OC Thread

>In an instant the girl HAS standing so close

I literally just wrote this, we're below even the level of a rough draft here.

I like it, user. Mr Bryce has a good voice to him, and I'd like to hear more of him conversing with Willy. Id be interested to read the full finished story

I rather like this.

I would vary your sentence length more (ie more short, blunt sentences) and watch some word choices. I know it's intentional but some of the antiquated, erudite words and formality are just awkward IMO and read more like pastiche.

Here's my nonsense:

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.

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-Atticus

What kind of horrible masochistic anti-aesthe puts ice INTO champagne

that’s the point— people who don’t drink champagne

the puffing of your language makes it actively worse

if you're going to begin on "Let us" make it count, make it weird.

seriously considered either more or less cussing, is a trope in early writing you'll generally want to break from

be more direct with your content, it'll go a long way in displaying the competence of your verse

i get the want to play with silt/silk, but to only call it like that *for* the sake of the sound shows bloat in the poem and somewhat muddles the image

find ways to display the childhood joy in form, consider childish rhyme

The first line is an allusion to the Upanishads.
There's only one cuss, so less would be none at all. Also, having a lot of cussing kills the feeling.
Most of my stuff is much more direct; this is more of an experimental piece for me.
Thanks for the feedback.

LETS FUCK

LOL

LETS FUCK

HAHA

I LOVE TO FUCK

HAHA

SUCK ME OFF

HAHA

punk/10

I need me a yellow-bone bitch
slim-thick honey w/ ice 'round her wrist
call me chubby checker do the muhfuckin twist
come here bitch n give my butthole a kiss

this is a poem I wrote yesterday which I would like feedback on.

Attached: Capture.png (416x642, 38K)

I like some of it but hate myself for liking it.
>Your lovely poetry
>Does tenfold to mine
>Cruel you will not write our love as I do
structured well.

And here's one I wrote today. Any responses would be great.

Attached: Capture.png (195x850, 21K)

thanks user. why do you hate yourself for liking it? i'm always self-conscious that it'll be to instagram poetry-y but i also don't like purposely obscuring my things just to make it look less instapoetry-y

I've posted this before but I didn't really get much feedback, any criticism would be appreciated.

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.

>why do you hate yourself for liking it
If I acknowledge others have talent I want to kill myself.

What do you do when your flower starts to wilt and die

When everything pleasureful escapes the eye

Nothing changes nothing goes only the howling of the wind in an empty home

Too much water; too much rain, too much soil, too much pain

If I crush it now; I may leave

If I watch it die; I will bleed

pls put stuff in your poems

I like this a lot. However I would change the last few lines, maybe even just cut them and swap the last two stanzas.

(I don't write anymore I just post old stuff)

Nothing like I want to be; my fingers can't move the way I want them to

Nothing like I want to be; my brain doesn't think the way I see it to

Nothing like I want to be; my world doesn't work the way I need it to

Nothing like I want to be; my path only corrodes the way I walk it

I'd climb out of the bucket

Invisible jaws clench my foresight

Keep me where they want to be

No where that I want to be

Nothing like I want to be

The world doesn't seem to be

about me

If it can burn without me

It can turn without me

Everything I want to be so close

yet so far from the parade

I'd walk away but

I'm just as much a part

of it as it is a part of

me the parade we created

to celebrate our favorite days

but they mean nothing

to the ones they hurt

and destroyed

they'd walk away if they could

but they are dead

now we killed them yesterday

celebrate it today in the parade

Just the way I want it to be

Keep on burning

You'll turn the same

as you want to be

just as you don't

want

to be

what have you written user? i get jealous too when people i know just seem so much more skilled than me. but I don't write because I want to be good, I write because I want to say something for myself.

I don't like posting my writing, and the last thing I wrote was over a year ago.
I've never wrote anything for somebody else to read it, I don't care about being good.

I can't sleep, what time is it? I leap out of bed like a comet and haul open the door. The microwave in the kitchen reads 3:40, well. Waiting to get tired won't work. I want to go to the swimming pool. It's something I've been thinking of doing for a few days now. I open the pantry and get out the plastic container full of vibabrits (not weetbix!). I unclasp the first binder, it makes a clicking sound that is much louder than normal in the early morning quiet, I don't want to wake the dogs. The next two binders I undo simultaneously, 4 vitabrits and some milk. I hunch over and begin to eat, lit only by candlelight it's rather medieval. I think about turning on my computer but I don't want to ruin my night vision, so I use my phone. Turning down the brightness with my eyes half closed I check what time the pool opens, 5.30.

That's much earlier than I expected, I was thinking something like 6.30 or 7.00, though I remember Jack quit swimming because he had to get up at like 5am in the morning so I guess it makes sense. I grab my backpack and get dressed, but not before looking up the temperature on my phone and confirming by walking around in my backyard for a minute. As I near the front door I hold my breath, the dogs practice constant vigilance. As I turn the key in the lock Zoey emits a gruff challenging grunt and sparky follows up with a baying rapid fire machine gun, I've been rumbled. I hear my mother tell the dogs to be quiet as she gets out of bed, she also practices constant vigilant. Not wanting to have to explain where I'm going I finish turning the lock, don't waste time locking it and stride out the door and around the corner, I check over my shoulder to see if she follows, she doesn't

Will critique later

I am tempted by the bright darkness in the fruits of your being,
Those oceanic globes that call me ‘cross the sea
to find knowledge and experience which may weigh heavy on my shoulders;
What lies behind their depths? How am I their citizen?

I swim and search between the isles of your affection
for the fabric of maya hidden in archipelago.
I cannot see beyond your eyes.
I cannot hear beyond your lips.
But I pray my passion rightfully placed

>wrote this for a girl I've been seeing, want some criticism before i send it to her (I've sent her poetry before, she loves it when i do that).
Should I add more to it, or does it stand on its own?

No rhyme no read

Terrible dialogue read David mamet

This has some good meter. It sounds good, for sure.

You may want to incorporate some more concrete details because you have a good amount of abstractions (which aren't always bad, ie with Walt Whitman, but i think you may benefit from adding more). I want to be able to empathize with what you're writing but there's just not enough detail there to ground me in it.

Not constructive but ok

it's now 2 stanzas, thanks for the advice

>silt/silk
Actually, i just wanted to describe how soft silt feels between your toes. It kinda does feel like silk

>childish rhyme
Now that's an excellent idea. Thanks for the constructive feedback.

I did that, good idea. I have a problem with spoon-feeding the point too often, and i think this poem does better without those last lines. Thanks

Okay I get that you're trying to write about depression here, but, like... There's no real substance here. It's just "i'm sad and things suck". I don't empathize with this because it just feels like complaining. It doesn't impart me with the feeling of being depressed, you know? It just sounds like something Eeyore would say in Winnie the Pooh

Where does it go wrong for you? The very beginning or when he's talking to the apparition because that's supposed to be awkward since he's drunk and she's from far in the past.

Good criticism. Thanks.

Dare you promise me loyalty,
Flesh, most hateful thing?
The daily toil shreds our bark
And exposes your inherent will
For deep within you, a crucifix that marks
"host of sorrows, betrayer's sin".

Dare you promise me guidance,
Mind, you lowly beast?
A moment of compliance
It strays back into instint's mist
If it's discipline all you understand
Promise me not your cowardly hand.

Dare you promise me resilience,
Soul, frailest among the three?
Your light dawns ever closer to horizon
Until it becomes charred by and idle sea
Your reflection trapped on the surface
A mirage of patience and reason.

If man is to be vexed
In both body and spirit in kind
Is it not righteously desired
it's war against nature's cruel design?
Or is this thesis I state
fill with rancor, in bad faith?

For those who seek a virtuous way, I say
To know but pleasure, we were not made,
An anthem of worship, a word of praise,
Impaled worm, the feast, the bait,
Heroes folly, the gorgon's gaze.

Cast a sword with molten iron,
Quell it's thirst with wellspring tears,
Glory and struggle, left forgone,
Soon it crumbles, prey of years.

Once again, crude sizzling iron,
Its sole respite a gust of wind
Hardened steel, you'll come upon,
Resolve and strength, they lie within.

Grauhesch leers from his chamber, unbidden,
as we slink the shade of his view, unseen.
Grey king abed in his prison, unchained—
as fear far stricter bids us silent.
That courtly mock: a wrinkled brow in thought,
arrayed in bulbous and reaching flesh,
scornful wet facsimile of our own.
What hubris took hold and drove us here—
to cower before the insensate?
Long severed and silenced and bound but still,
the echo remains and shackles in turn.
Foul prophet those mouthless lines to lay,
not in mist and shadow but statute and stone.
What fault but ours, and ours alone?

You seem very fond of breaking lines in odd places, but you should scrutinize each such instance to see if it actually serves to enhance the meaning of the lines and piece overall, or if you're just doing it out of habit. I'm seeing about a 50/50 split between good ones and seemingly pointless ones.

The piece of advice you just gave is trash, dude you are replying to is hopeless.
Your poem on the other hand is fantastic.

How's the dude hopeless? I liked some of the lines in the poem.

I know this has been touched on, but dig deeper! This reads like how someone who read up on what being depressed feels like would write about depression. Tell me YOUR experience. Make it specific, personal. That's how it becomes easier to identify with

the first stanza, IMO, is stronger than the second stanza

I really appreciate this kind of criticism. I've never shared anything so I just found something random in my folder. Now when I look back at my writing I can see i'm not really creating, i'm just divulging, and poorly at that.

First time trying stream of consciousness. Went back and cleaned it up.

#

Through the valley of darkness, I shall remain. No man, nor woman, shall speak to me or call my name. For I am entombed in this world; as I was in the one before. I have gone beyond to a space and time where no mortal soul rests. Where all the anger and pain of lives gone past flash before me like thunder in the dark. I hear no words, joy, or the grace of God’s heavenly sensations within my void. I feel no dirt beneath me, or scent within the air around me. Only the inner voice remains. For how long, I do not know. Connotations to time that may serve as an anchor are lost. I speak with myself, but the words fall short and distort. In stillness, distant cries resemble the souls of the damned. Though I fear what I hear is me; and what listens to me is myself. Illusions grow as silence turns eternal, and the veil between what is real and what is not vanish. No rites are here – nor any earthly pleasures or spiritual pains. Only the conscious mind remains; a damnation unimaginable.

>Went back and cleaned it up.
??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Just grammar and spelling mistakes, not the content.

Stream baby, stream. The grammar, or lack of, should be apart of the stream.

Freshly improvised for the thread demanding talent present itself at once:

If the Muse presents unmasked, maybe.
If the mood is also opportune,
the weather featuring fine scent,
the sounds predominantly instrumental

Yet suggestive of a heady rut,
Such must exalt the sense involved
Less awkwardly than logic does if stripped

Of shades felt, the heft of ecstasy.
Not too shabby for what it is, though I fear this isn't the place for suave tableaux of wicked old seraphim.

Poem's poem

Far away and long ago
Like stars and empty boats,
Gentle waves move to and fro -
Through empty throats.

Maybe you should focus more on everyday stuff and feelings. Avoid abstractness, rather paint concrete scenes. Improvise something with that in mind.

Lofty abstraction is my bag, unless I'm being nutty. Between rhapsody in elevated diction and madcap grotesque, people always prefer me in the latter mode, ornately savage. What I need is an object of scorn to get going, and then there is no stopping me. But I find it almost painful to raise a laugh that way. Some day I may be whole again, my mind more on Earth's middle-ground of green, and be capable of pastoral.

Ahahahha ohnononono oh no

Agreed; previous drafts had more good line breaks but I fucked some of them up in the editing process. I should find fixes for the problems I serve that preserve those breaks, and improve the ones that never were anything special. Thanks!

The sunshine is fleeting,
Orange glow falling, fading
Into the horizon, crawling night chasing
The running warmth.

The glow runs from the ice
Upon which my knees, palms rest, eyes
Pointed beyond the glass veil into the black,
Searching for the invisible bottom.

It's good but very shallow no imagery you have to let poetry escape you; the poet sees imagery the writer sees narrative.
First stanza is not bad second seems forced especially some of the words, very fixed don't be afraid to let it be simple I find some words can separate the poems stream
I liked it but very abstact, flows nice, just needs some grip if you will.

Here's the first few pages of a book i'm writing
. I'm still on the whim of the story but the memories are being written first so I'll have to time to resolve my indecisiveness. My professor is currently helping me with the plot and ripping out some unnecessary things(I have tons of pages of memories being written the novel will be too long if I keep it up :/) .
But he has yet to review this bit so feel free to tear it up.

pastebin.com/KfbyyeRc

Attached: tumblr_obmdaxh5ZK1r46u25o1_540.gif (540x405, 95K)

Also my first language is not english so sorry if some parts just some out of place my friend helped me translate it, it was originally in Spanish.

Attached: MV5BMjE1NzA4NzkyM15BMl5BanBnXkFtZTYwMTAyNDc2._V1_.jpg (475x309, 41K)

Like a baby pessosa focused about being a teenager with some low tier emily dickinson/virginia woolf feel.In your original post you said it was about a teenager who does opiods, if hes on opiods when writing that part then sure its alright,decent but if not it needs brushing up either way

>second seems forced especially some of the words, very fixed
This is criticism i've received multiple times. Can you be more specific?

I really appreciate it, by the way. Definitely trying to improve my craft

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

I like it a lot. It reads almost like a prayer, which I'm assuming is intentional. Can you post more?

Attached: Daydream.png (805x610, 75K)

That it leaves us
Is enough. There are fires
That blow us out.
Standing in a glass museum,
The wounds occur to you.
It is enough
To admire
How the game hangs.
The body was so long in life.
They stained its balance,
Beautiful,
To tame the lucent dance.

The name
Is the guest-friend of form.
Whose face is this
That makes its way
Into my own reflection
As the stoic water daily
Fills this cup?

Peaches, rough,
In tones of stone,
Still drips from lips
When bitten.
What is it that lifts
This chin?

When the wind
turns and asks, in my father’s voice,
Have you prayed?

I know three things. One:
I’m never finished answering to the dead.

Two: A man is four winds and three fires.
And the four winds are his father’s voice,
his mother’s voice . . .

Or maybe he’s seven winds and ten fires.
And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching,
dreaming, thinking . . .
Or is he the breath of God?

When the wind turns traveler
and asks, in my father’s voice, Have you prayed?
I remember three things.
One: A father’s love

is milk and sugar,
two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and what’s left over

is trimmed and leavened to make the bread
the dead and the living share.

And patience? That’s to endure
the terrible leavening and kneading.

And wisdom? That’s my father’s face in sleep.

When the wind
asks, Have you prayed?
I know it’s only me

reminding myself
a flower is one station between
earth’s wish and earth’s rapture, and blood

was fire, salt, and breath long before
it quickened any wand or branch, any limb
that woke speaking. It’s just me

in the gowns of the wind,
or my father through me, asking,
Have you found your refuge yet?
asking, Are you happy?

Strange. A troubled father. A happy son.
The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one.

why r we eating dust

th is is shite.
nobody knows what a peach or an orchard is or how a flower blooms stop
using overly romantic late 17th century imagery

When first your born, a light is shown
And love is thrust upon you.
Summer days that last so long,
Until you hear your mothers call,
Sleep devours you.

Then you grow and realise,
The world is strange and so unkind.
There you stand and wither its scorn, days pass by without a thought.

Then you stop and realise,
Your hair has greyed and your mother died,
And of those days gone behind, the light extinguished, alone you cry.

Of the days that you survived, only in memory do you feel alive.

>I'm a pleb and don't know basic things, therefore your writing's shit

I like the first bit

I dream of birth in a different place
Or a different time - a time of war
At times enlisted, at others drafted
And my mother cries as my father sighs
"Perhaps it will make a man of the lad"

The uniformed picture I leave behind
Portrays me better than ever in life
I die a hero, unloved but remembered
Taken by that first bullet I see
On a sunny afternoon in late August
On a muddy field in northern France
So much blood

why should anyone read this when Wilfred Owen's stuff exists

They shouldn't, I wrote it after reading a post on Yea Forums

Goddess bless my own labia beef
And spirit our cunts from sexual grief
Though soggy and soiled our snatches and flaps
There is no part so holy as our va-jay-jay gaps
We seek only phalli that draw such applause
Without foreskin or blemish or circulatory flaws
Into our vaginal maws we stuff them to gorge
And deliver the Fempire by this our yonic forge

The day
Is spent.

Bluebells
Untouched.

Car stops
In the light
Of a protean sun,

Red lucence
Like Turner
Would catch.

Engine mumbles,
Olds roads
Huffing dust—

The push
And pull
Of us.

bump

When I first heard of GANG violence I gang I didn't know what they were about
They just came and started yelling at me inside of my house
Led by a friend from middle school, a bit of a brute who
once said he's hit me with a hockey stick and knock out my tooth
Windowscreen slicing, in darkness, in hiding
Escaped without detection. The rest is not in my recollection.
The second time they came I was caught off-guard
Pants down, watching porn on the toilet like a retard
This time they brought his dad, who had abandoned him once
And more members of the GANG, ones that at a time I once loved
Instead of threatening to rape or kill me, they extended a hand
I let them in to take a piss, I didn't really understand
One by one, they came into this house I'd never seen
A teenage girl in a bathory shirt (oddly familiar), my old friend matthew's younger brother,
among them
I felt so scared I pissed myself turning the porn off on my phone
There were toilets around the house that I had to keep some of them from peeing in (because they weren't plugged in, you see-)
The rest is not in my recollection

This is some flash fiction I wrote up recently, let me know what you think. Also, apologies if the formatting is weird.

Rain drummed 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 and laid a hand 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."

"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.

This was me. I was too groggy when writing this to give any feedback and probably still am.
This is good whether or not it's satire.
I like this. It's got the mood. Doomer masculinism.

THE OTHER ONES ARE TOO LONG OR SERIOUS AND I AM GOING BACK TO BED MAYBE

Of The Childlike

Wind blown leaflets chatter static
ancient as the universe,
while rain falls quietly as static
ancient as the universe.

Sun slips though the clouds in static
ancient as the universe
as mother beckons home like static
ancient as the universe.

Xerxes on the Hellespont

Before pass the thousands,
Just like before we knew the end
Of not just this army but the
One which we never saw.

Millions of people and so beautiful
are the colors of brandished spears that parade
Forth, carrying not just my own will
But the might of a race:

And Athens yes we look to now
To see that the pensiveness which
We hate will never cease to be
Hated. Because it is a lie.

And those who lie will never understand
That it is so devastating for me
To look upon them now,
And know that in one hundred years,

In the time that extends beyond
My immortality and the meaning
That I see for myself in my Persian
Words and soft soil saturated,

Filled with the feet of women and
The things that make me feel
Like a king, and that make my uncle
See me as the rash one, as I

March them between these boats
And see for them the eternity
Of Hellenic existence, never to cease,
That their history will be immortal,

Yes I do cry now, because I have
To not only know this army but that
Part of myself that I leave behind
When someone recounts that right heritage

Of my fathers and the six generations before
That will never stand again
In the times which we live in
Where there is no choice

But to weep and look at it so sadly,
This army passing before me and all
Knowing each to their own but
Never rationalized and put into this

Damning perspective, that there
Will never stand their beautiful
Body an earth which can hold them
Or the matter that I clutch within my

Fists now, not that escape of what went
Before me, but the future recompenses
Of each and every one of their lives
As they realize in death

That I lied to them, knowing that
They could never be me but
That in the Persian after
They are all dead in rows,

Lines up in their dresses and
Cloths, only to weep and to never
Know the distortion I feel now
In my deepest bones of Athens,

Where that god once came from
And rained, proving not the origin of my
Tears but also of every flower that
Has bloomed before,

And forced my hand now, to see
Not only the dionysian that moves
My hand to my poor eyes,
But to the army in front of me,

Attached: DTzDGmLUQAAL6w2.jpg (768x1024, 91K)

Pointing not to that enmity of the
People of heracles, but to my
Own impossibility,
Hopefully lost between the reality,

That I cannot stay home for the shame
Of never managing my return.
Indeed if I could make a return,
It would only be torn asunder

In the memory of my own godlike
Ness under the statue of my father
And his and his and his and his and
His and his and his, and his,

Knowing that the thunder god on high
Will bring those gathered bolts unto
The shoulders of each of my men,
Perhaps not forcefully,

But with the same certainty that I
Now lose my own hand,
In wishing that I could weep,
Without your glare.

Goddess please bless my own labia beef
And speed to my gash sturdy flaps as its wreath
Do spirit our cunts from all sexual grief
And to you we promise our every climax and queef

Your powers make the glisten inside of our sheath
And in your name we sing these pleasures beneath
Though soggy and soiled our snatches and flaps
There's none so holy as our va-jay-jay gaps
We seek only those phalli that draw such applause
Without foreskin or blemish or circulatory flaws
Into our vaginal maws we stuff them to gorge
And deliver the Fempire by this our yonic forge

Goddesses of the Yonic, help my words I do pray
So that to herstory comes news of such sexual fray
Where coital mileage dwarfed the greatest whores of yore
And grizzled each my sisters' chaste peaches to gore

These sisters won such great acclaim by their story
Their spread legs and agape cheeks beckoning Glory
Barely battened crowds were thusly mad with lust
Setting upon any woman like the wind's fickle gust
To our sisters bodies the men drew their best pucker
To kiss, lick and win the best body-part sucker
But woe to those tongues that knew any taste of our snizz
And suffered no allergies when sprayed with female fizz
Because darkly hides a monster in each our cunt floccules
A certain face-melting alights from but one globule

A comfy little story. I would like to get more imagery out of it though.It doesn't feel like i am at the brook. The story is told well, I am just don't feel like I am a part of it.

Insomnia

Can't sleep. No dreams for those awake
In isolation. We merely wait --
Fatigue now grips the cavern mind,
The loud echoes of day's grim grind
Will ravage peace in tranquil thoughts
And rob catharsis dreams once brought

Attached: hoop and a stick.jpg (500x442, 49K)

Comedic absurd book
pastebin.com/PLtd3736

I'm not sure if there will be more of these, or if they'll grow into something else, but thought I'd share

Attached: Museum dreams.png (645x836, 70K)

Should've posted here.

I think starting with "Oh" is a tirade

imagery out of place, like lazboy

Too endearing

good after taste, horrible speed, like a blind bat though, you know what i mean

I feel like you didn't earn my worth or trust before that much repetition about yourself. Where is the story leading before you repeat yourself?

Erase the last line and continue, or erase just the word "But" and expand on the last line. It started beautifully, well sort of, delete "I am" and replace with tense.

This is gorgeous. Great first verse. Third paragraph drags a little but adds to story and theme. Contrast in the end. How a poem should be.

Give me perspective on the narrator. It's good, but it can't be in the authors voice.

>born
>borne

Narrator here. Good. Not yours.

Thanks everyone for listening. imo, winner is Peaches, but we all know there's no winner in poetry, since it doesn't pay. :)

I don't know why but this all seems very silly. Why does this kid not buy his own steaks? Why does the Bryce guy shit on his wife...why do you mention that he uses a Zippo, Zippo is a brand and not a style of lighter. Its also a horribly unsexy word

Valley of darkness, man that is an image so shallow and silly, I can't take anything serious after that. "look, I'm walking through darkness and the valley is always dark"

i wrote a poem about cambridge, boys

Socksford,
Boxford,
Hollyhocksford, doxxford,
Clocksford.
The slack of her smocksford
Shocksford.

Roadblocksford.
In the midst of a knocksford -
Landlocksford;
Foxford.

Of what state and stocksford
Our islands rise rocksford
From the sea, not fit for
Many flocksford of fat sheep.

Attached: IMG_1802.jpg (1080x1350, 146K)

i wrote a poem about cambridge, boys

Socksford,
Boxford,
Hollyhocksford, doxxford,
Clocksford.
The slack of her smocksford
Shocksford.

Roadblocksford.
In the midst of a knocksford -
Landlocksford;
Foxford.

Of what state and stocksford
Our islands rise rocksford
From the sea, not fit for
Many flocksford of sheep.

Attached: IMG_1802.jpg (1080x1350, 146K)

>Narrator here. Good. Not yours.

I wrote that one, what does this mean?

Thank you, this is very constructive criticism

>replace with tense
What do you mean by this? Like a stressed syllable?

Also, I'll add more and re-post this for further criticism if that's alright

unreadable

Attached: thisfuckinguy.jpg (680x510, 34K)