go hand in hand. it makes SP and SX quite similar in my eyes). You know the essence and you want to experience it with every means of your existence.


Wow... This is interesting. ¿Like a possesive approach, right?... 
I can see that, maybe a little of will of control. 
The part of the something's use over what it feels to me surprised me a little. I test as a Fi dominant, but im not too sure. 
Also penetration is a word that defines me and not only my wrting-speaking style. (You didn't say it but i catched that idea in this paragraph.)
As for the Sp approach i agree too, i have a sense of ownership and my own comfort. 



> I feel like I've been taken on a stupendous ride and I'm able to overlook some things for the greater thrill of it. I could definitely tell the fixation in the first poem was so present, palpable, that is was stupefying. I liked how you seemed to be in a trance yourself. The end of the first poem hit me like coming off of a high might feel. It was dramatic, but not very sustained I suppose.


Yeah, technically im not so good ( even in spanish). I write in a very impulsive way. 
I've been told that the final verse of my poems are a bit inconcluse, isn't surprising, im not good with "final words"

Maybe you saw too much 4, but im a 6w5 btw.

Thx :wink:


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## Callie Rose (Sep 13, 2011)

I don't know what my instinctual subtype is for sure. I'm pretty sure I'm a 3w2, and probably sx-first, but I'd like to hear what you think. These are some writing samples of mine from a few years ago when I was hardcore disintegrating (and likely going through a depressive episode).

Edit: @Le9acyMuse, any ideas?

*And I Cry*
If you believed I was important,
You wouldn't have patronized me.
If you considered me a friend,
You'd see how you're killing me.
If you loved me,
You'd lead me to the light at the end of the tunnel.
If you cared about me at all,
Any of you,
I wouldn't have dug myself into this hole.
I can push it away sometimes,
If the conditions are right,
If the sun is out
And my nails are pink.
And I laugh.
But it is never gone for long.
It always comes back.
So the gray clouds roll
And my nails are black.
And I cry.
And I am numb.
And I am helpless.
And I am incoherent.
And my notebook is scraping my inner thigh to shreds.
And the scary thing is,
It feels better than anything else.


*Flowers and the Laws of Attraction*​As the sun rises up over the valley, a plain but sweet white daisy lifts its petals to the sun. Nearby, a dark red rose does the same. Their scents intermingle, leaving everything around them stunned. They continue to up the ante as the day continues. Then, the sun sets, and both flowers droop, exhausted from keeping up the façade they feel must be put in place in order to succeed in this game.
The daisy finds itself entranced by the rose. The rose is romantic, dark, and undeniably unique. Though it conforms to some traditions, it somehow manages to march to the beat of its own drum as well. The rose always seems to be there, through the pounding of the summer sun and the freezing January nights. Though it sometimes wishes otherwise, the daisy can't help it; there seems to be a bond between itself and the rose, one that won't be broken by petty nuisances.
Meanwhile, the rose can't resist the appeal of the daisy. While some would perceive the paler flower as plain, the rose knows better: the daisy is simple. Honest. Raw. In short, the daisy is one of the most beautiful flowers in the meadow. The honesty is also something the rose appreciates. While most flowers preen and interact with it to get a whiff of its romanticism, the daisy is there simply because it enjoys the rose's presence. The rose knows that its sweet companion will never be one to keep up false appearances.
Both, in their own way, feel scared, wondering how their relationship will progress. Each one is enveloped in its own thoughts, trying their damnedest to keep away their own insecurities while worrying if the other is experiencing the same thing.
Then, one day, it's all over. When the sun slowly begins its ascent, the rose turns slightly away from the daisy, lifting its petals to a nearby camellia. It's barely done anything different…but it's enough to make the daisy wonder what on earth it could possibly have done wrong.
It's not just one day that this happens on, though. Soon enough, this has become routine. The red rose, dark and poignant, has begun lifting its petals near other flowers. The daisy watches, mesmerized, almost like a human would be while watching the inevitable train wreck. Then, the sky grays over, and teardrops begin to fall out of the sky, synonymous to the daisy's state of mind.
And so, the daisy will always be wondering just what it did to deserve the snub and the loss of companionship it experienced. It will never forget what it feels like to have an attraction and to then lose it. It uses all of its resolve not to thrust its petals into the rose's personal space.
But the sun keeps on rising, and upon a new dawn, the daisy realizes the truth: there are so many other flowers that would love its attention, and no matter the initial attraction, the rose is inherently worthless. Or so it tells itself.
So on this new day, the daisy lifts its petals to other flowers around it. It starts to move on.
But it will never forget its companionship with the dark red rose, no matter how much it tries.


*Love is Cocaine*
Love.
A delusion that we all chase after
At some point in our miserable lives.
It is the one thing that serves to both
Help us and kill us.
Love.
A lie created to make us believe in
Something
So that we are given motivation
To stab our hopeful little hearts.
Love.
A temporary, superficial, fluttery feeling
Bouncing in our guts.
The feeling brings you up. Then you crash.
Love is cocaine, then.
Love.
A drug that serves to give only
Temporary refuge.
Hallucinations, general dysfunction, and heart disease
Are not only common; hell, they're expected.
Love.
An illusion.
A simple yet powerful fairytale.
The ugliest lie
A person can ever tell.


*Pain is Beauty*
Life wouldn't be worth so much
If there wasn't pain,
If there wasn't an end to it.
There are those whose lessons
Are best taught
During the course of their lives.
And then there are those
Who teach us the most about ourselves
After they've left their earthly bodies.
Life is defined by pain and beauty.
The anguish of loneliness, the softness of a kiss.
The slashing of a wrist, the warmth of sunlight.
But in pain, there is beauty;
In beauty there is pain.
The two are so intermingled that they become
One and the same.
Maybe, through my personal pain,
I will experience something resembling beauty.
Maybe it'll make the ugliness go away.
Maybe, I will finally become whole again.

*Struggle*
As darkness surrounds me heavily,
I start to panic.
The blackness of my heart is suffocating me,
And there's no foreseeable way out.
I walk around in this maze,
Grasping at something I cannot see, hear, smell, taste, or touch.
I try to pull back my past,
All the joyful memories stored in the back of my mind.
They don't come.
I pinch myself,
An attempt to wake up from this nightmare
In which I am hopelessly lost.
An attempt to make myself feel something.
Anything.
I don't feel it, though.
All I feel is the sensation of numbness taking over my body.
I want a way out.
I want to find my way back to the light,
To the happiness I once knew.
But there's no easily found exit
Out of my mind, the house of sorrows.
Is anybody there?
Does anybody care that I'm slipping down a steep hole
With no way to climb back out?
"Help me!" I shout.
No response.
"Save me!" I plead.
The silence is deafening.
"Anybody?"
No one answers, as predicted.
My struggle is pointless.
I close my eyes and lie down,
Surrendering to the inescapable labyrinth known as my heart.


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

@marzipan01 I agree with Boss. Very nice stuff there. sx/so may be a stacking for a writing style that would do well as some form of songwriter. I believe you'd stimulate and infuse your audience. Good chance that they'd feel included and charged by your lyrics. I do. Thank you for being the first sx/so I've experienced "close up." You brandish your writing skill mightily. As a musician I would consider working with you or recommend you. In fact, I may ask for more comparative analysis with you. I may write a song or poem about a subject and ask if you'd write about the same subject. Afterwards, we'd compare notes and see how it turned out. so/sx and sx/so. Interesting...


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## Callie Rose (Sep 13, 2011)

@Le9acyMuse: So I see you've read it. Any ideas or suggestions?


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

@NingenExp That's such a teasing thing to do. You give me a poem and I can't even give it a shot. -__- I understand. I'm also unsure of my thoughts since the poem is shorter, but I think I'm set on a stacking for you. It's okay, I won't say. I would appreciate if you did give me another, man. Go ahead and translate the Spanish poem, please. I'd like to read it as well. It'd help increase my certainty a tad.

You have a pretty interesting style. It's quite independent, but I'd expect that from you of all people. Post another poem. I hope to be compelled.


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

Sorry, everyone. I had a huge lapse and ran away from a lot of stuff online and in my life. I'm afraid I have gotten rusty at doing this, but I've kept this thread on my mind with hopes on rekindling the understanding I believed I was developing. I hope I can give good results as I pick this back up. Of course, no-one is obligated to respond back after my rendering as it's been so long. I kinda suck... lol


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## possiBri (Jan 4, 2011)

Le9acyMuse said:


> Sorry, everyone. I had a huge lapse and ran away from a lot of stuff online and in my life. I'm afraid I have gotten rusty at doing this, but I've kept this thread on my mind with hopes on rekindling the understanding I believed I was developing. I hope I can give good results as I pick this back up. Of course, no-one is obligated to respond back after my rendering as it's been so long. I kinda suck... lol


I'm still interested; do you need me to re-post anything?


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

possiBri said:


> I'm still interested; do you need me to re-post anything?


 I've kept your "Windfall" works bookmarked. You're fine.


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## QDesjardin (Apr 22, 2012)

I'm quite interested in how the stackings can affect how we express ourselves in writing - the feel of it and the words. Maybe - can you also check my writings out if you have the chance?


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## Le9acyMuse (Mar 12, 2010)

QDesjardin said:


> I'm quite interested in how the stackings can affect how we express ourselves in writing - the feel of it and the words. Maybe - can you also check my writings out if you have the chance?


 Certainly. If you haven't done so, do me the pleasure of posting some works. I am rusty though. Fair warning.


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## QDesjardin (Apr 22, 2012)

You can't be rustier than me when it comes to looking at my writing, so: Free Text Host - The Anonymous Text Hosting Service - No Registration Required - that is one of my later efforts.


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## Flatlander (Feb 25, 2012)

I'll offer up a piece I wrote some 9 years back, a short portrait of a high school teacher. It's not my typical style of writing by a long shot, but I'm curious.


Her dark brown hair is cut short in a plain, utile hairstyle, falling in a left side-sweep before her thick-lensed, thick-rimmed glasses that do nothing to level the power of her dark-eyed glare. Her nose protrudes at a sharp, downward angle, and lines originate at its sides to place the pouting, austere frown that is the ordinary expression upon her thin lips.

Today she covers her thin body with a brown sweater under a browner dress with thick straps and next to no shape, and the heavy, gaudy, sharply clashing silver cross necklace dangling from her neck only serves to further flatten her already unexciting figure. Spindly hands protrude from the amorphous ends of her sleeves, and she swoops down and captures a piece of chalk with her right hand, grasps it and mechanically draws a diagram of the female uterus and the male prostate system on the board while rambling on in an eternally unemotional, almost robotic voice to a nameless mass of half-asleep adolescent students about the workings of human conception.


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## QDesjardin (Apr 22, 2012)

Flatlander said:


> Her dark brown hair is cut short in a plain, utile hairstyle, falling in a left side-sweep before her thick-lensed, thick-rimmed glasses that do nothing to level the power of her dark-eyed glare. Her nose protrudes at a sharp, downward angle, and lines originate at its sides to place the pouting, austere frown that is the ordinary expression upon her thin lips.
> 
> Today she covers her thin body with a brown sweater under a browner dress with thick straps and next to no shape, and the heavy, gaudy, sharply clashing silver cross necklace dangling from her neck only serves to further flatten her already unexciting figure. Spindly hands protrude from the amorphous ends of her sleeves, and she swoops down and captures a piece of chalk with her right hand, grasps it and mechanically draws a diagram of the female uterus and the male prostate system on the board while rambling on in an eternally unemotional, almost robotic voice to a nameless mass of half-asleep adolescent students about the workings of human conception.


This feels like an soc/sp passage, with a hint of sp/sx: it reminds me of David Foster Wallace's writings somehow, your first paragraph having such a 'geometric' description, and the second paragraph a stoic rendering of her teaching sex ed class.


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## Arrow (Mar 2, 2012)

I wrote a few couplets here, I'm not really sure what they would be classified as but here they are: 

I dream that I hold you sometimes.
I remember the feel of you like that night.
Then I realize it’s not true, and you’re not there.
And it’s like I’m drowning, it covers me, it crushes me
Until I am swallowed into the abyss.
Then it ends
And I’m back here again.

I’m over here.
I’m the one that you don’t love.
I’m so tired of being alone.
I submerge myself in others.
So I’ll forget about the loneliness.

It hurts because all I want to do is touch you. 
I’m so desperate to be loved by you that it’s all I could think about. 
So consumed by you and all that you represent that it’s all that I am.
No one will ever know how much it hurts, how could they. 

For gentleness, for kindess, for truth, for understanding, for love, for life so I can understand and appreciate all of which came before and will come after. 

My entire world didn’t crumble, it just darkened and hardened, the loss of color and sound – a loss of happiness as if something within me had dulled, slept or died in a cocoon of laster, a worn leather that once was my heart. How do you escape from something which is inside of you?


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## QDesjardin (Apr 22, 2012)

Arrow said:


> I wrote a few couplets here, I'm not really sure what they would be classified as but here they are:
> 
> I dream that I hold you sometimes.
> I remember the feel of you like that night.
> ...


You know, I feel this too - a lot of the time. The desire to connect can get so maddening. This reads sx/so.


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## Choice (May 19, 2012)

*Always had a problem with pretentious word salads - Would this fit at all?*

Old Flash writing 
_______________________

*The late tumble *

Squish of a puddle & a twinge in my joints
jumping up
Cruel rain on winter stairs
slip & slide
Sting of the wind, cracking
an upturned unbrella

Puffs of smoke from dented lips
diffusing down
Sighs into the silence
drag & drop
Boulders in the bag, rolling
the wrong way round.

_(Actual subject matter: going into a train station whilst carrying stuff)_

*Random overblown emotional moment in an envelop sonnet*

There's a force in my head
It demands me to move
yet it won't let me soothe
it back inwards instead.
The walls I abhor for the haste they close in
There's just no way in hell that I'll "LISTEN! SIT STILL!"
so I shatter (to push and to kill)
at the spaces where cracks meet cement skin.
I choose I persist and I want then resent how I wallow
through coarseness of throat and the ache-coated skull
now dauntless but saddened; no voice on this beach
to build winds and its sands and the rough and the hollow
I count then I breathe and I dance to the peck of the gull
on that boat of peeled paint and stuck oarsmen; I give them a muted laugh each.


*Fission Event 
*
Stone cold welts
and soft exhales
tension in the fingers stiff
dry winter skin
peeling
transparent flakes and strands
cobwebs
loose frozen glimmers
floating in the sunlight

She watches
the ball spiral down
and kiss the glass

bounces
once
falls onto the mouse trap
snaps bumps clashes
leaping high flight reflections
mayhem
chain reaction

and
the last drop
lingers
one bounce
lying still

_(simulated by dropping table tennis balls on mousetraps in a room with too much air conditioning. ..Can you even tell it's about that? ;P)_


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## sorry_neither (Mar 21, 2012)

This is interesting... I've thought about how my type relates to the subject of my writing, but never thought of how it relates to writing style. All I know is that I've been told consistently that my writing is very conversational, and I don't think I speak too differently from how I write. 

Here are some song lyrics from 5 years ago. (I'm kind of curious if lyrics I've written from the POV of fictional characters come off differently from these, but I don't want to make this post any longer.)



> I thought to myself today
> What if I close my eyes,
> Decide I'm doing no more of this
> I'm done paying lip service
> ...





> Don't get lost in this game
> There's nothing for you to gain
> Don't let your potential drain away
> All that makes you is at stake
> ...


From a novel I started 2 years ago:



> As I scanned a shelf, I noticed a figure in the corner of my eye dressed in brown robes. I turned my head slightly more to the right upon recognizing the skin tone; it was Kurash, and he was on nearly the other end of the room looking at a shelf. Scrutinize wouldn't be the right word; he seemed almost to be in a daze as he stood there motionlessly, as though he were simply taking in the books around him rather than seeking them. Even from here, I could see his eyes continued to be only half-open.
> 
> I considered greeting him, but I had nothing to say to him; instead, I resumed my task, only occasionally catching glances of him from the corner of my eye. He was interesting to watch, not moving quite like anyone else at the Temple--or anyone else, period. He walked around as though he wasn't fully connected to his surroundings, and yet I wouldn't describe him as being detached or oblivious.


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## Callie Rose (Sep 13, 2011)

@Le9acyMuse and others: I posted some poems from two years ago on here recently, but I've been writing some poems on a personal trip of mine and I wanted to see if my poems and songs when I'm happy show a different instinctual subtype stacking (and possibly enneagram type) than when I'm under stress. Thoughts?

*Touch (Let Go)
*
I don't know if you love me, or if you even care
You are darkness and panic and unshed tears, but somehow you're always there
You tear me up to pieces, act like everything is fine
But babe your soul has touched me; It ain't something healed by time

And I know we don't look and I know we don't speak
And I know how your touch makes me go weak
And I know that I don't mean nothing to you

I don't know how you stand them, those breathless, lonely nights;
I don't get how your artist's soul weeps but doesn't put up a fight
You hold me in your gaze and act like everything is fine
But I'm under a shadow, it ain't something healed by time

(chorus)
But damnit, your love's still part of me
Babe, you've gotten a hold and won't set me free
Sam, please let me go
Please let me know

I won't say that I loved you or why I thought you cared
Only that you understood me when nobody else was there
You pushed me and pulled me apart, you made me see myself
And I guess at the end of the day, I just can't love anyone else

And I know we don't look and I know we don't speak
And I know how your touch still makes me go weak
And I know I don't mean nothing, not to you
But I don't wanna lie and I don't wanna take
All the love that I feel and make myself ache
Sam, I'm letting you know
You've got to let me go

*My Trip to Hell*
You see me standing here at the edge of the world
Staring into the abyss
We're already in hell-
Dusty roads smelling of ash, bodies hitting the ground, screams of death
From places unknown-
But the hole calls to me and
begs me,
Jump in, stay awhile.
There are so many piles
Piles of ashes for you to meet.

What's to stop me from making that jump?
Can I hope,
Can I dream that
Beyond the blood and the stench of piss and death
Lies an electric fence which still works,
Just for me?
Can it all end?
Let me lie on the outdated train tracks and
Crush me,
Have mercy on me
And pull me from this nightmare.
I am just dust and ash.
I am worth less than a human.
Look at what this place has done to me.
We've only been in hell for twenty minutes.

Dark underground rooms
And all I can hear is moaning and begging
The last thoughts and convulsions
Of one million souls.
Let me break through the wood
And pour in the poison pellets
So I may absorb their pain.

I stand before you,
Nothing more than a scared little girl,
Whimpering,
More water pouring down my cheeks
Than they had here in a day.
I am nothing.
I am stripped of everything but my clothes,
The stupid hat you made me wear to block the sun out,
And the need to die.

Eventually I will step away from the cliff
Join the girls
Eat sandwiches
Laugh
Sing
But for now I am spending four hours in hell
In Birkenau.
And Aviv,
All I ask is that you take me away
Before it becomes too real
Too raw
Too...empty.


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## Persephone (Nov 14, 2009)

My college essay. My "public face". God that doesn't even sound like me.*

Essay Option 3: Spanish poet Antonio Machado wrote, 'Between living and dreaming there is a third thing. Guess it.' Give us your guess.*

There’s a time in your dreams when you’re sure you’re awake; not awake like you’re dreaming, but acutely aware of your environment: the warm color tone of the wallpaper, the rays of pale gold filtering through the blinds, et cetera. Except you’re really not. You can’t move because something heavy and awful is weighing you down, and the dream becomes frightening in a whole new way because now you know it’s real; it’s a living nightmare.

Strange lights dance, coalesce and burst into fireworks, familiar voices whispering malevolent intents, and then you’re drowning. You try to squirm, to get away, but you’re paralyzed. Exhausted, you welcome death, only to break out in cold sweat and realize you’re still here. But the lights are gone, the ominous shadows are no longer flitting across your peripheral vision and the calls of parakeets penetrate your all-consuming terror.

Sleep paralysis: the frontier between living and dreaming, where the impressionable are abducted by aliens and the soul is callously plucked from the body. It is conventionally described as a horrific or even a quasi-demonic ordeal, but I woke up excited and proud of what I’d been through. I didn’t know what it was then, and it did unsettle me that my limbs weren’t responding, but my brain seemed to be saying to me: “I want you to see this! Don’t walk away just yet.”

Reality took on a new glow and for the rest of that morning I walked this Earth re-baptized into life as a young child. I was seeing everything for the first time all over again; it was strange and novel like a Kandinsky painting. At other times I swear sleep paralysis never really wore off. It doesn’t happen often, but occasionally my mind’s eye would reshuffle what I see and give me a glimpse of a grand and hidden truth, a souvenir from a world where the symbolic and earthly collide.

----------------------

*Animal Planet: Civilization in a Microcosm[1]*​_
A giant lobster approaches another on the seabed._
What’s the fare?
$400.
You went by the meter! That’s impossible!
Yes it is, amiga. $400. Cough up.
*You know what that means, don’t you? I’m about 250 pounds, you look a little over 90. You really wanna fuck with me?
*_If I were a man, your dick would be banana splits and cherry fondue.
_*[transaction complete]*
_They flash their assets. The smaller surrenders her nest._

[HR][/HR][1] another discourse on power



A very short story. My writing started out sounding like my college essay. A few short stories later (I write them months apart), they evolved into something like this.

sp/sx writing here.


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## Entropic (Jun 15, 2012)

Giving this a go too. 5w4 4w5 9w8 sp/sx/so

-------------------------------------------------------------------

*The Dream*
Farewell
Will we ever meet again?
Just like friends
That you meet
That hug
and kiss
Blissfully
Ignorant of what could be


Friendship
To see each other
Happily
To be free
With life 
From here
To not care
That you'll never dare
To dream
What else life could have been
To dream
About the life you'd never see

*The Raven* (an oldie)
On a coldest winternight
with sparkling frost on frozen trees
The moon is shining clear and bright
Sighing for all eternity
A raven sitting all alone
underneath the mighty growth
All its friends are dead and gone
Now there's nowhere left to go

Convulsively clutching to a branch
and staring with its charcoal eyes
Slowly awaiting the break of dawn
Longing to the distant skies
A gust of wind gently blows
Over moor and through the trees
and with a cry so full of grief
The raven takes off
flying into eternity*

Weakness*
Weakness
The sickness that is me

(Is it in death where I'll find the key?)

Die!
How foolish
Whipping the dead horse is no big deal

For I'll become
Just wait and see
The sickness that is me

Consuming
Of flesh and bone
I am...

Weakness
Diseased or deceased?
The sickness that is me
For I'll become

Don't you ever forget.

*Cosmology*
walk into the evernight
where stars are shining bright
their fading light flickering in the dark

never shall decay and death
afflict us with the curse of flesh
we are everlasting

*Beyond Quantum Mechanics*
We can't see it
We can't feel it
It's there where our senses do not reach
Can you believe it?
Can't believe it
That it's there
Where my senses do not reach
Faith?
No.
There is no god
Only us
So believe
That which we cannot see
It surrounds us
Unseen and untouched
That which we yearn for
Fate? 
No.
Dark matter dimensions
In our holographic universe
...our existences fade away.


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## Entropic (Jun 15, 2012)

*A flash fiction*

*Inertia*

Just like all the nights before I couldn't sleep again. When you suffer long enough from insomnia, you eventually end up in a dreamlike state where reality becomes dream and dream becomes reality. I decided it was pointless to struggle in my bed so I got up and put on a t-shirt that was lying on the floor. It was cold and gave me a pleasant, chilling sensation. I annoyingly realized that I had put it on inside-out but I couldn't be bothered to put it on properly. It's not like I was going to see someone anyway. Not like I could see anyone. 

I walked to the living room and the wooden floor creaked beneath me and I ended up standing in front of the master window. It was hot, hotter than usual and I was tempted to open it but I knew it would make little difference. At least it was better staying here than spinning around in a set of saggy blankets all night. 

I don't know what's worse with insomnia. While I'm quite sure most people would enlist their increasing inability to fall asleep the more they yearn for it, lack of sleep is something you get used to after a while. No, what I think is far worse are the thoughts that occupy your mind – thoughts that would be nothing more than forgotten memories in the morning. I sighed and looked out through the window. Not much to see at this hour. It was as if the entire world was asleep but me. For a brief moment I wondered what time it was but then I realized that it didn't matter. It was too late to stay up, and judging the darkness outside it was probably a bit past midnight.

It was at times like these when I should really be taking those sleeping pills my doctor had prescribed me, but I didn't feel like it. As much as I wanted to sleep I also reveled in my own misery of being unable to do so. Self-punishment, perhaps? That's definitely what the shrink would tell me. _You suffer from depression,_ he said. _You need to deal with your experiences, work with them. Your insomnia is just a defense mechanism._ Oh yes, he's completely right that it's a defense mechanism. What else would it be? 

I admit that the way the human psyche deals with anxiety is fascinating. When stressed, humans invent various coping methods that impose more pain over time but provide us with temporary relief by avoiding the object associated with the anxiety. So while the person suffering from OCD might wash her hands more than what's healthy, I can't sleep. Oh sleep, glorious sleep, how I long for thee, yet I cannot have thee. In my mind it almost sounded like a sappy romantic love-story like one of those you often see at the cinema. 

The sound of a tree branch suddenly striking the window on the other side of the room made me flinch. It looked as if it was turning into a storm as the trees outside were nodding sagely in the heavy wind. I opened the window and let coldness blow away the thin layer of sweat covering my body and it reminded me of her. She would also open the window during warm summer days like these and then we would end up looking at the night sky together. _Look,_ she'd tell me, _look at the moon and the stars. Over there is the Orion, do you see his belt?_ Yes, she really liked astronomy but tonight there were no stars shining. All I could see were clouds as heavy as concrete. Did I ever toss away her astronomy books? 

I locked the window in place and went over to the bookshelves. I just had to know, did I toss them away or not? Did I? The window was shaking maddeningly in the wind but the noise it caused didn't bother me as I quickly skimmed through the book titles on the shelves. We had just been a regular couple with regular books. There was Lord of the Rings, there was Pride and Prejudice, there was literature from our student days, there were encyclopedias and DVDs and CDs but no, I couldn't find anything about astronomy. Of course, how silly I am. Because I had tossed everything away and had done so just a few days after I got the news. 

The thought made me weak and I had to sit down so I just sat down on the wooden floor. _Because I had tossed everything away after I got the news._ Yes, it had been night that day too. The police had waked me up by calling me in the middle of the night. They told me there had been a traffic accident involving several people. My wife had been one of those people. She had died almost instantaneously as several cars had collided into each other on the highway, her car being stuck in the middle. She was coming home after a conference.

A flash of lightning lit up the room and I stood up. The rain came not long after and I walked over to the window and closed it. I listened to the chattering sound of rain drops and it had a strange, soothing effect on me. The window gave the impression as if it was crying as the rain drops were slowly moving across the glass. I sighed but this time not out of frustration but in relief. I finally felt like sleeping so I went back into the bedroom and lied down in my bed and closed my eyes. Soon after I drifted into a dreamless sleep and slept well into the morning.


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## eneciii (9 mo ago)

hi, this thread is very old but I hope I could revive it because reading all of the poems everyone gives has been so inspiring for my own.

I wanted to know what my instinctual stacking is because Ive read all the descriptions (including the one with each ennegram type) and still cannot figure out which one I am. Im mostly a songwriter so my writting may differ from how I write poetry. And Im not really experienced in writting poetry like everybody else Ive read since I just started writing two years ago when I was in middle school.

So anyways, here are the poems :

*again*

_deep in their sunny smiles
lies all their lonely nights
but they cant go pass their unlocked cage
cause this isnt a phase or something well made

one bar one bar their free to go
but they closed it back in, to their cells they go
jealous of all the flowers outside their door
how can they bloom with those colours they don?

the story of they who questions their guilt
questions their sanity of not taking the risk
to escape the prison made of steel of their whim
to just isolate themselves fixing the scene in their dreams

was it me or was it not?
the wind that gales through did not fought
can I trust or can I not?
to let "I love you" reach to you
again_


*sing a song*

_Im singing a song
out of tune and out of rhythm from everybody else
Im playing a song
throughout the hallway of different melodies trying to tone me down
trying to feel superior against me when I have no plans of doing the same

I just sing what I want
not disturbed by their muffled sounds
it doesnt bother me

I sing my songs
barely heard with the blasts of sounds a meter away knocking at my door
asking "what are you doing"

sing, sing, sing
belle said to me
but I dont need a lump on my troath to know my place
that I cant handle the pressure like this in a sudden of events

let your voice out
they cried
but that just makes me sad, and I cry
a thousand of wishes I want to live
but their stuck in the exit way from my head to reality

I hope someday a time would come
for me to sing my song infront of everyone
and let out a belt that I could never reach
without hope and courage from you to me_


*just a thought*

_working hours have passed by
now what will stop me from drearing the time?

starting to wonder and touch the points
that havent discovered and touched daylight

some are like auroras that turn to life
each page filled with animated wonders

then there's the other side
a place where voices scream in terror
as nightmare haunts them day and night

we dont talk about that one
because when it does it spirals you in
to a never ending tunnel till you wake up

what do I do to keep them busy?
hoard all the stars I could find on my ceiling of imagination

repeating it over and over again
till its old enough to dispose

search for more stars and repeat
thats how I cope with reality, still

other whims that could make time fly
are cliches like drawing, reading and writting

a venting zone on purple light
that no one would want to realize

how I myself shift and change every sunrise and dawn
a quality I still think is worth the effort

but my mind is suffocating from lack of breath
since its filled with nick nacks like pollution in the air

sometimes I wish when my eyes are glass
how can I stop and think for awhile?

for everytime I hear some silence
a thought comes to mind, embiggen

Oh and just for info, Im a INXJ 4w3/6wX/9w8 649 _


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