Critique thread, post your work, give feedback, i'll start

I don't like the phrasing of "learnt what it means" but i enjoy the rest.

Plus, it made me feel good — a sensation that has escaped my sober self for… as long as I can remember. I don’t recall being consistently happy, persistently self-assured, since probably elementary school; everything since has been a haze of loneliness and insecurity. I couldn’t talk to guys and I especially couldn’t talk to girls; when one of my lifelong friends, who went on to be popular in high school, would invite me to parties or hang-outs out of pity I would sit there at the perimeters of conversations saying nothing, laughing when other people laughed, sweating and blushing in shame, consumed by self-loathing. When something relevant to contribute to the conversation would pop into my head I would turn it over in my mind, thinking of the best possible way to present it, analyzing how each person within the group would react, imagining every possible scenario that could unfold following my comments. Would people laugh? Would they ignore me? Would the conversation die? By the time I would get done thinking, the topic had inevitably changed and another part of me would die internally.

heat on the mountain, a thumbprint of sun lay
on the quad as robins bob through haircut branches.
a student alone with grass;
his thoughts are moths his skull of wool.
nature’s cut to frames, still her light restores my center.
flakes of coconut to dust my eyelids—
friends to share art with, or something intimate
to bond below a yew and drink of.
smoke rises by the business school and
i’m nostalgic.
wind of near seasons knock the day.

I was awake before the alarm went off in the cozy little pod, what in our house was called ‘the hatch’. The hatch disengaged it’s doors and I sat up and looked out the window. The sun was a cataract in the sky, barely there but you felt it’s presences with its blistering heat upon the glass. I opened my mouth, administered my pills and took a sip of water and stood up. I could see the silver sheen of uniformly shaped buildings and apartments. It was to be yet another day in the wonderful city of Nascent.

I walked through the room and stretched my arms, and walked to the door. I then opened the door to the bathroom and in an instant the glass shutter slide to one side with a swoosh. The walls were a pretty floral white color. The slatted cabinet was made of silicone slide open showing off an array of prescribed medicines and skin creams. I washed my mouth, my face, and squeezing the cream directly into my hands, then moisturized my precious skin. I looked into the mirror. At first I couldn’t recognized the face there but as I looked closer, squinting my eyes with all the wrinkles, I could see it was me.

I made my way from the bathroom to the kitchen. From the kitchen to the lounge. The cooking-bot made breakfast for me while I looked over my accounts. The synthetic lawn on the balcony was looking green and lush and I smiled at it while taking sips of my coffee. Does anything matter more than a luxurious lawn? I think not, it is the most essential thing to an orderly life. I stepped onto the balcony. The morning sun felt warm against my skin and I welcomed the post-bot's mid-morning delivery of info-chips.

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I don't know where else to go, so I'll ask here. I'm writing a Satirist novel that veneers into deconstruction. I got the setting and themes done. However, The Main character, is for a lack of a better term, a complete shithead. Now, this isn't a problem for me, I intended for that. What is a problem, however, is if the readers will put up with his behavior. I'm rather reluctant to change this since it fits with the themes of my novel. How do I rectify this?

Wow, thank you so much! I haven't written fiction in a long time, but have always loved writing essays and journaling, and dabbled in poetry throughout hs. I don't really have any specific influences that come to mind. I'd say The Elements of Style and analyzing other authors' work in my AP English classes in hs sort of attuned to me to what entails good writing, though.

I'll have to give the Elements a read then. Keep it up user! I haven't read anything about good writing. I just read a lot of fiction and have at it, but I think I need to read more informative texts on the craft.

I think a satire is the perfect context in which to write a shithead mc. However, without more concrete description of what makes him supposedly unlikable I can't say much. If you put in effort to make him complex and interesting though, it shouldn't be too much of an issue.

Light spills onto skin,
soft to touch, but deeper still
an inner glow tends.

Reflections abound
in tandem, a rippled crowd
of fractals slipping

past the frame-limit.

awful

pretty little bitch in the green coat
little ass, perky mouth on her iphone
doesnt got a pocket but a camel toe
guys on her phone still stuck in the friendzone

Not poetry but a chapter from a novel I'm working on.
pastebin.com/0nf1WWHJ
First time I dealt with grotesque themes, I'll polish the whole thing in the second draft. Sorry if it's a little confusing.

Fantastic work user. Really. I enjoyed reading that.

A friend that I was drunkenly complaining about my life to told me I should try writing so last night I got drunk and wrote some shitty prose passages. Here's one.

A light passes through my skin, dimmed to a dull glow it fails to reach the eyes of any beholder, yet it still gives me warmth. This same light in others I see not, blinded by my own. By this lack do I kindle the fire, make it fierce and terrible. It consumes its source in desperation and hunger. Flesh and wrath are its fuel and content. By its expression do I sterilise the earth around me, make it barren to all other flame. I wander among ash, prince of cinders. Exhausted and dimmed, a guttering candle. Casting shadows of the boneless hands that tend it. My future a thin tendril of smoke bequeathed by an extinguished wick. But a spark might engender a blaze. Give itself over to something greater and while dying yet live. Embers of love and hate will make yet a new world. Which by the old view is scorched and disfigured but by purified eyes is seen as rich soil. To bear forth a new growth to shame all that came before it. Flowers that shine in the sun with brilliance of flame. Rejoicing will I be drunk by the roots of this novel bloom.

The beginning of a longer narrative poem describing the death of railroad worker.

On a frozen mountain
Overlooking frozen valleys
An hours distance from his death
Lao-Tzu lay on the floor

Of the tiny cabin
Where he had made a home
Through two bullet holes in his chest
the vital liquids of his life poured out

Lying dead, arms outstretched
across from him, another man
Who was dead; as he too would be
Martyr of ambition

On a metal Argo
Made from steel and iron
Through the window, morning sun
On morning sky reflects the sea

As the sun set, cerise
And cobalt, over the waters
Of an empire without sunset
This he remembered

Thinking for a moment
Of all what brought him here
How he’d killed a man in Guangzhou
Fled by steamer cross Pacific

Having lived a life
Fleeing guilt, self pity
On this final stretch of breath
It would not outpace him

Hot days of manly sweat
Weaving iron stitches
To sew the bonds of empire
In manly acts of motherhood

He remembered this
Opium-daze on Herald Street
Vittoria’s chamber, paid nights
Matriarch of pleasure

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>pastebin.com/d2JrmbvJ
it could be like dostoevsky and have a character talk for 15 pages

Why is most writing so pretentious? None of it is true to life, the characters ponder over things you wouldn't give a second thought. Where's a story with a realistic character facing common issues?

I forced myself to do what I have been increasingly forcing myself to do: forget it all, though I hadn’t forgot about mother until later that night (truly), where under the tiki torches by the river, me and some friends went to a bonfire with the hard lemonades, the loud sound systems, and the boys in our grade, shouting like dogs. The emotional overlap between us all, the years in elementary, of long summers, made the thing feel intimate and family-like despite the clouds of drugs and the thunder of sexuality. There weren’t any boys after me until a Jeep with the hazards on came rolling down the hill.
We made margarita’s on the bed of a pickup. The jeep pulled up. The overhead lights were piercing in the blue black of the afternoon treeshade; they breaked and then reversed to park, but pulled in too eagerly and struck the side of the white pickup leaving the glasses and limes to rattle off the edge onto the dirty sediment of the riverside.
The door opened and a leg swung out of the side. The air fell out of my stomach and into my chest. Burberry flannel of a disgusting man, that drunken face smiled at me and I smiled back. It was John.

>facing common issues
Mine is facing extreme social anxiety, and it's based on how I experienced it firsthand. The rest of the book isn't like this, you have my word.

So what, the story is just about him crying because he can't get a friend? I'm all for characters showing vulnerability, but being a complete pussy is not engaging. How is the mentally healthy audience supposed to relate and enjoy the story?

They aren't. Do you need to be mentally healthy to read The Catcher in The Rye and understand its message? Do you need to be sane to read through Celine or Bukowski? I doubt it.

He came to me with a pleasant smile, or was it sad? It was appalling either way. I was affixed in that moment - how bizarre was it? This very small man, with a raggedy grey beard, and a snuffy red nose. Oh, how much he looked like a sailor this small man, with his woolen sweater and his striped baby blue shirt, and new used pants. His hair combed up, oh how had me in a trance, how he looked at me with those needy eyes - his tin in his hand - my eyes in his; I couldn’t help but feel pitty for the man. How much he reminded me of a dream, “S’il vous plaît,” he murmured, “S’il vous plaît.”

His soft lips, his being, on a the corner of a crossing in the middle of a busy pedestrian crossing, with the gentle summer sun glistening against his face, behind him, an old manor, pink. Of all the colors pink? A pink wall, with small windows and grey stone bricks. How tacky? The golden sun and the pink bricks?
Some nights, I’m staring into the wall, and I’m blanked out completely because the only thoughts I get are. If I were to just die, now. Like, who would notice? Who would remember, it is such a modern anxiety to have to face. The anxiety of knowing who you are in the moment of your death. Who you were, and how that can be summarised in the story of humanity, of course not everyone faces, and then not everyone is thrust to greatness. The anguish of not being known to anyone. I heard about how it was very common for women to die chocking on their single’s mean in New York. Would that be the reality befalling me? What was to be done about that? One cannot simply just get up one day, and say, “oh today, today, I’m going to be someone else,” “someone less like me.” The joke there is already implicit in the statement, that more often than not we just don’t feel comfortable in who we are. That’s the real issue, always finding excuses to justify why we are a certain way, and not the other. Plotinus was racked with this guilt, so was Augustine and with their work much of Christianity and later civilisation all stuck in their ideas of perfection and who who they were, and how they were: was the furthest thing from it. Isolation drives you crazy, then knowing too many people means too many obligation. A new mouth to feed, another set of eyes to read, it is tiring work.

Shittiest thing I've read in a long time. Do yourself a favour and stop writing.

Jokes on you. You had to read it.

Some context would be very useful.

this is gay, it degenerates literary fiction into genre fan-fiction level

Get the fuck out before you bring the IQ of the whole thread down to the level of a sheep.

>I think a satire is a perfect context in which to write a shithead mc.
thanks.

>However, without more concrete description of what makes him supposedly unlikable I can't say much.
Pic related is from a Rough Draft from a different novel I attempted to write like a Year ago, I think it should be a clear on what type of MC I want to write.

>If you put in effort to make him complex and interesting though, it shouldn't be too much of an issue.
I think this is my biggest roadblock.

Attached: Rough Draft 2.png (1283x808, 109K)

>urrrgghhh hhurrrr URHGHFFGFGG I CANT RELATE TO THE CHARACTER HURRRRRR

this absolutely has to be the most shit for brains retard take on anything ever

I was quite depressed for having given priority to my writing instead of going to class but you fucking made my day.

Character relatability is the easiest way to appeal to the masses. Who cares about some nerd staring at flowers?

The masses don't even read anything besides awful fanfictions and erotica. You should follow suit.

The story without a name

youtube.com/watch?v=ktGkkunGuXM

Maybe relatability is not the right word. But you should be emotionally invested into the character, right, you should care what happens to them. If not, why would you continue reading?

stay depressed. this is a retarded thing to do and if you keep doing it you might regret it. theres always time outside of studies to write or read or whatever wankery you pass off as a passtime

>you should care
No shit, but picturing the character as a total normalfag to pander to the masses doesn't make any sense whatsoever. You give me the impression that you just skimmed whatever we wrote and drawn your own conclusions.
There let me lay it all down for you.
>mc takes frequent nightwalks and has socially unacceptable habits which I'm not going to list
>he apparently still has enough sense to regret his actions
>towards the end, note how despite his shortcomings, he tries to show an ounce of respect by introducing himself and thanking her for coming to his aid, which means that he's not so hopeless after all
>the character he meets is supposed to be his antithesis, an apathetic person who lies easily with a straight face. Everything about him is supposed to be a lie both on the outside and on the inside, you can tell s/he is up to no good, and helped the mc out only out of sheer pity. Note how towards the end s/he cares little for his name
>also protip: her name is likely made up, which leads you to believe that s/he doesn't trust the mc enough to tell him the real name
That's enough pandering if you ask me, i tried to create a crossdressing robot under the pretense that s/he is supposed to be a liar in every respect to avoid angering both traditional and young readers. Now don't lynch me please.

ffs we dont need another 8 mile - gtfo.

Hold your horses, I never heard about that but the main subject doesn't definitely revolve around lgbt pandering.

who are you

Frank Sinatra

It's not a poem. If you were aping japanese brevity and imagism, you'd delete darling and parlour tricks. Expand the poem or shorten it.

"Eternal" and twice "ever" within the first 3 lines is very gauche. Delete two of them.

I critiqued this poem before. As far as I can see, you havent changed it at all. What the fuck are you even doing in these threads? Looking for validation? If you're not willing to edit, stop posting.

I appreciate receiving multiple types of feedback and edit at my own discretion. I don't see why I should hide wanting attention for something I've written, even if it means coming off as obnoxious, I've no pride to protect here. If people say it's shit it's something I'll keep in mind for the future, and if I don't agree with the suggestions then I won't make the edits. Of course I want validation, but I also want feedback of any kind, and if I don't make edits based on the feedback of a specific poem, I usually just consider them for the next thing I wtite. I appreciate any response.

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Vary your sentence structure more. Move things around, combine them, add extra details to make it more dynamic to read.

Use literary devices more. Like personification or some shit.
>I could see the silver sheen of uniformly shaped buildings and apartments. It was to be yet another day in the wonderful city of Nascent.

"The office and apartment buildings of Nascent city shimmered in unison, bouncing sharp morning sunlight off their silver sheens, announcing the start of another day."

That wasn't very good but you see what the fuck I mean. Spice that shit up. If anything it'll make the reader say "Well shit at least he's trying to do something."

Sometimes I'll take a paragraph and just completely overdo every sentence. Just throw as much stank on everything as I can imagine. Then cut everything that's garbage. It usually leaves behind one or two good metaphors I can mold into something useful.

Rupi is here!

skrrrt

just got a 60k advance on a novel you, from which an exerpt i showed you, you all said was shit hahahaha fuck you.

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>I must initially state that I am rather gratified by this response, and if it cost you any significant labor, know that as much as my appreciation is of any value, there as has been a proportionate and compensating benefit as a result of this comparably extensive message.

>Every part of it contains an interesting object of reflection, and I know not where to begin in the formulation of a comprehensive reply, or what resulting cogitations should be suppressed, as either excessively dull or indulgently minute.

>While the defense of your responses has compelled me to question the complaint that induced it, I, like Darcy, find “disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.” Still, this will be a stimulation of a great deal of contemplation, and I will seriously consider the possibility that I was in the wrong.

>I will terminate message by saying that, while I have much that has been left unsaid on the matters contained in your text, and nothing could be a more fervent object of desire than to reciprocate pleasure and interest that your response has occasioned, the last reaction I could have to this message is to detail the present circumstances or developments of my life. If this appears to be in stark contradiction to the sort of questions that I have asked, know that I have always assumed as a reliable maxim in the art of conversation that we, unless affected with an unusual diffidence, would always prefer to speak of ourselves that hear the circumstances of another; I furthermore am more interested in the analytical examinations and the sentimental reflections you might have on your life than straight accounts of it, something I am perfectly willing to share, yet suppress if such observations are not amusing, and if they are truly not, I could not fairly interpret as insulting this unsympathetic reception to those reflections I am most inclined to share, as I have plainly expressed this precise judgment in regard to those reports of your life you have heretofore provided in answer to my inquiries.

This was followed by:

>If the previous message has an unpalatable character to you, please say so. Being so open with my feelings on the conversation, I would accept any of yours on the same subject, regardless of the severity. If I am not writing in fashion that is pleasurable or even tolerable to you, I will do my utmost to restrain my loquacious sentimentality and my tedious analysis.

im not reading greentext

Does anybody know if there's more detailed, yet practical method to composition. The steps of pre-writing, drafting, revision, and editing, do not seem to be cutting it with me, and I still produce work that is immensely below what I want.

If all that is required is constantly writing different drafts, then I may be unequal to the task, or have to learn patience and diligence.

are you a cunt?
learn some fucking patience and diligence you shit. jk rowling is a shit writer but the most successful atm. she was rejected almost 100 times for her first novel. yes she was shit but all the same it shows you need to go through the struggles. you need patience and you need diligence to improve everytime you are rejected. so no. keep going. next time give us a legit concern not this white cis bullshit.

A silent gentle violet paints the sky
as spritely clouds dance across its canvas.
And, by some divine will i fluttered my
eyes, and raised my body off my mattress.
Alas this bed of mine whispers such sweet
Songs, and i, being no man to fight such
Fair words, collapsed into the silky sheet
Beneath my back, melting at its warm touch.
Oh, but such gentle violet quickly fades
As the heavens make way for its suns rise
Naively curled in morpheus's shade
Such brilliant rays did not pierce mine eyes.
Day makes way to night, and i, lost in sleep
Let the silent violet sky gently creep

not bad and not unentertaining. ill convert this to english university grading and give you 65%.

you have talent. just need to shape it lad.

I think the basic impulse is a right one. However, I hope you realize that the poem is so conventional as to be completely superfluous, and in particular "Morpheus' shade" and "mine eyes" are just atrocious. Also, if you intend for this to be a technical exercise (and things like this are not without merit as technical exercises, as long as the tired rhythms and ideas don't grind down your tongue too much), make sure that the lines at least scan. Maybe try writing the same sonnet but with an unusual turn of phrase or two, and in good meter.

I was hoping for more specific advice. My usual practice is to strongly conceive the idea, write the my ideas as they come to me, revise, then edit. The problem is that what I produce isn't nearly good enough, and sometimes, absolutely nothing occurs to me as to how I could polish what I have already written.

The only resource I see is starting again completely while disregarding what I have already written, which means I could write and rewrite the same idea numerous times, and it's possible after all that work, I could still not find the best way to phrase my thoughts.

I'm wondering if there's any steps I might have missed before I basically just repeat the basic steps of writing continuously to get what I want.
>not this white cis bullshit.
I really, really hope this is supposed to be ironic.

I must initially state that I am rather gratified by this response, and if it cost you any significant labor, know that as much as my appreciation is of any value, there as has been a proportionate and compensating benefit as a result of this comparably extensive message.

Every part of it contains an interesting object of reflection, and I know not where to begin in the formulation of a comprehensive reply, or what resulting cogitations should be suppressed, as either excessively dull or indulgently minute.

While the defense of your responses has compelled me to question the complaint that induced it, I, like Darcy, find “disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just.” Still, this will be a stimulation of a great deal of contemplation, and I will seriously consider the possibility that I was in the wrong.

I will terminate message by saying that, while I have much that has been left unsaid on the matters contained in your text, and nothing could be a more fervent object of desire than to reciprocate pleasure and interest that your response has occasioned, the last reaction I could have to this message is to detail the present circumstances or developments of my life. If this appears to be in stark contradiction to the sort of questions that I have asked, know that I have always assumed as a reliable maxim in the art of conversation that we, unless affected with an unusual diffidence, would always prefer to speak of ourselves that hear the circumstances of another; I furthermore am more interested in the analytical examinations and the sentimental reflections you might have on your life than straight accounts of it, something I am perfectly willing to share, yet suppress if such observations are not amusing, and if they are truly not, I could not fairly interpret as insulting this unsympathetic reception to those reflections I am most inclined to share, as I have plainly expressed this precise judgment in regard to those reports of your life you have heretofore provided in answer to my inquiries.

This was followed by:

If the previous message has an unpalatable character to you, please say so. Being so open with my feelings on the conversation, I would accept any of yours on the same subject, regardless of the severity. If I am not writing in fashion that is pleasurable or even tolerable to you, I will do my utmost to restrain my loquacious sentimentality and my tedious analysis.

Better?

Last thing I've written in English that I feel somewhat proud of. Meth head vampires in Venice and shit.

pastebin.com/hSQbmygu

This feels like something a young and eager HPL would write to one of his literary crushes - not to say that it is bad, on the contrary, I appreciate the periambulations of a mind so eager to approach the object of its desire that it devolves in a series of timid, allusive approaches. What's the broader context?

trust me there isnt steps you missed.

where do you get your ideas.

desu a shitty idea can come good if youre passionate enough but you need to be passionate about your writing topic.

so where do you get your ideas from?

For one thing, thank you very much for actually reading what I wrote, and not dismissing it as "wordy," which has happened every time I've posted some of my writing.
>What's the broader context?
I'm trying to rekindle a relationship with a former friend who was once very close to me. I don't know how I would relate to somebody except talking about my thoughts. He is similar to me in some respects, so something like this isn't totally misguided but I have probably over done it by writing like this, and he hasn't responded what I've written.

Uh. I kind of feel like you're very much a stranger to our times or, at the very least, to the mores of nowadays communication. I wouldn't expect you to do badly in the context of a 19th century conversation with one of your peers, but the (d)evolution of our way to relate to each other though language has made it so that something like what you've written, if sent in earnest, might only eli it the kind of scorn one harbors for what is untimely.

Again, I'm not criticizing you. Receiving a letter like that would be very much enjoyable to me, challenging, too, an invitation to a rhetorical and intellectual joust that would be oh so fun to be a part of, but I can see how one would feel, as it were, led by the nose, made fun of by the plenitude and erudite joyfulness of your writing.

It's possible my ideas are not worth putting into words with the polish I would like, and I have too minute view of what is worth polishing to perfection.

The "ideas" are just things I want to say, particularly in a polished and refined manner. This might be too ambiguous, but any time I think I'm writing something that will reflect my personality, I want it to be the best I can make it. It almost never is, which is why I dread writing at times unless I am somehow fine with writing something mediocre, or think the first words that come to my mind are adequate.

I may not be passionate enough about my ideas to write them to the standard I would like, or, put in a different way, I have too high standards for thoughts not worth polishing to the extent that justifies the labor involved from somebody of my ability. If I were a writer of colossal genius whose first written words perfectly adapted the sort of mundane thoughts I wish to express, then I would have few complaints.

This post, , stated more simply, would be.

I'm really glad you wrote this, especially if you spent some time on it, but it really makes me happy.

There's so much to it, I don't know where to begin.

I think I was still right to say what I said before, but I'll think about whether I was wrong later.

I'm going to end this text by saying that I have a lot more to say, thing I hope will please you as much as this message did, I really don't want to talk about my life. Why I was asking about your life, I was doing that because I think generally people would rather have other people ask questions about their life than for other people to talk about theirs. I'm more interested in the thoughts on your life than the events themselves, thoughts I'm would love to share about my life. If you don't to hear about it, that's fine, as I was just a frank as what I don't want to hear previously, [where I said I don't want to just hear about your life].

This isn't something I wrote as a draft. I just wrote this now to give an idea of the sort of thought that might occur to me in trying to express myself, but I would not even bother to write down, as they are wholly inadequate. Rereading what I wrote just makes me even less satisfied with something that took me hours.

If these sort of thoughts are not worth polishing to the perfection I would wish, and life is spent in better ways, I only regret I can not easily produce writing that satisfies myself without diligent labor.

These two paragraphs perfectly sum up intentions in writing, capture the style I wish to imitate or equal, and is from my sole literary model and hero, Samuel Johnson:

>When the subject has no intrinsick dignity, it must necessarily owe its attractions to artificial embellishments, and may catch at all advantages which the art of writing can supply. He that, like Pliny, sends his friend a portion for his daughter, will, without Pliny's eloquence or address, find means of exciting gratitude, and securing acceptance; but he that has no present to make but a garland, a riband, or some petty curiosity, must endeavour to recommend it by his manner of giving it.

>The purpose for which letters are written when no intelligence is communicated, or business transacted, is to preserve in the minds of the absent either love or esteem: to excite love we must impart pleasure, and to raise esteem we must discover abilities. Pleasure will generally be given, as abilities are displayed by scenes of imagery, points of conceit, unexpected sallies, and artful compliments. Trifles always require exuberance of ornament; the building which has no strength can be valued only for the grace of its decorations. The pebble must be polished with care, which hopes to be valued as a diamond; and words ought surely to be laboured, when they are intended to stand for things.

I stay alone. This box is mortar crumbling, no bricks. Those have been smashed and burned to ashen rubble, which collects in the evening drain. Pisswater drizzle leaves me frigid. I am hunch-backed, and bent at those odd angles kept in service of old wartime reels. Gunfire sputter ricochets off the dirt in wide earthen geysers, hail of metal and insects. The stench in the air is unbearable. Blood drips from my ears. I stay alone.

The morning comes, and the bodies are drained, and those left beside me are a tatter of colours and insignia ruggedly stretched with wheezing breaths and hacking coughs. Few have picked themselves up to shamble across the battlefield. None have made it unscathed in some way, with missing limbs and chunks of flesh and unknown fluids feeding the soil. I stand and march. I have no colour-- they are all grey now to me. I can hear not the sound of dying men. All is quite here.

No, I am not changing my poem to appease your idiotic hobgoblin.

So much of this is very flattering, and I can not have such a high opinion of myself, but appreciate the compliments.
>might only eli it the kind of scorn one harbors for what is untimely.
I don't think scorn would be the likely result as much as curiosity at best, and bafflement at worst, but what you suggest is very possible.
>Receiving a letter like that
This was not a letter. This is through text, (specifically, iMessage, which he insists on when we are forced to use our phones). I've sent a few messages in a similar vein, and the previous message he sent was of comparable, (though shorter), length, but, again, I think I overdid it.
>but I can see how one would feel, as it were, led by the nose, made fun of by the plenitude and erudite joyfulness of your writing.
I don't see that exactly, but anything is possible. I would really love, (or at least love the idea of), having the intellectual relationship with a friend I know in person where two people consider the other as an audience of one, but a sufficient audience as motivation to express the innermost thoughts of their soul in the most precise and polished manner they can manage, something that great writers like Eramus, Cicero, Pope, Pliny, and Abelard had with their friends or lovers.

However, being "led by the nose" is a good way to put it when I'm writing to people in this manner prematurely, and I do feel like writing like this can effectively be an imposition on the reader, if only because of the length of time required to understand it, due to the amount of text itself, and the time required to comprehend needless and obsessive precision, (or at least the attempt at it), which can actually impede clarity, with such a level of precision which I still see by rereading what I wrote has come very short of my intuitive ideal.

As an aside, a few nights ago, (when I was really stoned), I had the then arresting idea of writing some letters to people I once had relationships with to some sizable degree, but have not seen or contacted in years, (usually girls I "fancied"), which would be a intense indulgence in the romantic or fanciful facet of my personality, and perhaps strongly motivate me to write something of which I could be proud. While the idea has some merit to it, it's something for which I have much less enthusiasm while sober, and I think will far likely produce unintended and undesired effects, like confusion, and perhaps, as you say, scorn and the sense that I am mocking them.

i dont want you to sum up nigger.
because when you do that youredone as a writer

Hey Yea Forums I posted this a while ago, but no one replied. I don't think I'm a good writer, but I'm trying to improve. I would be very thankful for any feedback I could get here.

Hans job is to flip burgers, and he feels like it is meaningless. Every day he comes to work and does the same thing, some times his coworker has something fun to say, some times he thinks about asking out the girl who works at the reception. But he never does. Everything stays the same.
One day on his way home, Hans comes across a bike being on display in a store. How nice it would be to have that! And so from that day forward he works hard to get what he wants. He gets there first and leaves last. And now, he almost has the money for the bike, only a bit more. Yet before he can reach his goal, a supervisor appears at the store and has news for him:
For his extraordinary engagement, he is to be promoted to the restaurant manager. Everyone claps. And he is excited, maybe this will bring something new into his day!
The weeks pass, he already has the bike. But he never actually made up his mind to go somewhere with it, it only serves him to get to work every day now, even on Sundays. Every single day he works, and he works a lot, and barely is he keeping it together. One day this comes up, one day that. It is never-ending, and always something new. So much stress.
The month's pass, the workers get less. The new machines are starting to replace them, and Hans is working more and more.
And in the end, he is the last one at the job and is finally let go.
And so he sits at home and is bored. He drove around with his bike a bit, but no point in that.
No challenge, no change, just universal basic income and everything for free.
He hasn't even spoken with another human in years now.
And then it knocks at the door. "Hans," a man who used to work with him says, "They forced the companies to employ at least 5 people per restaurant, let's go get our jobs back!" And at that moment, Hans realized: He actually liked his job.
Back in the kitchen, Hans is flipping burgers again. His job is literally meaningless now, but it does not feel that way anymore.

OP, I'm impressed. I'm not good enough a writer to critique though.

stfu

I wrote this for a creative writing class last year.

I never liked "morpheus' shade" but i struggle to find an appropriate substitute that would fit the meter. "Mine eyes" used to be "my eyes" but i thought "mine" sounded more Shakespeare-ish so idk

Yikes

Attached: 1549859722215.jpg (500x500, 25K)

His name was Minton Moogler
And he was one hell of a dirty doogler
He wanted to have intercourse
But he accidentally had it with a horse

(I'm vacillating between "had it with a horse," which I think flows more naturally, and "put it in the horse," which echoes "intercourse" much more directly.)

Obviously, this is a work in progress.

no excuse

Please elaborate.

I need to study.
It's boring,
It's boring,
It's boring,
why does it have to be so boring?
Why can't it work for me,
like a bird trying to sing,
I would do it gleefully,
as it would take no studying.
Why can't I study?
Why can't I force myself?
I hate it.
It's just meaningless nonsense, anyway.
But what shall I do?
It's just something I don't want to do.
I want to try,
but it's just so boring,
boring,
boring,
boring.
To hell with it all, I will just write some shitty poem instead...
Well, it didn't get better, fuck it all.

pastebin.com/THveMLX5
This is a sample of a short work I recently "self published." I did no editing, revision, or anything like that. It amounts to not much more than an incel//r9k/ ramble.

He wanted some intercourse
And he took what he could: a horse

Oh it tortured Dr Baker to imagine, Jack Pilot, Harvard MBA, sitting comfortably with Mrs Anderson(Mr Anderson away on business), and instead of having the common courtesy of just being normal aristocrats and having an affair, deciding to trade deep secrets about fragile people they are close to. Of course out of no manner of actual curiousity, but rather to hold power over more and more people. It sickened Dr Baker to think that he was worth being talked about around a fire in place of an affair. He felt his grasp on the comfortable cusp of aristocracy slipping, he felt himself being dragged by the sheperd's cane onto the stage, but all he wanted was more champaigne, and to know that Mr Anderson was ok.

this is tge day i die

First few scenes of a novel I started a few days ago. pastebin.com/CrtNtffq
I know there's a fair amount to read there, but any feedback at all would be appreciated.

Already in in the first few lines there's some issues: "sharp physiognomy" is just pretentious as fuck my man. "Automatron" and "forwent"... I mean what the hell? I think I have a fever now, too descriptive and literary, especially in the first few paragraphs. Tone it down

I didn't really intend it to be overtly literary, I just wrote what came to mind. But maybe I should tone it down if it's too much. And "automatron" is actually a spelling error, it should be "automaton" so thanks for highlighting that and for responding.

Np, but even if you didn't intend for it to be like that, it still is. And just because something comes to mind doesn't mean it's a guaranteed stroke of genius. Overall the dialogue wasn't bad. It was a bit unnatural here and there but I definitely think it's better than the straight prose.

sometimes i wna fuck

Nymphette, online,
Stroke my cock
As you mouth another chorus

Nymphette, online,
Dance to my beat
And smile as I moan

Nymphette, online,
I cum again
You reset

30 second webm again, an hour from now.

Qui compris les nauges flânant devant la lune?

A fawn grazed ahead. It was nervous. It performed a rhythmic game of chewing and turning its head around, carefully listening for the sound of any movement so it could swallow the last bit of grass and begin its escape. The sky was wrapped up on this night, covering itself from the downpour that would begin soon and confuse the poor fawn trying to eat as much as it could, not knowing whether it was its last meal. The cold air drifted down in a sort of lull and the fawn looked a little more at ease as the cooler air first felt its head, and then its back, and eventually the fawn was lying, chewing the grass in front and more relaxed.
"Its beautiful." Astari said, her voice drowned out the world for just a moment, an unwelcome return back to the place he called home.
"It is." Henry whispered. He lay prone with a rifle rested in front of him aimed at the young deer, hoping the deer would fall asleep, it would make it easier for them both.
"I've never seen one before."
"Me neither." He adjusted an arm and the rustle of the grass woke the little deer to swing its head wildly but it was too tired to get back up and settled for its open eyes. "I thought they'd all died."
"Yeah, me too. I wonder how it survived."
Henry felt the cold air sharpen a little before the first drop of rain fell onto his hat. It was light because of the trees, "Everything finds a way."
The brush nearer the deer was thicker, perhaps that's why it chose the spot, perhaps it was luck. Before the rain had started to fall heavier and Henry would be forced to return to camp, he knew he must kill this innocent creature. He inhaled to steady a rising heartbeat and smiled sadly, hoping the animal wouldn't feel a thing.

Yikesfam. There's no cleverness here, but a lot of purple prose and unwieldy metaphors lacking in both thought and subtlety. It's very immature and sophomoric writing that you've got here. You need to completely rethink the way in which you make your descriptions.

Were literally two different writers responsible for the each paragraph? And I'm not just referring to le epic change of voice and style. I'm talking about the massive differential in observable talent between who wrote the first and who wrote the second.

Apocalypse
The first Horseman rode a pure white horse and
Held a bow with which to smite the nations.
Upon his brow was set a kingly crown
He was named Conquest and He summoned War

Next, a rider on a fiery-red horse
He gripped a sword to ruin the nations
A spectre leading the lost and the damned
Soldiers slaughtered man, woman and swine
While crops withered and died come harvest-time

Then came Famine, long, thin and hard. She perched
On a black horse, a crow, waiting for Death.
A tattered robe of a thousand colours.
A stained bandage obscured her foul left eye.
A rotting diseased hole which fed locusts,
A Dark Justice with her thumb on the scale.

The last Horseman was cloaked in soft shadows.
The blood of the firstborn dripped from his sleeves.
A black angel, the ultimate sanction,
Unsheathed and unsealed for the second time.
He held a great scythe, gleaming crescent moon
He rode a pale horse and his name was Death

can I get some critique on this please

Why do I like this?

kino

She was good and loved the world, I am bad but I loved her.
And even though the world is cruel and doomed both of us to die, she still loved the world and tried to soothe its wrath. And so the world stabbed her in the back, even though she continued loving it till the end.
I grew angry at the world, how could it be so cruel to her?
Thus as far as I was concerned, everything deserved to die. Only she was worth the trouble, only she matters to me now. If only she loved the world less, then maybe she would be still alive.
And so I went to fight the world. To bring her back from her grave. But what is dead, that stays dead, such is the law divine.
And so I went on and on and won the world, still never triumphing over it. The cruel world remains so cold, even when it's now mine.
And so I sit atop the world and see what I now own, I can't appreciate it all, as without her it might as well be no more.
Back at the time when I went off, I still had hope, a lie, told to my self that she might not have truly died. That somehow I could bring her back if only I went far enough. But now I am at the edge of the world - on the highest towers peak. But even it does not stretch to heaven, where I could pull her down.
And so I don't know what to do.
I know that if there was a path to walk, no matter how hard I would see it through.
But there is no path.
And so I search, search for something that I could chase, even if it would likely lead me to hell, as long as it was forward I would be fine with it. But there is nothing, there is not even a hope for anything. And as I have nowhere to go, I stay sitting on my throne.
The eons pass, time ends and starts.
I'm still sitting on my throne, but I'm a skeleton at last.

I've a suggestion. Change
>silent slippage of time
to
>silent slippage of seconds
I think this alliteration would be cute and fit naturally into the tone.

Here's one of many poems I do for others and myself

Attached: VID_27710422_223827_123.webm (640x1060, 739K)

This works brilliantly as a metajoke. It should become a new pasta with which disgruntled critiquees can reply to to critiques they disagree with. So well done.

But as a piece of writing, it is almost impossible to engage with. Prolixity and dullness aside, we don't really know who the speaker is, who they're speaking to, or what the fuck they are speaking about except the correspondent's previous message. I applaud your ability to hedge and weave, this skill will serve you well in padding out 1200 word undergrad essays to bloat to 1500, but if you want your reader to continue reading you without being paid, you have to supply plot, character, action, context, etc. You know. So people have something to think about other than the drone of stretched thought.

Good luck user.

the way your hair curls
the way you drink your coffee
the way you're passionate
the way you're cocky
the way you show you care
or pretend not to care at all
it's effortlessly cute
even if you fall

The repetition of "the way" gives a droney vibe.

Attached: 1541668799243.png (235x215, 7K)

What do you mean by droney?

there is nothing to it except me reading it aloud; On top of that you could go further into detail about what exactly you see in each action; what about the way she / he drinks their coffee?

i walk down the street, thought i saw you sometimes
the wind carries your scent, pleasant surprise
the wind blows fragments away and into you
id love to live inside you
to wake in the morning and be you in the polished glass
ah, id love the surface, id break apart before it does.
to be you and like you
oh the things id do.

not him but it's boring and repetitive

I've attempted to deconstruct briefly the mindset of online imageboards in a chapter of a novel I'm writing. Will post my shit once i get home if anyone's interested.

reads like bad tumblr in 2009 when a 12 year old was finally allowed to use the internet and posted her first thing about some guy with floppy hair that looked at her once in the hallway and thinks its true love but doesnt know that he was actually mocking her

>This works brilliantly as a metajoke. It should become a new pasta with which disgruntled critiquees can reply to to critiques they disagree with. So well done.
Really don't agree. This was not my intention, but that could be posted, and I don't think it would get much mileage as pasta. This isn't necessarily disappointing in itself, and I actually could see it as something to be proud of.
>Prolixity and dullness aside
This is not insignificant. I want to write like this, or something resembling this style but good, or at least acceptable to my standards and it's frustrating, because I am very, very far from that. I'm not going to deny that it it prolix and dull, but advice how to retain the style while making it good would be appreciated, though I know I can not demand assistance.
> padding out 1200 word undergrad essays to bloat to 1500
Naturally, I don't find this complimentary, and I also never have difficulty meeting minimum word counts, but if I did, not that it is something to be proud of, but I could do much better than padding out 1200 to 1500 if I really tried. That I know.
>supply plot, character, action, context, etc. You know. So people have something to think about other than the drone of stretched thought.
Well, I that would actually not be difficult, but it would just be several thousands of words of uninteresting conversation. I think the previous message the person sent me might be context enough, but I wouldn't expect people to read something that has a subject not much more exiting than what I posted.

Here's the previous message he wrote, for "context" and shits and giggles
>>I agree that this conversation has mainly been quite dull. I would also say that the main issue has been the medium--I've always felt that texting was insufficient in nearly every way, in terms of its ability to act as a means of communication between two human beings. I'd much prefer if we could speak in person. I think the results would be much more interesting. I do however, find it not a little astonishing that you would lay the blame on me, and accuse of me of being "incredibly, incredibly dull." I say the following with only the purpose of our mutual edification in mind, and do not mean at all to insult you. Here are the main issues I find with the conversation thus far, which have rendered it dull: 1) the medium, as I've said 2) a lack of activity in your life, activity which rounds a person out and makes them an interesting, fecund partner in conversation. I do not care in the slightest about your engagement in discussion on Yea Forums, which I am given to understand is how you spend the vast majority of your time. You can see how this would be quite a formidable barrier to any discussion between us. The sole onus is on me to enliven the conversation, which places an unfair burden on me. 3) your style of conversation. I think this has much to do with issue #2. You essentially refuse to speak at all about yourself, and instead resort to asking me question after question, in a standardized test sort of format. This is a horridly uninteresting way to converse, as we have seen.
>Again, I really do not mean to insult you. These are just my thoughts on possible reasons as to why this conversation has been so dull.

This was in response to me literally saying the conversation "blows," as it was basically me just asking personal question where he gave short answers.

Using the terms "plot, character, action, context, etc." might be tongue-in-cheek, but it really might imply more interest to the context than is actually there. The point I made before was that I am probably laboring too much for not particularly interesting ideas or situations, and in this case, all I was trying to do was to convey that I found the conversation up until that point to be boring, yet I still wanted to continue it.

Rate my poems gentlemen.

" Choking Site: Chicken "
My dick, oh how it stands erect.
Stationed at 12 o' clock,
he sings his whimpered song;
tonight will be the reckoning he foresaw upon the written rock.
At last his time has come,
for little does saint peter know;
The beating shall be
excruciatingly long.
With the final hour settling in,
Underneath my brutalized skin;
my Willy sure does capture an image
Of a broad with a derelict livin'.

Attached: 1550814959289.jpg (720x912, 285K)

weirdly enjoyable despite a seemingly lack of substance

>character arrives in wonderland and doesn't realize it because he's concussed and sleep deprived
>goes into a convenience store to grab some cup o noodles
>its actually yarn, and so is the whole shop and street
>freaks out so bad that what he thought was a stuffed animal on the counter calls the damn police
>gets chased down the street by stuffed K9 units with sewing/knitting needles for teeth

that's how it starts. fuck me

I see what you mean, but I can't really think of another way how to change that word without my poem losing it's flow - well, not it's flow, it would still rhyme, but it would feel different. I wrote it sort of childishly on purpose. And about the actions, it's not what I see in them, it's the romanticization of the person (the *exact* way she drinks her coffee, the *exact* way her hair curls). I guess I could have written actions instead of the adjectives "passionate", "cocky"

So do you think if I just changed up "the way", my poem would become less boring?

It's not what I meant, but I guess all readers interpret what they read differently. (I did mean to be childish, but not in a "my crush looked at me today" way)

>o you think if I just changed up "the way", my poem would become less boring?

yeah but honestly it's just bad, nobody who doesn't know this girl IRL will get anything out of this

Okay, thank you for your honesty.

medium.com/@augustusreid/fren-950230dfef27

an ode to my experience on Yea Forums since 2014 or so.

My job is 4am to noon, Sunday through Thursday. I experience the clock and the day of the week as accounting entities. They don't really exist, except as arbitrary measurements of an otherwise unknowable abstraction. One of my coworkers confe4ssed the other day she thinks she is a "star seed." It is not a coincidence that our jobs start during the last hour of Coast to Coast A.M. Car radios. "Star seed." She tells me this in her dreamy young stream of consciousness jive and I nod with the supreme divinity of an Augur of ancient wherever. Then one day not long after, she's dead. She jumped off her two story house and landed head first. Apparently on purpose. She was so bone-crushingly lazy that she couldn't even be bothered to leave the house for a structure with decent altitude. And was sincerely indifferent to her ongoing hell that she didn't even bother with any "last few serene moments of free fall before" bullshit. Just fuck my shit up, she said. Snap. So to speak.

There is a great and vast variety to human character out there. Hitler and Mother Teresa belong to the same species. Vaginas are like that too. Flower candies and sewage eels. And there's no way to tell without an inspection. It's one of the great Western secrets of our epoch; that so much effort and money and time is spent on the preliminaries, then she "doesn't get" why you had to move on. And no one (no one I know) ever says, "it's not because you are not outwardly attractive, it's because in total, you are the picture of a porcelain doll of gracile Victorian delicacy, but you also have a sulfuric curdle wafting from your baby canal that reminds me more than anything of dead animal decomp and smelling salts from when I got hit by a pitch in little league." Because we don't want to be cruel. Or something.

I have lived this story. I'm Martin, of course. I quit the club after a month.

Then the front window implodes and Rimney climbs through with a tire iron.
“It’s going to happen now,” Giff says.
And it does. It takes two swings. It doesn’t hurt, really, but it’s scary, because it’s happening to me, me, me, me, the good boy in school, the boy who felt lilacs were his special flower, the boy who, when poor Jean was going, used to sneak off to cry in the closet. As I go, there’s an explosion of what I can only call truth/energy flood. I can’t exactly convey it, because you’re still in that living/limited state, so lucky/unlucky, capable of smelling rain, rubbing palm against palm, having some new recently met someone suddenly brighten upon seeing you.
Rimney staggers to the door, unbolts it, stands looking out.
I pass through him and see that even now all his thoughts are of Val, desperate loving frightened thoughts of how best to keep her safe.
Giff and I cross the yard hand in hand, although like fifteen feet apart. Where are we going? I have no idea. But we’re going there fast, so fast we’re basically skimming along Trowman Street, getting simultaneously bigger/lighter, and then we’re flying, over Kmart/Costco Plaza, over the width of Wand Lake, over the entire hilly area north of town.
Below us now is Giff’s house: snow on the roof, all the lights on, pond behind it, moon in the pond.
Giff says/thinks, Will you?
And I say/think, I will.
She’s at the table doing bills, red-eyed, the note at her feet, on the floor. She sees me and drops her pen. Am I naked, am I pale, is
my hair blowing? Yes and yes and yes. I put one bare foot on the note.
A lie, I say. Elliot’s dead, sends his love. Rimney did it. Rimney. Say it.
Rimney, she says.
That’s all the chance I get. The thing that keeps us flying sucks me out of the house. But as I go I see her face.
Rejoining Giff on high I show him her face. He is glad, and now can go.
We both can go.
We go.

(Cont’d)

Snow passes through us, gulls pass through us. Tens of towns, hundreds of towns stream by below, and we hear their prayers, grievances, their million signals of loss. Secret doubts shoot up like tracers, we sample them as we fly through: a woman with a too-big nose, a man who hasn’t closed a sale in months, a kid who’s worn the same stained shirt three days straight, two sisters worried about a third who keeps saying she wants to die. All this time we grow in size, in love, the distinction between Giff and me diminishing, and my last thought before we join something I can only describe as Nothing-Is-Excluded is, Giff, Giff, please explain, what made you come back for me?
He doesn’t have to speak, I just know, his math emanating from inside me now: Not coming back, he would only have saved himself. Coming back, he saved Mom, Dad, me. Going to see Cyndi, I saved him.
And, in this way, more were freed.
That is why I came back. I was wrong in life, limited, shrank everything down to my size, and yet, in the end, there was
something light-craving within me, which sent me back, and saved me.

I have six days before the deadline for my college's literary journal, and I'm trying to cobble together a few half-decent pieces by that time. I'm a horrendously slow writer, and the result is always dogshit anyway, but it would be nice to have something, like, anything, you know? I might post some wips later.

This is absolutely cloying.
It doesn't seem like you were serious about writing it, and that's fine if you weren't, but frankly it's not good literature. It comes off as both lazy AND try-hard. Bravo for getting those things together. You seem to have decent writerly instincts though. Maybe you should rely more on those instincts. This piece felt utterly contrived. I get that, technically, all art is contrived, but this feels bad like it was done to be specifically a shitpost on Yea Forums rather than as a genuine instance of expression. Rewrite it. Try to get deeper into the beating, bleeding heart of the work. I think that you can do it.

Thanks for the honest feedback.

yeah i cranked it out last night in a weird moment of melancholy and for whatever reason i felt like i should write something about the chans. it was sort of forced and i should have put more effort into it. also id just finished binging delicious tacos and i wanted to be edgy.

perhaps ill rewrite it sometime.

lazy and tryhard is a new one for me

10/10 unironically

tryhard

>this needs a little context so: I fell on my face once, and for a few years after, if I put too much pressure on that part (like when sleeping) it hurt like all hell. one time, that pain was reflected in my dream. the last stanza is about reefer cause I needed a third stanza.

The sails around my eyes
Are blown back from all sides
Heavy is my perception's cloth
In the wistful winter air, like moths

The moth stuck in my iris
In dreams that scream so violent
At five A.M. when quail do harken
Wake to burning tears in darkness

The delicate fog swims
Through the city on infinite whims
Much like my mind (or soul, or something)
There is no substance in smoke: it's nothing.

“Being alive now does not make sense. People just go on the internet and try to spread around as much chaos as possible, meanwhile real life goes on all around just as normal, while inside we are experiencing great upheavals. It’s idiotic to try and pin this phenomena down. It’s like an eye-floater, it moves anytime you look at it.”
“Absurdity has been heightened. It is the ideal of our era,” he said, agreeing with me.
“No Westerner believes in the majesty of human beings anymore, and yet we do things that a human hundreds of years ago would have thought impossible. None of us believe in God at a moment in time where he is actively being built. “
“God is being built?”
“Yeah, I mean AI. The Economy is becoming so complicated that only God can fully understand it. Every job is becoming more and more demanding, so that soon every meaningful occupation will be beyond human capability.”

I like it, particularly the last stanza

i didn't know people wrote good things on this board

this is only a tiny, out-of-context excerpt, but i'd like to hear if it sounds pretentious or odd

i think i use the I + verb -structure and the word 'like' too much

Attached: IMG_20190223_123321.png (720x983, 223K)

Not to pretend to be an expert, but some of you seem to be more concerned with decorating your text than with telling a story. Using beautiful and impressive words isn't a bad thing, but if you use too many too often, the text turns from water to syrup, and is hard to wade through. Feels like it's going nowhere.

don't know if this is any help, but after the first draft, just shelf that for a few months until coming back to it. you'll see your text in a different light, more like the reader will see it.

it's fine quality for an incel ramble, imo. if you had a plot, a definite point, wrote about something interesting instead of just this bleak life, the end result wouldn't be bad at all.
but then again i just like the aesthetic structure of your work

A fawn grazed ahead. It was nervous. It performed a rhythmic game of chewing and turning its head around, carefully listening for the sound of any movement so it could swallow the last bit of grass and begin its escape. The sky was wrapped up on this night, covering itself from the downpour that would begin soon and confuse the poor fawn trying to eat as much as it could, not knowing whether it was its last meal. The cold air drifted down in a sort of lull and the fawn looked a little more at ease as the cooler air first felt its head, and then its back, and eventually the fawn was lying, chewing the grass in front and more relaxed.
"Its beautiful." Astari said, her voice drowned out the world for just a moment, an unwelcome return back to the place he called home.
"It is." Henry whispered. He lay prone with a rifle rested in front of him aimed at the young deer, hoping the deer would fall asleep, it would make it easier for them both.
"I've never seen one before."
"Me neither." He adjusted an arm and the rustle of the grass woke the little deer to swing its head wildly but it was too tired to get back up and settled for its open eyes. "I thought they'd all died."
"Yeah, me too. I wonder how it survived."
Henry felt the cold air sharpen a little before the first drop of rain fell onto his hat. It was light because of the trees, "Everything finds a way."
The brush nearer the deer was thicker, perhaps that's why it chose the spot, perhaps it was luck. Before the rain had started to fall heavier and Henry would be forced to return to camp, he knew he must kill this innocent creature. He inhaled to steady a rising heartbeat and smiled sadly, hoping the animal wouldn't feel a thing.

this is trash but as a first draft, completely unedited, i was wondering if someone could give me some info on style, content, and perhaps, the most glaring mistakes available - this is just a muse i have atm but still

>veneers

Apocalypse

The first Horseman rode a pure white horse and
Held a bow with which to smite the nations.
Upon his brow was set a kingly crown
He was named Conquest and He summoned War

Next, a rider on a fiery-red horse
He gripped a sword to ruin the nations
A spectre leading the lost and the damned
Soldiers slaughtered man, woman and swine
While crops withered and died come harvest-time

Then came Famine, long, thin and hard. She perched
On a black horse, a crow, waiting for Death.
A tattered robe of a thousand colours.
A stained bandage obscured her foul left eye.
A rotting diseased hole which fed locusts,
A Dark Justice with her thumb on the scale.

The last Horseman was cloaked in soft shadows.
The blood of the firstborn dripped from his sleeves.
A black angel, the ultimate sanction,
Unsheathed and unsealed for the second time.
He held a great scythe, gleaming crescent moon
He rode a pale horse and his name was Death

Didn't you already post this?

It's pretty good anyway but pretty lame just by itself, is it part of something more?

there's a punctuation mistake in there,

Yeah, me too should probably just be yeah or me too.

don't use perhaps twice, breathed in is preferable to inhaled

yeh but its a trash idea
>basically guy misses shot because "meteor" from sky
>is one of the nearest scavengers so arrives at the object
>escape pod
>then find a way off the planet using the technology in it

its extremely bad desu but it was just something i was writing for fun and hoping to get someway better as a writer so posted here

why will no one reply to my post? :(

reply to mine and i'll reply to yours

You know how your parents warned you if you stayed in the bath too long you’d turn into a prune? Well, as a kid I shit just fine so I didn’t have the prune recall they expected. So instead I pictured the California Raisins. Those weird stop-motion stereotypes that sang R&B and made you wonder how claymation fruit could be so effectively racist. They were wrinkled like prunes so I guess no harm done. Point taken. Thanks mom and dad.
Well, it’s basically like that. When I wash the dishes or take a particularly long shower - baths are in my rear view due to the itinerant nature of New York real estate and my own neuroses about testicular-porcelain relations - my fingers get all pruney or rasiny. But they remind me more of brains.
The first knuckle of each finger desiccated and shredded, folded and uneven like a gelatinous cerebral mass. With fingers moistened, I feel exposed. An honest day’s work of gnawing and tearing at my fingers and cuticles with the zeal of a true believer laid bare for all to see. A million forgotten anxieties stitched into the crag of each fleshy joint.

In the dry, unmoistened day, I can pass as one of you. A 9 to 5 Tom, Dick or Harriet with a sports team to project myself onto while I trap my vital organs in encroaching layers of pus yellow fat. A man with a plan that involves avoiding thinking about death and cheating on my wife (or husband) with increasingly younger women (or interesting men). But at night my painted mask is washed away in the rain of falling dishwater.
My little brains. Warped and swollen. Purple and cracked. Pulsing and throbbing. My big brain sends a signal to create smaller ones. Reflections of my anguish. Copies of itself in invisible ink that only lengthy baptisms can reveal. This is how anxiety reproduces. The deluded brain tattooing itself on any available surface.

The dishes are my sacrament and they reveal me for what I am. Afraid. I wonder what the weather will be tomorrow.

which one is yours?

also link yours and i'll give feedbac

Well, I have English as a second language, so I had to look up a few words from it.
I think you do a good job of describing the scene, but that is all it is: A scene. Nothing really happens there, but its good for what it is.
"Everything finds a way.", made me cringe a bit because that is such a cliched line.
Also, why did they go hunting deer if they "thought they'd all died", but perhaps you explain that after that and they weren't really hunting and just saw it by accident? Just something I noticed.
And,
>hoping the animal wouldn't feel a thing.
That's really not what you would think when shooting a fawn when you are in a postapocalyptic setting and need something to eat. Maybe try looking at things a bit more from the character's perspective than your own. It would make them more realistic.

But what do I know? That are just some thoughts that came to mind, and perhaps I am wrong about them.

Here is mine: warning: it's much worse than yours.

just to answer:

Yeah, its a prelude to the major event happening in this chapter
the cliched part was meant to be as such just to create a sort of familiarity in this place but i guess it doesnt feel that way
they weren't hunting, they were scavenging but the scavengers do everything for their group so hunting is just an umbrella term
when they said "thought they'd all died" they werent just referring to the animal but nearly all life on the surface
the hoping the animal wouldnt feel anything was supposed to display some humanism in these characters as, after this event, the characters are almost robotic in nature (personally i wouldnt give a shit lol but i tried adding this for the reason above)

also ty for the comments

Begin second like with "even" to make it more exasperated - using "and" to begin softens "even" which takes away from the cruel world
i'd add a semi colon after wrath

>I grew angry at the world, how could it be so cruel to her?
feels out of place, the skip between unknown love, to the woman's tumultuous relationship with the world makes your feelings both insignificant and boring.
starting at
>everything deserved to die
is much more encapsulating and mirrors the line about the world/girl
>only she was worth the trouble, only she matters to me now.
dangerous territory that takes away from the piece again - are you wanting to show how much you love a girl or are you trying to depict her life? Are you trying to show an immaturity in your beliefs or reflect a passion that burns bright? you tread both.
reading the rest it feels like paris and helen but what if helen died before paris could be with her and he tried to bring her back by winning the world for the gods and succeeded but it was actually a trojan horse and his victory is representative of what life is, pointless.

the piece begins with promise but, despite your small allusions and metaphors, it feels vapid and too reliant on unexplained details in the past to interest the reader

explain the premise of the story?
what were you trying to achieve?
is there more?

>Begin second like with "even" to make it more exasperated - using "and" to begin softens "even" which takes away from the cruel world
>i'd add a semicolon after wrath
Thanks, that's a good suggestion

>explain the premise of the story?
>what were you trying to achieve?
I am very interested in metanarratives, So I want to distill the essence of SekaiKei into a short story. (This is Yea Forums stuff, sorry)
It's basically a story about two star crossed lovers, where one sacrifices herself for the world, and the other would rather destroy the world then see her die.
It's an archetypal story that is seen very often now, similar to the hero's journey in a way. But I don't know of many instances where it was brought into the west.
Examples of SekaiKei would be Devilman, Madoka, FinalFantasy 13-2 and the recent attempt by Life is Strange to westernize the concept.
>is there more?
No, it's supposed to be a tragic short story that distills the concept down to its foundations.

>feels out of place, the skip between unknown love, to the woman's tumultuous relationship with the world makes your feelings both insignificant and boring.
Oh, that's interesting. I tried to leave the women's struggle with the world as abstract as possible and focus on the other character. How would you realize my intent then alternatively?

>Are you trying to show an immaturity in your beliefs or reflect a passion that burns bright? you tread both.
Well, I wanted both. I think that immaturity in beliefs is always in the eyes of the beholder, so I don't think what to make of that. The character is a Nietzschean type who is also an edgy adolescent. But that does not mean that he is not passionate about his believes. Is that bad?

And thank you very much for your review.

>12648869
can someone please give me feedback on this, I've been trying for weeks now..

I can do review for review, this is mine , deal?

>some times

sometimes

>But he never does. Everything stays the same.

comma instead of fullstop

>drove around with his bike a bit, but no point in that.

should be rode unless it's a motorbike which wasn't made clear in the text.

It's ok, probably would work better as a poem. The word choices and sentance structure kind of make it seem like you are ESL, not a bad style though.

I'd either turn it into a poem or an actual short story, instead of saying "then this happened then this happened, then he got fired. Actually show the audience, show them what a shift looks like and so on, show how his life is getting shit from not working

i shall respond in terms of numbers relating to each section

1. i don't feel any love from her for the protag so, in this short piece, it is very one-sided. If this is the point then personify the world perhaps? If you're trying to make her this godly creature in his eyes, make him see less of a difference between the world and her, as if they are the mortal and immortal forms of the same being.

2. it may benefit from being a little longer because then you could develop a relationship that you want the reader to empathise with. If you are just writing about the relationship, your prose would need to be incredible to keep the attention of the reader

3. there is a difference between abstract and omission. Abstract has allusions, subtle references, little details that develop this image that you interpret - you have omitted from the story a great deal, and just focused on the feelings of the protag. Take that away, focus on the woman/world - make it as if you were rafael happening upon the sistine chapel. Use the protagonist as someone who is more of a bystander, powerless but to only comment on what has happened
a) allusions
b) metaphors
c) perhaps something almost biographical to add a solemn aspect for the protag because it feels like they're disconnected from the woman

decide what sort of relationship the pair had i guess is the best thing i can say because it feels really lacking from her side, like there is no conflict towards the protagonist which is to err on the side of human

4. DONT MAKE A CHARACTER BASED ON A PHILOSOPHER

thats a trap

also the adolescent thing feels more like a late 20s faux edgy dude who has had one small relationship in his life and blew it way out of proportion

if you want to be passionate, be passionate
if you want to show immaturity, be immature
don't tread the line as if to say "i am these things and this makes me this"
it becomes tiring to see that, break the whole piece down, strip it back to the core and then search for the passion and immaturity in it because for me it seems like you are telling us you are this but not showing anything

SHe had returned home. Exhaustion over came her. SHe slept. Not very well mind, as one may expect. A pile of clean and dirty clothes doesnt provide adequate lumber support nor comfort to which - despite his current circumstances- she was acquainted.
Her flat stood some yay-big-tall and about that-big-long and existed in a state of chronological stasis. SHe finished a drink over there as evident by the lipstick stained tin, she ate her last meal from the can over by the window, after which she had a smoke. Her most recent smoke being still lit and resting ontop of that very can. By just a glance one could piece together events of her past, true or not it's a fun game to play.

Ok, so well, here it goes:

I think your style is obviously substantial, and as you guessed here , I am English as a second language so I would not be able to properly critique it anyway.

I guess the biggest critique here is the subject matter, and that is what I am going to focus on:
So you are describing the four riders, but what is your aim with writing this? It seems a bit boring as you are more or less just repeating what is already known in the first place. And sentences like:
"The blood of the firstborn dripped from his sleeves.", make it very edgy in a cliched way.
Truth be told, I think I would not be able to write a serious text that contained that sentence.

This would be good as a description for videogame lore somewhere like you have a (thematically fitting)videogame where you find a book and that is written there: great.
But it is not something that I feel is substantial on its own without that kind of context.

I will take all that into account when I rewrite it.
I am still very interested in getting that one right, so it's a great help to see where and why I have shortcomings like that and how it sounds to a third party. Thank you very much.

>"The blood of the firstborn dripped from his sleeves."

that was meant to be a reference to the angel of death in exodus, implying that Death (the rider) is the same angel god sent to kill all the egyptians

thanks for the feedback though

no one gives a shit what you mean unless we can derive it from what you write

>chronological stasis
what?
>SHe
are you doing this on purpose?
overall this is almost incomprehensible

you obviously haven't read the bible then, it's a pretty obvious reference

literally everyone has read the bible dude, that doesn't mean your writing isnt trash lmaooooooooo

I just want feedback on a line. In speaking about the fire and how a character gazes into it and imagines what it may become I said this:

"The fire is a vessel into which one pours themselves. In gazing into it, they are reflected."

I just want to convey that it shows the person their intentions theough what they imagine it will be, or be used for.

sounds like a poor neitzshe ripoff, might help to post the previous sentance

>no one gives a shit what you mean unless we can derive it from what you write

sure

u mad because bad writer aw poor bby

That is why I said it is a cliche. Everyone knows that reference.

It does not mean I necessarily thought its an angel or anything like that, and that does not even matter, its just edgy.
Oh, so death is the same as the death that god summoned to kill the first born in egypt?
That's not original, that's a bad cliche.

I think you have a far too high opinion about the cleverness of your own writing.

That reads like the following:

The tale of Achmed the bloody terrorist of ISIS:

And so it came to be, out of the depths of Rakka, Achmed the best of the best - the knife of Allah himself - appeared from the ruins.
He was the last of his clan, all seven of his brothers were already by Allah's side. But he does not mind. He knows that he does what is right. His clothes are blood strained to the bone:
Drinking blood is against the law, but he loves bathing in it.
He loves it when one of his men goes to Allah, their innards fall from the sky like rain and douse everyone.
Around his neck hangs a necklace, made out of the trigger fingers of his Enemies - the enemies of Allah. After every battle, he cuts them out one by one. So that the enemies may fear him:
And his name is Achmed the knife of Allah: because he cuts off your trigger finger for Allah.

But (somehow) unironically.

bad writers will always think they are good

ignorance is really bliss

>implying that Death (the rider) is the same angel god sent to kill all the egyptians
>that Death(the rider)
>(the rider)
>()
>when you think the person you are talking to is so stupid they can't even get the most basic things, but YOU, YOU are the smartest person in the world.

This is the reason you are able to write something like this unironically, you actually think that you are so good that you can write biblical legends.
Get some fucking humility, lad.

Never wrote any poetry since hs english but I was reading Nietzsche earlier and his talk about the void got me thinking about how peoples' reactions to my honest thoughts or genuine emotional displays when I was young and didn't hide it, were reactions of complete disbelief, like they couldn't understand how someone could view reality this way. I think now people still sense that I am some kind of existential vacuum even though for a long time I thought I was hiding it pretty well. There is just something about how people look at me - this prolonged, empty gaze, a mix of fear-induced paralysis and the temptation to find relief in nothingness - that makes me feel like I don't belong in this world, am maybe not of this world at all, and despite my efforts at making peace with it, I will never be able to hide that I am a genuine outsider who does not belong here. Anyway here's my stupid poem:

When people look at me, do they sense the trembling of Being?
I sense the VOID taking the color out of them as they gaze,
That pure NEGATION is all they are seeing;
What questions, for myself, for them, does this raise?

Attached: stage-1_opt-1-e1414963127480.jpg (290x283, 10K)

Even though you have been completely obliterated by the critiques here and now, don't think that everything is hopeless.
You should see this as a reality check: be thankful. Because otherwise you would have continued to live in ignorance, and that would have been so much worse.

Next time try writing something a bit more down to earth, something less "apocalyptic", and post it again.

Would my short story that consists solely of a single psychologist's appointment be better off written in drama form instead?

Attached: Screen Shot 2019-02-23 at 4.55.51 PM.png (1404x1386, 224K)

Almost quads user.
What a sad life you must be living.

Ok thanks!

This is an excerpt from "The Thousandth Story of a Drunk Doomer Who Posts On Yea Forums For Semblances of Attention"

Alex met with his friend to confide in him. Hopes of release were in his head, since he had been drunk driving for fun again. The thrill of drinking and driving was, for him, the only way to feel alive. He began taking "roadies" with him; beside the console of the car would always be an open can or bottle of alcohol.

Alex parked. He made sure to hide his roadie under the cover of some newspaper that was on the front seat floorboard. He got out of the car and began walking. It was a blue-black night with plenty of stars in the sky, but Alex only focused on what he would say to his friend Thomas. He didn't want to give off the impression that he was already drunk, which he was. Alex found his way into the bar and Thomas was already waiting for him.

They began with the regular greetings: for them, it was a hug, a how-are-you, and brief insincere recitations of "oh, doing alright." This was always followed by the real deal, getting down to the meat of each others life. Thomas was getting married; Alex asked about that. They were getting the ceremony ready. Weddings are always a headache, and there never seems to be an easy way to do them nowadays (unless you get a quickie-marriage from Las Vegas or the like). After Thomas talked about the wedding, it was Alex's turn to give his updates. Alex came up empty on this front, mainly because he had kept the same habits since the last time they met: drinking, smoking, working, drinking, sleeping, working, drinking...

Thomas sensed that Alex had a few before their meeting. He tried to not be visibly annoyed. Though he disapproved of his lifestyle, Thomas was Alex's friends, and one of his only friends at that. Thomas had a duty, he supposed, to be some beacon of hope or shoulder of support. But the fact still remained that he did not support the type of life he was living. But who would really get behind a life like that?

Later and later into the night, the conversation got more raw.

"My life is shit, Thomas," he lamented, "and no one cares to stop me. On that note, I'll keep being shit."

"All you do is drink, what do you expect? Maybe if you DID something you would feel better."

"So what is there to do for me, then? Can you tell me? Because every time I try to do something, it dies on conception. Tell me what kind of life that is, Thomas."

Really, it was at the point where nothing could console Alex. Not a friend, not a girl, not a drink (though he kept drinking). But Thomas was still there, and as long as he was there, Alex had reason to vent his frustrations with his pigsty existence. That is all he really wanted - someone to listen and pity.

I actually like it, you drunk doomer who posts on Yea Forums for semblances of attention.

I'm really just a pathological narcissist with mommy issues and probably some unaddressed neuro-chemical disorder; just a total piece of unwanted garbage.

“Fake and Gay”

Fake and gay, fake and gay
You are all very fake and gay
Now I think I’ll run away
Because unlike you I don’t like to lick penis all day

(Critique welcome.)

You're in good company, fella

... And so I took a shot of rum and died.
Next thing I see, I find myself in a dark forest - when I actually should have died.
The twigs hang from all the trees and make the impression that they will reach down and grab me. I am in shock, so I rapidly crawl backward until I hit my head on a tree.
I close my eyes and the familiar black that closed eyes used to create - a refuge from the cruel world, is now replaced with eyes staring into my soul.
In a panic, I open my eyes again.
I have no time to think.
I fall on the ground and start rolling around like a mad dog. Until I fall into the water. The eyes appear again when blinking, I open my eyes under water. It's a dark green, wet and cold, it calms me down a bit. I lose my panic and emerge from the swamp.
I look up into the sky.
It's not dark and now light, no stars are there, no moon no sun, just a dark red color filling the horizon. The twigs start moving, it was not my imagination. They slowly reach for my neck and start pulling me from the water, I struggle helplessly, but there is nothing I can do.
To my surprise, I get pulled out without being strangulated, and so I hang there in the trees. Starring into the void, afraid to close my eyes. I look around, there is a reflection in the water: Something strange, something horrific, panic grabs me again, I can't move. I look again.
The creature looks back at me.
My mind shatters from my next thought. Everything becomes an abyss. I can not make sense: twigs, sky, night. Nothing matters anymore, nothing makes sense. My consciousness dissipates into nothingness.

What do you do when you feel like your writing is terrible. I just wanted to feel good about having a talent but feel like I can’t express things in a meaningful way. Does anyone else feel like this and if so what do you do to remedy it. Sorry for the diary entry.

You do your worst, and then post it here and hope that someone here takes the time to rip it to shreds.
And then you learn from your mistakes.
Do that 5 times, and then your 6th writing won't be that retarded anymore.
Also, don't be afraid to be cringy, the line between "it's cringy edgy shit", and "it's deep and meaningful" is extremely thin. Just be ready to take criticism when you fuck up.

I tumble down the brook, tail a-beating
Across the woods, I find my course homeward
Running down the shining stream, to meet
The fisherman’s hook. The bite leads upward
Through the water. “What hook have you bitten now?”
The fisherman pries, and between his fingers the sun shines
On my many marks of victory. “Look at my marks, fisher.
I have conquered your hooks and reaped many rewards.”
With a snide remark, he lets me fall,
My latest victory stands beside the rest.

OK I think I've prepared myself to be destroyed. Please tell me what I need to fix.

Dave’s morning routine followed its patterns to a T, though the news piece for today was, of course, focused on the prodigal procession following the arrival of Laura Ward. On the T.V., she didn’t really possess the persona Dave assumed of celebrity of her caliber would have. She was a small woman somewhere approximate to Dave’s age, she was meek-looking and had an aura solely of piety for her status as a trucel. She did not appear even the slightest bit an imposter as the bespectacled man had suggested the day prior. Dave gave her a once over while sipping at his Blue Malko and decided that her air of humbleness contrasted with her status made her extremely desirable, even (God forbid) attractive. He scratched at his Bloob. There was no healthy appreciation that could be had by deviants when it came to sexuality, constant prevention from stimulation had left them with an ever-present randiness. While it was technically possible for Dave to relieve himself, it was not at all probable, especially with a full day of work he literally could not afford to miss.

The piece ended (with promise of future coverage) and was immediately followed by a Pink Malko commercial. The female “star” of the commercial was an unapologetic volcel who sung praises about the levels of estrogen (this product had actually found a market in noncels who, in an age of increasing taboo, used it as a birth-control substitute) and the beauty of celibacy, as well as a plethora of other effects ad nauseam. It basically ran like a commercial for those new-market medications, though, instead of the consistent listing of horrendous side-effects, the viewer was treated to the consistent listing of all the "benefits". The woman, volcel or not (Dave could not obviously tell), had a face of such pleasure and was surrounded by so many other people likewise that, if she was faking, was an actor not befitting of the low-brow nature of the production. There existed the possibility that whatever new formula Pink Malko she was drinking really was as good as it seemed. Perhaps it even had flavor! Dave, pitifully slouched on his bed, looked at the woman and concluded that she must, in fact, be enjoying her life more than he his.

That's really hard to read, and boring.
Like, you need to do something to keep your reader's attention, you need something that is actually interesting.
You are describing tv commercials from the perspective of Dave, who I have no reason to care about, and even less so about his opinions. Apparently, he is asexual or pretending to be with his celibacy.
After I finished reading this, I had to go back to read the first part again because I had already forgotten what it said at that point.
There is just nothing interesting there. If you want to write about sexuality, it should be exciting, there should be conflict. You are just describing the most boring things without giving us any reason to care.
Like, he could be asexual, but social pressures him into a relationship and he feels lost.
Or he could try to be celibate but is actually very much sexual. In that case, you should focus on his own reactions.
Also

>On the T.V., she didn’t really possess the persona Dave assumed of celebrity of her caliber would have.
What do you want to tell us with this sentence? It really does not say anything without knowing anything about Dave.
>She was a small woman somewhere approximate to Dave’s age
same here

Thank you for the input. Its a section from a larger short story about a future where the government mandates celibacy in people with deviant characteristics, but through chastity belts (Bloobs). I was thinking there are just parts where its boring, like just filler to get to the parts with meaning. Later in the story Dave meets Laura, who is a rare case of someone who isnt required to be celibate but is anyway and the public loves her for it. And the point of the scene was to provide an introduction of sorts, but I think you're absolutely right about this section not being interesting. Can you give me some examples on how to spice up prose so I can keep reader attention.

nothing happens

posting this doesn't make your work better, in fact, it makes it a lot worse

if you think its filler, cut it - its that simple

im not sure how it could be any worse honestly, but the reason i did the followup post was because the introduction of the topics has to happen. i just wanted to know what i could do to make it actually interesting.

>where the government mandates celibacy in people with deviant characteristics, but through chastity belts
Well, give the people what they are there for.
The most radical problem you will have with this book as a whole is that the people who are going to read it will go in with the following expectation:
>where the government mandates celibacy in people with deviant characteristics, but through chastity belts

Have the main character ACTUALLY be mad with lust and in a chastity belt forced by the government.
This could be great if done right (only I wouldn't want to have my name written under such a book).

The most important thing is to change the attitude of your main character in this point.
Have the chastity belts bring out the worst qualities in people.
Dave should unironically cum inside his pants during this scene.

Like:
Dave’s morning routine followed its patterns to a T, and he hated it. Unusually aggressive today, he was looking at the news and it focused on the prodigal procession following the arrival of Laura Ward. She was a small woman somewhere approximate to Dave’s age, she was meek-looking and had an aura solely of piety for her status as a trucel. But Dave didn't care. Something inside him, channeled his anger. And instinctively his hand moved towards his Blob. He scratched it. And that is when he came back to his senses.
He was in his office and about to do something he was not supposed to do... Something moved inside his pants. And with every second he started caring less and less about what his colleagues would think. Still, he cared. Silently, his hand began scratching his Bloob. And some more and more and more. His breath became shorter. But he was silent as death. Nothing could bring out a tone from him. And all the while the tv was still running,
The piece ended (with promise of future coverage) and was immediately followed by a Pink Malko commercial.
The female “star” of the commercial was an unapologetic volcel who sung praises about the levels of estrogen and the beauty of celibacy(god fucking damn it).
But it did not matter she was a woman. And she was singing, so he could make it quick. Dave increased the speed of his rubbing. If only the blob wasn't there, but whatever. Nature always finds a way. And so with all his might he was pulling at the blob and with blistering rage, finally, he felt that he had archived what he tried to do. It was a mess, but at least he can finish the work day now in peace. And no one saw... At least that's what he though.

I don't claim that I am a good writer, fuck me, but at least this should give you some Ideas.

Also, there should be lots of violence and people should regularly go postal. In that society. And it should all end with the government getting overthrown and the (female) president who implemented this law publicly raped by men freed from their chambers.

If you do something, always go ALL the way.

Thanks user, I actually really like what you suggested. I guess I'm kinda being a pussy because I don't want it to turn into just smut. But I think if I can make it a little more interesting than "sad man watches tv miserably".

You have to manage expectations, user.
The problem is that on top of the narrative as an author you have to also deal with the meta-narrative (a lot of people don't understand this).
And if you break with the meta-narrative you will make people angry.
A book about chastity belts is one of two things:
A tale about historically repressed sexuality in young adults.
Or
Complete and utter smut.

As soon as the audience learns that the main character is a middle-aged man, who on top of that is bored with his life and follows "his routine to a T", the meta 100% converges on this being pure smut - and the dirtiest variant of it.
In fact, you are tapping into cliches to a degree, that you couldn't even make it clearer that this is going to be smut if you had a picture of people having sex on the cover.
With that kind of meta, you can absolutely not have a story about "sad man watches tv", the people who read it will hate it because it will disappoint them.

I would suggest that you either scrap the chastity belt part and add something else like government mandated collars that suppress sexuality in the brain. That sounds similar, but paradoxically it does not carry the same expectations so it would probably be more fitting to the type of story you want to write.
Or you give the monkeys sugar.

Damn, ok. Maybe i'll try a super smutty version and one that tones it down, and see which one works better.

Half of this poem is cliches. We've had enough of poets contemplating the passing of the sun, and linking it to "a joy that cannot last" makes even more facile. Bitter balm and stale bread are blatant cliched images of romanticist and christian melancholy. Everything else is blah blah blah memento mori stuff. Read more late Yeats.

First bit of me recounting old memory's with random thoughts on life

pastebin.com/KfbyyeRc

Attached: 9pqsh0b2x1r01.jpg (960x768, 175K)

Ah. Theres a type in the first bit with the ages
twenty-one*twenty-one*twenty-one*twenty-one*

This is what I imagine what In search of Lost Time would have been if Camus wrote it.

Decent user. Grammar is bad in some parts. I felt like I was left with nothing though, needs more... substance?

pretty good

Short passage I just wrote for a creative writing class assignment:

pastebin.com/qSEW1MCM

Please tell me what you think sucks about it.

Thanks for not giving me any criticism at all you big homos

Life on earth is hell,
Consciousness is the tool, to school,
You can choose, you fool,
Free will and a beauty of this land and a clean slate,
What else do you need, to build your own fate,

Argue this and still believe in heaven,
Life is good but something better awaits,
Work hard, multiply , create your own prison,
Don't feel dread, appreciate the creation,

With hope fed comes true despair,
Where is my relief,
This better not be a test of belief,
For I don't know who else will provide me shade,
God , please pull me from this agonizing state

Brother, oh brother grant me your ear
The pain is intense,
She screamed, pulled her hair,
her face was hidden under a dark veil,
Stench of blood dispatched the aroma of incense,
The demon king rose, silenced her sisters wail

His command was followed without resistance,
Stop blenching like a new born,
You're sister of the king of all existence,
Respect this throne,
Silence your scorn
hurt, she was,
But silenced her mourn,
narrated the tale with aplomb

It is not I who bought shame to this great kingdom,
Hear my story with all your wisdom,
Two warrior sanyaasis,
Ridiculed, rejected, renounced me,
Cut my nose, spat on our family,
Seeked what should be mine,
That was my only crime,
Your name didn't carry any weight,
I was thwarteded by the wife of one of the ingrate,
That villainous wench,
Her beauty is unparalleled,
Her honor upheld,
My thirst of venegeance, must be quenched,
Oh great king, succour me,
Protect your name,
and the expanse of your claim

Demon king paused,
Collected his thoughts,
Without fear there is no reign,
Those two must be slain,
A King's name must be beyond reproach,
How dare two humans attacked what even gods couldn't broach,

Call my strongest warriors, act with haste,
Attacking my sister is an attack on me,
March to their ashram and lay it to waste,
King orders and men bleat,
Attack on you my king, death , those two will meet

Don't be a fool ,
his sister responded with a scowl,
Why use a lion ,
when a step of wolf can maul,
Music of flute is different from veena,
Be stealthy, act like hyena,
Attack the women ,
add her to you harem,
Make her your wife,
leave her protector somber,
Force them to ponder,
Repent their folly, cry and wander

Her words performed their magic,
Hunt for pride was stalled, lust was unfurled,

What happened after was tragic,
Was it lust, was it pride,
Or it happened as gods foretold,
No learnings are learned,
truth is concealed,
dance till the end ,
To the tune of destiny

bad

really bad

even worse than above

What should I do to not make it bad

which one are you

this reads like a shitty Saul Williams imitation

Try:

Fake and gay, fake and gay
You all are very fake and gay
Now I think I'll run away
And let you fags lick dick all day

Both of them are mine.

read Milton

Hm still a little disjointed

Try:

Fake and gay, fake and gay,
You all are very fake and gay
And now I think i'll run away
From you fags on dicks all day.

1. terribly adolescent. Tries to be intelligent but screams of inadequacy, of limited knowledge, and a teenage pretentiousness. Read more books. That way it will go.
2. I literally got bored at line 3. That should be all you need.

Both are derivative. Both are inexcusably poorly written. They are literal musings come forth from the front of your mind and each is insignificant. You need to read more. You need to practice form, rhyme, content, allusions.

not having "and" in the third line forces a pause that emphasizes the turn
also it mirrors the meter of the first two lines
and establishes the alternation of trochaic and iambic meter as the poem's form

yet having the and provides a sense of immediacy to running away from the fags which is infinitely more important

it's too light though
the trochees make it more forceful and judgmental
also your fourth line is metrically trash
never let the stress fall on a word like "from"

the stress on "from" has intrinsic importance to the whole piece for it firmly denotes that the subject is escaping, finally, from the fags that seek to ruin the day. What's further, if we use the repeated lines "fake and gay", we realize that the subject doesn't merely escape fags but also dishonesty, and thus becomes a more godly person.

>also your fourth line is metrically trash
i agree ;-; but its necessary to leave an unsatisfactory taste in one's mouth with it to allow the reader a sense of understanding that the subject escaped degeneracy and modern "decadence"

don't assume the reader is retarded enough to need any of that
and trash is always trash

don't assume the reader isn't exactly who you are writing for

condescending to the reader is always shitty
if we're speaking of this as literature

sometimes the reader needs to be condescended for it may be the only way for them to get it, I'm sure you don't understand so i'll explain. Imagine the bible was never written, and religion wasn't as big as it was in the west - how do you think... Oh wait, that's probably too much to understand

>degrade your text for the sake of idiots
fuck off, corporate tool
also, the Bible is a weird choice since it's an incredibly rich text with a complicated web of implications
that difficulty is a product of the richness that makes is as profound as it si

i knew you wouldn't understand...

He's being condescending to you, idiot.

We are the valiant Knights of Peace
Who prattle for the Right:
Our banner is of snowy fleece,
Inscrib'd: 'TOO PROUD TO FIGHT!'

By sweet Chautauqua's flow'ry banks
We love to sing and play,
But should we spy a foeman's ranks!
We'd proudly run away!

When Prussian fury sweeps the main
Our freedom to deny;
Of tyrant laws we ne'er complain;
But gladsomely comply!

We do not fear the submarines
That plough the troubled foam;
We scorn the ugly old machines -
And safely stay at home!

They say our country's close to war
And soon must man the guns;
But we see naught to struggle for -
We love the gentle Huns!

What though their hireling Greaser bands
Invade our southern plains?
We well can spare those boist'rous lands,
Content with what remains!

Our fathers were both rude and bold,
And would not live like brothers;
But we are of a finer mould -
We're much more like our mothers!

no shit
so I'm pointing out how stupid what he's saying is, demonstrating that condescending to readers gives you a shittier text

why even say this explicitly
i disagree. Sometimes you need to condescend the common man to allow them to feel frustrated and want to "prove you wrong" as it were

oh wait, u were trips, i concede to u, sir

then you're deliberately antagonizing your audience
give people an honest text that's not afraid to challenge them
most people will fall short of the truth of the text, but having a few reach the top is better than the many ascending a lesser peak

one motherfucker gets out of the cave
they help two motherfuckers get out of the cave
each helps two motherfuckers get out of the cave
each helps two motherfuckers get out of the cave

awful

some times
there is nothing
less lonely
than a little time alone

I missed the simplicity of youth--
where we would be in love forever
and that was that

Alone we live short rebellions of death,
together we defy it.

Walk towards the good in life
and one day you will arrive.

Mirror
mirror
on the wall
tell no more lies
of who we are.

are you copypasting rupi kaur poems, or are you just this basic?

The world's perception of you
exists only in memories.
Give them new ones.

> Atticus Poetry

Jesus fucking Christ how stuck up do you have to be

You set alight,
in my heart and mind,
the most beautiful chaos.

I'm shitposting Atticus because I'm too chickenshit to post my own stuff.

I mean:

I'm Atticus.
AMA.

-Atticus

I look around, and I see nothing. Or better yet, I do not see at all.
Somehow, the concept of "seeing" does not exist in this place. Where ever this might be. But lucky for me, my other senses are heightened, I am on the ground and I feel the cold sharp rocks stinging my hands. Everything smells like an ashtray that was left in the cold for a few hours. In the distance, I hear a voice talking but I can't understand the language, it's a deep voice, it sounds like a mountain that is trying to move.
I try getting up, but I hit my head on something. It hurts, I fall back on the ground. The rocks sting my whole naked body now, it hurts. I slowly get up again, I protect my head with my hand so that I don't hit anything. I start crawling forward. I need to escape this wretched place and return to a place where my more useful senses exist. My knees and hands get scrapped and I feel that I am bleeding slightly. Does not matter, I knew what I was getting into beforehand.
I have been crawling for some time now, and the voice in the background gets louder and louder with every step. I am almost at my destination, the voice now fills everything, the ground is resonating with it here.
I get worried, he might see me. I was expecting him to leave already. But well, I will wait here until he does.
Suddenly, the voice gets silent. I think that moving is in order, but before I can react to it, I feel a breeze approaching. A giant hand grabs me. Everything is over now.

cut out the but well

the does not matter read weirdly

Thanks for the suggestion, I will look over using expressions like that in the future.
What do you think about it besides that?
Also, I posted something similar before() any critique would be very much appreciated.

other than that it's ok, awful if this is the entire story. Doesn't really grip me or anything, kind of awkward use of language

>I look around, and I see nothing. Or better yet, I do not see at all.

better yet is weird and this opening sentence does not interest me

>I get worried, he might see me.

could probably remove the comma

reads like ESL to some extent

Would change some puntuation around and stuff like "when I actually should have died" which is just terrible and It's not dark and now light (no shit). use more contractions like can't instead of can not

>Something strange, something horrific

bad repitition

>I fall on the ground and start rolling around like a mad dog.

bad metaphor, dogs mad or sane don't do that

honestly both of them seem like they are trying to be horror but don't scare me at all and are pretty bad, no offense

Thanks for the critique.

>reads like ESL to some extent
Well, I am ESL, should I not write in English? Or what would you suggest in cases such as these? Anyway, I will take your suggestions regarding formulations and punctuations to heart.

>don't scare me at all and are pretty bad
Could you tell me more about why you feel like that? Because I don't really see how I can improve right now besides the issues above.

also, not "dark and now light" is a typo and was supposed to be "not dark nor light". Fuck me, I missed that.

I'm too afraid to crit anyone because my opinions are bad

For context this is a short story for a novel I'm working on

“The Swan’s Flu”
Farmer Nilus got up from bed.
“Morning, dog.” He did said.
The dog barked and Nilus carried on his day.
Farmer Nilus put on his hat.
“Morning, boy.” Nilus gave him a pat.
The boy grunted and Nilus carried on his day.
Farmer Nilus went to the lake.
“Morning, swan.” He said to it sleeping, hoping it wouldn't wake.
The swan coughed.
“Swan?” The farmer asked.
“I am sick, farmer.” The swan said.
“Wait here.” The farmer said and came back with a potato from his field. “Eat this.” The swan ate.
The swan’s stomach rumbled and its feathers turned grey.
“Farmer, what have you done?”
A bundle of maggots pierced from the swan’s belly and with a sharp cry the swan let out its song.
Merging from the carcass and its smaller kin was a glowing grub. Sprouting thousands of appendages, it rose into the sky above.
The lake once without a reflection, gained a mirror image.
As did all the natural mirrors throughout the world.
The grub then descended into the lake’s mirrored side. Encasing itself in the world behind.
And with that, the farmer said, “Did that swan talk?”

My promise...
To God, to country, to hopes and dreams
And for all to bask and praise the ways of our beloved, betrothed king.
Hail, all hail the God-given king.
I love him so, for my dick is enraptured by this brilliant status quo!
(Oh, oh!)

Whoa, settle down, make our hard work a burden
And digress my speech until I'm a gutteral horse-man.
I want to be played and delighted by him,
Who promises safety for freedom within.
(What nonsense!)
Oh, yes...
(What trite?)
In what sense?
(You know?)
Who does?

Despite my plans to the contrary of anarchy,
I deeply respect and resent you all the same.
I want you to see, I'm nice, and I'm clean,
And I believe in the same type of system we're in.
But you shall receive, all your freedoms and more,
Can't you just see we have to toil some more?
It requires some patience, some hard work and thought
To believe in the system that shouldn't be fought!
Why descend, why quibble, it's all just the same.
Live impoverished, but happy...
We don't want to fix what ain't broke.

Gave me a chuckle. Try not to be so vague near the end--"encasing itself in the world behind" is a pretty bad line, and doesn't make much sense.

how far do you have to get into writing a novel before it stops feeling shitty?

im 6.5k words in and Im just not happy with how it's coming out.

I like it.

"An Ode to Yea Forums"

Screech with rage and screech with hate
Screech and squeech from dawn 'til late
Make you hurt and make you cry
Make you suffer 'til you die
I hate you and you hate me
I must masturbate constantly

Reflections of an Imaginary Gallery

By keeping in mind
The message implied
By the mule’s head
Lowing through this field,
An intransitory question,
Of parsnips, pinks,
And hyacinths,

And how the shoulders’
Slump recalls
An absent chasm at
Its passenger’s back,

We anticipate
The straw man’s claims
Of the dangers inherent
In awe.

She is no monk of the beach,
Content to etch an active atmosphere,
His back against the crowd—
She’s heading down the mountain
Crowned with daffodils.

The child
Obscured by bundles
Is enough.

The cloying implication in
The uniform lilt of lilies
Puts a lid on expectation.

The city sits above
Its flickering image,
Some spots left bare
For textural affect.

Suppose the foliage knows
What it owes to pastel skies.

The cockatoo on the veranda
Only speaks Latin and Attic Greek,
And yet is conversational
With all things caught within
The immutable moment
Of our common art.

A crane mocks the audacity of dance
While it chants its mournful tune,
And one can’t help but begin
With a limited vision, all things rendered
Trompe l’oeil—

The clouds an impassible mass,
A skiff on the lip.

Not bad, but has a sort of choppiness that seems unintentional. Unless you're trying to discombobulate the reader, you might want to paint a slightly broader picture before adding in the tighter details. There are some clunky phrases as well, such as
>seemingly on the verge of exploding with anger
Probable you could give a more sensory description of the guy that conveys this more powerfully. Also
>her stomach was roiling like she was aboard a ship in stormy weather
Why not something a little more elegant like "aboard a heaving ship"
Not to be a Stephen King-fag but you could probably cut down on the adverbs a good bit; less telling, more showing.
And obviously "plot" wise I had no idea what was happening but I'm sure that's not the point.

If anyone wants to give mine a read I'd appreciate it, first thing I've written in literally years. I'm mostly curious if the voice is good, if its overly descriptive to the point of boredom, and if the style is utterly derivative.

pastebin.com/ZdkGbijz

>Well, I am ESL, should I not write in English?

probably just need more practice, it's not that bad, better than quite a few natives would do

I think there isn't enough information to make it scary, we don't know anything about the guy or what is going on, we don't know much about the creature or even that its dangerous until the end really

you just don't get it, bro
it's about Plato

I wrote this a while ago, haven't really polished it nor ever wrote any sort of context around it

"Every thought, of any degree of profundity, comes to me only as a whisper; like a gust of mild wind, briefly blowing in, then vanishing. I await a moment of eureka that will illuminate my mind like a fire in a dark room, yet all I get is but a spark. Confound it all! And why is it that this mind of mine, so prone to thoughts unique and questions unexplored, so idle in the moments of clarity that are granted to me? Is it an illness? Stillness? My mind is as clouded and troubled as Gautama's before he sat beneath the tree. Will meditation or reflection spark the fire that is to be my illuminant, or is it in darkness, with only brief respite, that my ponderances are condemned?"

God made a great many mistakes
when setting up his world.
He tried to play it cool and act
like women had unfurled

the evils we must eat. He paced
for hours around his throne
and tried to think who he might blame
for what the fruit had shown.

He snapped his holy fingers twice
and history danced on
into times when he was forgot,
and his son's words were gone.

He sighed and thought the worst was past,
at least that was until
a sodden angel placed a prayer
upon his windowsill.

It was signed by a girl who he
had forgotten to give
anything but sorrow, and yet
had sent her out to live.

He trembled, moaned, and even spat--
he cursed the girl all day.
Because God for once in his life
did not know what to say.

Sounds like someone who thinks he is a secret genius but is actually just average person unable to comprehend that most people's experiences of their minds are just as deep as his. Also dense with like 30 visits to the thesaurus and with the voice of someone LARPing as some kind of gay elven scholar.

decent. but kinda whatever need more to really judge

Attached: 46583416_172037230421693_2725175943707097376_n.jpg (320x320, 20K)

I'm assuming you're in your teens, since that's the kind of shit I wrote in my teens. Keep writing, you'll get better, especially once you stop finding cliches to be moving.

You and I
Are just like
Fries in the microwave;
They never taste the same
Once rewarmed.

t. American

Lmao tries to attempt humour in a reductionist way but only displays limited writing style peak lmaooooo u suck lmaoooooo u mad u suck lmaooooo

I realy like it as a collection of words and some of the phrases and small images. But it's too obfuscated, or maybe I'm just a retard.

that's a really elaborate wojak, i'm stealing it

That's because, unironcally, channers have nothing to say. Bunch of autistic virgins who come from white middle class parents? These are the kind of guys who skipped prom to smoke weed or because they didn't have a gf. Now replace "prom" with any life event.

In addition, this place is an echo chamber just as any other community. Anons praise writing that is equally vapid and baroque to their own, and the cycle of nothing-art continues. Look at any post where an OP "explains" his work. It's all incredibly shallow bullshit: "I was trying to convey the boredom and ennui of X," or, "I was trying to portray the ideal woman and what she ought to do." There is no sublimity in any of it. There is no struggle. There is no arc of pressure and release.

look at typical Yea Forums hogwash: the naming of the time of day, naming of the Month, incredibly boring monosyllabic rhyme scheme, inconsistent punctuation, abstractions like "love" and "death." Lots of "poem words" like "eternal," "shadow," "bitter," etc. I bet that user thought he was doing something clever, when in fact he's just aping whatever Victorian he was reading yesterday as if he made some great discovery of a 150-years-old style. I can't say it grinds my gears. It doesn't. But it's such a slog. I haven't heard a consistently original voice on this board since Kolsti.

>That's because, unironcally, channers have nothing to say. Bunch of autistic virgins who come from white middle class parents? These are the kind of guys who skipped prom to smoke weed or because they didn't have a gf. Now replace "prom" with any life event.
Literally me.

i literally can't read these stories about losers. nobody wants to hear about how much of a loser (you) are. we come to literature to escape our problems, not have them spat back into our face. you may call this an escapist opinion. I call it aesthetics

>took a shot
>next thing I see
very stupid idea to change tense when you want to convey a seamless transition. in fact, changing tenses anywhere is usually a bad idea with the sole exception of a narratorial interjection, which stands outside the plot

>dick is enraptured by this brilliant status quo
>dick
dropped. stop trying to impress channers. stop trying to be edgy. write with conviction and sincerity, because irony is so passe and because irony allows you to be content with mediocrity and wasted words

read i liked it

that's really nothing at all--not even a full first chapter. get to 10k and see how you feel. also edit

Life was bad for a while and it got really good all of a sudden, but I found myself unable to enjoy it's being good because I know great difficulty will be here soon.

That struck me as a fairly universal experience and so I wrote a little poem about it. I was encouraged by a Hopkins poem that used a similar metaphor. An earlier poem of mine had the line "unseen is the precipice, that undergirds the glow" while later, I found Hopkins used the lines "Oh the mind, mind has mountains, cliffs of fall..."

Is teetering on a cliff an original metaphor? Not at all. The magic of a poem is often in the deployment of the idea, not the idea itself.

I would consider it far more pretentious to write a poem that one assumes is visionary and truly unique, than to write little exercises for writing books.

Who is being haughty here? Me, posting an unoriginal poem out of a sincere and unoriginal feeling, or you posting an unoriginal critique out of a desire to best what all stinks of amateurism?

It's not so much that I suck, it's that you feel the need to be in a position to say so.

-2/10
get a better title. also toplel at sincerely trying to integrate "straw man" into a poem.

for the love of god stop rhyming. this is not good rhyme. I don't mean it's not good as in--you can perfect it, or, you can do better. I mean--rhyme is beyond you. at least for right now. just stop.

That's cute, that you offer up work for anons to critique, and as soon as you meet resistance, resort to some cobbled defense like "I was being unoriginal," as if you had a choice, or "I was being sincere," as if insincerity ever produced anything good, or, "it's just a little exercise, it has no ambitions," as if you had no ambition to be praised when you posted it. Why don't you man up? Take responsibility for your work. Make it the best it can be. When someone critiques it harshly, don't retreat and say, "well, I don't want it to get better. I like it the way it is." No--that's bullshit. That's the mindset of someone who is in love with mediocrity and in love with the praise of laymen.

There is nothing wrong with an unoriginal critique of an unoriginal poem. However, there is a great deal wrong with an unoriginal poem. Are you aware of the phrase, "All feedback is good feedback?" That's what you're dealing with when you enter the arena of critique.

As for me, you almost hit the nail on the head. I don't feel a need to demonstrate my superiority. I'm quite comfortable with it, and it comes out naturally, which aint my problem.

Not all people escape it through literature. Some people build in it. Why is reading about Raskolnikov entertaining? His depravity is the main focus of C&Ps exposition of him, and it was contributory.

I think, in order to critique a poem, you must demonstrate a comprehension of its intended meaning.

A lot of poems that get posted here are meaningless- they are just words arranged to appear meaningful.

Since meaning is often subtle, it is frustrating to read amateurs anonymously. You often cannot tell if there is a point or not, and it's often unclear of a poem is worth the time to try and decode (what if there is nothing to decode after all?).

When I review poems here I often ask people "does this actually have a point and if so what?"

Attached: 20190224_231516.jpg (4128x3096, 3.29M)

very good, user, I like the dialogue at the end a lot

>in order to critique a poem...
You are wrong. Comprehension is not necessary to critique. If that were the case, the most incomprehensible poetry would be above reproach. This is a mantra that is parroted by the same amateurs you claim to discern. And it's because amateurs aspire to write the poem that can't be criticized. Thus, they write the poem that is most incomprehensible, most obscured by curlicues and grand lexicons, which are nothing more than masks for their ignorance of the art.

I always love when people post poems by well known poets in these threads without attribution. It had humbled me more than once. I said EE Cummings was an idiot and Emily Dickinson was mediocre.

The Dickinson poem I called mediocre has since be one one of my all time favorites.

Reviewing poetry when you are completely blind to authorship is extremely challenging.

The first thing I do when critiquing a poem here is to try and discern if it is an actual poem or something meant to look like a poem. I have a pretty good eye for that I think.

unbridled pseudery. people who do that are only seeking to validate their sinking opinion of Yea Forums after they got assblasted in the comments section

Gag Order

Like a naked mouth
Salivating to speak
My tongue is trapped between my teeth
and my lips
are barriers which part
for nonsense and
wine-colored outpourings

I pour swill down that passage
To loosen up the secrets that
I swear are kept from daylight
But I surface empty,
Drunk,
Still curious down to the diaphragm
with a passing survey of my heart;
A hot heart yearning,
Burning hot, a heart my own.

Rain pattered the sopping awning above his head. He sat, soaked on the balcony, watching little rivers tumble off the edge. Beyond lay the whole of the city, glowing orange and blue and purple. Across the street, a guy and a girl huddled underneath an umbrella at the bus stop.
She phased through the front door. “I called the locksmith,” she said, jittering. This kind of weather interfered with her a bit, and being outside the apartment, away from her unit, made it hard to refresh in real time.
“Thanks.”
She sat down next to him. “I’m sorry.”
Her hand laid on his thigh. It hovered a few micro-inches above, and even though he was freezing and numb, he could still feel the hairs on his leg raise up in response to the hollow promise of a touch.
The girl across the street was laughing, a light sound, like tinkling glass. She leaned into the guy. He rested his chin on her head.
He turned back to her. She was drenched now too, her hair hanging in sad, wet strands—great verisimilitude. One of a kind, really.
“C’mere.”
He brought her in close, and she laid her head on his chest. He closed his eyes for a moment.
“You’re wearing my sweater,” he said.
“It’s warm.”
A soft smile tinged up the corners of his cheeks, rosy and stiff from the rain. Across the street, the bus arrived.

Attached: A Note to the Simulacrum.png (443x232, 13K)

Yeah, I agree that it's a little all over the place...that's been a major challenge with this piece, and I see that there's still work to be done on that aspect.
I've been writing for a little bit but I never did titles before, so yeah, I suck at coming up with titles. I'll try some other ones...

poor attempt at humour

i feel bad for your parents

this
the fact that you admit this at least shows you're not totally far gone but you're a huge fucking pseud

There was a church at the far end of the street the Prestons lived on. The street was at the hidden end of a small grid of four, with one powder-rock thoroughfare running in and out of the hamlet, nestled away in the corner of the state. At one time, Paul, before his grandson had been born, had been in that church every Sunday. Before his children had been born, he was still singing hymns, and when he first purchased the lot that he built his home on, he had bought extra paint. A house of God deserved better than to rot, he told his wife. That house of God delivered its final service on Paul Preston's sixtieth birthday. He was slumping in discomfort on the cold wooden pew. Vera Preston (née Smythe), his high school sweetheart and closest companion, sang the church's last hymn with full throated fervor beside him. Between her and the aisle sat their son, leaning back with baggy eyes, and their daughter, quietly holding the youngest Preston in her lap. He was a well behaved baby. It was his first time in a church, around all that singing and noise, and he never stirred. It was his first time outside the capital. Vera said he was taking to the country air. That it was part of his stock, like his mother and uncle. He stayed quiet as the family rose for Father Kelly to close out the service.
When the family had walked in that morning the sky was littered with clouds. Now, leaving, the sun shone bright out of a blue that stretched from the yellow plains in the west to the eastern highway, dotted with townhouses and alive with rolling trucks. It was hot, and Paul was thirsty, as his son looked to be. All that sweat. And Martin isn't the old man in a tweed jacket. If his grandfather could see him wearing that in a church he'd cane the boy. But it's a different time, thought Paul. At least he's here. And with his sister home too, for now. Grace Preston turned out of the glare to check her phone, her baby bouncing happily in one arm. Paul smiled at his grandson. Happy birthday to me, he thought. He has Grace's eyes.

As a literal autist, I draw on the objects of my obsession, and also life experiences in which my literal autism comes into play...well, that's pretty much all of them, but you get the point...but I don't want it to be like "waaah look at how autistic I am" so I make it more subtle than that...I really don't want to be an "autism poet".

Anyone from India here? Or someone who understands Sanskrit or hindi?

littered with clouds is a cliche, pretty good otherwise though

Heres the beginning of a short story Im writing

pastebin.com/z1DANG0B

>poem closes with a preposition
End your posts and delete your life

death post

what if it doesn't feel any better by that point?

i know Im going to have to scrap basically everything I've written so far, but its starting to worry Ill make it all the way to the end and it will still suck

I'm the user who wrote and I'm trying to come up with a better title. I guess I'll just whisper some into the void:
Gallery of Clouds
Pictures Without Walls
Wandering Images
Pedestrian Images
Museum of Memories
Wandering Still
Still Life Wandering
Thoughts on Static Images

Again, I suck at titles, but please let me know if you like any of these, or at least prefer them to the one I used above.

Can someone give me feedback on this? It's in spanish.
La clase de mediodía había terminado. Los estudiantes de la facultad de negocio se hallaban de mala gana en el teatro universitario. Una conferencia acerca de la importancia del liderazgo en el ambiente laboral estaba siendo impartida por un empresario de la ciudad.
El teatro estaba oscuro. Las únicas lámparas encendidas iluminaban al alto y rizado conferencista, que se esforzaba por mantener cautivada a la audiencia flagrantemente impaciente porque diera fin a su ineficaz discurso.
Apenas habían pasado 20 minutos desde el inicio de la conferencia cuando Luis se retiro de la sala, rompiendo brevemente la oscuridad del teatro al abrir la puerta para salir.
Un pequeño grupo de estudiantes de distintas carreras lo siguieron silenciosamente y una vez fuera del teatro se marcharon por rumbos distintos, algunos de ellos acompañados de otro fugitivo. Al salir del teatro la luz de la tarde lo ofuscó y el viento frio de noviembre le beso las mejillas y despeino su cabello, que ahora le cubría parte de su frente. Era una tarde mas fría y soleada de lo que había previsto. Ahora estaba fuera de los gruesos muros del teatro y la multitud de estudiantes y docentes dentro, fue sustituida por escasos grupos de estudiantes y palomas dispersas fuera.
Pero, ¿para qué había salido?, ¿qué haría ahora? las clases habían acabado, no había traído un libro, ni tenía asuntos ni quehaceres pendientes en su solitario departamento. Por un momento pensó en volver a la calidez de la sala, con su miserable declamador, con su estúpida filosofía de trabajo y con la inane motivación fugaz que causaría en su público. Fue solo durante un momento, pues, en seguida reconoció a un joven sentado en el tercer peldaño de la escalera al teatro, bajo la exigua sombra que proyectaba el edificio al sol del mediodía. Tenía una rodilla sobre la otra y una copia del Señor de las moscas en las manos. Absorto en las paginas, parecía no advertir al hombre parado oblicuamente a su espalda. Luis se acerco a él y lo saludo con liviano entusiasmo, aun a su espalda. El joven guardo el libro en la mochila tendida a su costado sin voltear a verlo. Se incorporó y le estiro un apretón de manos.
Las manos del joven eran grandes y duras, pero sin llegar a ser callosas ni incomodas. En cambio, las de Luis tenían una cualidad de suavidad semejante a la seda.

This is a collage of poetic cliches.It reads like an AI pasted together a bunch of classic lines.

Never right

My soul shatters into shiny shards,
each is splintered but some lucky parts,
still more whole than other wailing hearts,
hope for fates less lonely cards.

Unseen sides reveal in time,
realize the truth divine,
bit by bit the bits combine,
what was lost to time is mine.

I emerge anew, reborn,
all my parts are whole once more,
nothing yet is as before,
my form changed forevermore.

Now I stand as a new whole,
still, don't fit in ordained hole,
crying tears of missing role,
and so I shatter my hurt soul.

middleschool nightwalker diary-core

ouch.
But why middle school? Could have said, edgy /r9k/ faggot tier, would be nicer...

It reeks of adolescent narcissism and ">reads Poe once".
I'm not trying to be mean; these threads are useful to writers because of the brutal honesty you'll get.

You're gay.

Yes, these threads are extremely useful. And I want the bluntest and most honest criticism I can get.
I just want to ask if you are criticizing the content or the style and structure by saying it is "middle school"-tier.
What about the style, do you think it's bad?

>adolescent narcissism
and
>something actually deep and meaningful
seems actually so close together, that I don't really understand what differentiates the two. Or better yet, I can name it when I see it, but I couldn't point out what caused it. Could you?

Both the form and content. Hence the ">reads Poe once" remark. It feels like you're aping something you thought was deep and meaningful rather than plunging your own soul for worthwhile content. Read the fuck out of everything, various eras and styles and shit, and then you'll start developing a more mature and authentic voice.
You shouldn't approach the page like "how can I make this sound/be deep and meaningful"? That's how to come off insufferably pretentious and contrived. Study things, whatever you're into. Think about things. Many good, successful comedians just think things, like a normal person, and when they have a funny thought they write it down and develope it into a joke. Try approaching poetry like that. Give your brain some fuel and just think; the pieces you can then shape into poetry should pretty much just fall out of you.

>It feels like you're aping something you thought was deep and meaningful rather than plunging your own soul for worthwhile content
That's 100% exactly what I did. Thanks for the advice.

>the pieces you can then shape into poetry should pretty much just fall out of you.
Thank, I will try that. It will probably be an awkward topic, but I'll type it up and post it.

Who is the foul?

Structure seeps through my window,
parts, remarkably similar to how I would write,
yet somehow it's awkward,
the order is hollow, corrupt,
it's irregular, not how it's meant to be.
Why couldn't the ones who created it have learned from me?

Yet they were here before, I am the foul,
maybe it's me who's not getting the rule?
Maybe the old ones with their clear sight,
saw gods work in a light,
that is just too bright,
for me to make sense out of it.
Maybe it is just that I can't understand what is right.
Maybe their passion was just beyond mine,
and my desire to learn is not worth the price.

So, here, now I did it again, I just wrote about what is bothering me at the moment.

u mad cuz really can't write? no future no life

This is already better than your other one. Frankly, you still have a long road ahead of you, but you're moving in the right direction. Keep it up.
You're much more receptive to criticism than many people, particularly in these threads, and that will help you grow. Keep writing, keep learning, keep growing.

We butt-fucked on the bed. I suppose, in a way, we weren't really butt-fucking: on the contrary, our bodies were enmeshed, as it were, like a corpse left out to rot becomes indistinguishable from its earthen tomb after a period of time. Where my shaft ended and his rectum began - no one knows! There wasn't any of that poetic sensuality you always hear being discussed. Ours was a crude act, an unabashed phenomenon strung along a winding chord, only to snap into place at the climax, for it is then that all sense returns. After our parlay - if I may be permitted to describe it as such - he asked if I wanted to hang out, maybe get something to eat. It was only upon hearing his near-whimpering voice that I began to feel angry, disgusted even, and I immediately expressed a desire to leave. My walk back to the dorm proved unbearable; I clutched, nauseated, to the railing on the steps, appearing in and out of a brute cognition of facts. I was unsure if I wanted to vomit or scream or maul a stranger to death.

Thanks, I will do just that!

Why don't I move?

Time passes,
I archive nothing,
time passes,
I still do nothing,
nothing special,
nothing interesting,
maybe something could have been done in time?
maybe something could have changed in time?
But no. It's still the same.
Nothing changed,
nothing is done,
nothing moved.
I still sit here,
I still know where I need to be,
I still know where I need to go.
Yet I still sit here,
why am I not moving?
why am I sitting here?
It gets boring to sit here,
yet I'm still sitting here.
something needs to change, I need to get moving...