/crit/ - Critique thread:

Thanks, I actually “stole” from the beginning of both of Homer’s epics

Uh, uh, yeah, yeah, pump it up
I'm a lyrical miracle spiritual individual
A categorical metaphorical oracle
My raps are a scientific terrific prolific art form
It's more than a talent, it's why the fates made sure I was born.
Yeah, cuz I'm a colossal philosophical tropical monocle wearing poet
Until this very post I was hard pressed to even know it

Nice last line. Take out ‘soon after being shot’ and just have ‘nine minutes of agony’. Also, work on sentence length variation. You have too many long sentences bunches together, and it becomes laborious to read after a while. That last sentence could do with being re-written to, it runs on far too much.

Well written, just boring

based

Meant to attach my own work, by the way. Grateful for any feedback!

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The perpetual cycle of grief and folly. The evolution of yourself being an entity thrown into the wild as a babe, in the world so melancholy and uncaring. The purpose unbeknownst to us, mercenaries of earthly bondage. Outlaws in this land of fluctuating morals, nothing is right. The world is skewed, so untampered and something is off.
Outlandish accusations arise when the madmen speak, the men who hold the key to virtue in this cruel existence. The ones with a stagger in their speech when they shout to the world they will stand among the rest. Heros, villains, titans in the sphere of thought bequest their journey of lawlessness in an attempt to separate the truth from what is fictitious.
Madmen to guide us through hell and bring us to ultimate satisfaction in our purpose. Freedom such an enterprise is fruitless in the bonds of our birth, tied to what makes us whole. To unleash the monster inside us is to break all that which is holy. Freedom, the temptation to unveil the gnawling void inside us, to let others see us. To walk with a stride knowing you carrying the weight of atlus with the strength of an ant, a mortal so capable.
Mercenaries in this god forsaken county we bleed from the madmens speech, slowly listening and absorbing all the faulty in life. So fucking deluded we were to lock them in cages of ethereal bonds. How foolish to tide the curb of insanity, to break what has been loved to destroy the unknown and set free the fires of behommet.
Demons, living personifications of freedom living viciously and wildly they roam this earth in search for something greater, the means to which end they seek. The ultimate destruction of the bonds they were born into. Mercenaries of freedom itself. The lawless connive with the madmen to escape from the prism of virtue and morals. To indulge in hedonism until it’s too late, to break themselves before others can not. Out-fucking-rageous is it to believe these demons can be tamed, these mercenaries.
Biting from the forbidden fruit and taking what is rightfully there, when god turned his back on his children we were left to rot and sour in the blaring sun. In the desert there is no oasis on the horizon the madmen pretend is there, the demons know better. Through the fire they were created, a blacksmiths nail crushed into their heart sealing their soul to despair.

How do i turn this into a book?

>n word
Stopped reading.

Great meter, I'd like to see you write a larger poem... an EPIC, mayhaps?

I find the premise and imagery of this whole excerpt tiresome. What is so interesting about bohemian students? Nothing, even when ironic. Everything you've done has been done before, a thousand times over. However, you write very well and your long sentences should be commended for not being clunky at all. Even if I dislike DFW and his style, this pastiche is done well. Now go find your own voice. Also stop with these antiquated items!
>TV-sets
>Brian Eno records

> in the world so melancholy and uncaring
Your choice but I would change this to "the the melancholic and uncaring world"
>unbeknownst
Stopped reading.

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Didn't get any response for this last thread.

The wind swirls over the deep,
Yet the waters lie unstirred.
Twin poles may never meet.

Hidden in boundless night,
He sits, He watches, He breathes.
Silence; waiting in an empty tomb.
Yet a thought remains,
What does the air share with the earth?
Then a voice, a vision.

Lumps of clay rising above the dirt;
Leaping and shouting
And glory and joy.

A great tree carries light upon its shoulders.
Below lies the fallen leaf
Trampled, withered.

Man of field and man of flock
Two they come and two they bring,
One hated, One loved.
Who can discern between them?

A sheepskin unfurled o’er the mountains,
The banner of heaven, bearing bloody writ:
That which is cut off
Will be united in the end.
That which we give up
Will be restored
In the throes of death.

The body and spirit
Are torn apart
As the dove descends
Upon the weary world.

(1/2)
A guy, hands outstretched over and behind his back, feet wide, torso hoisted aloft by his limbs, plastered against another guy on top lying supine, head reclined against his, forehead uptilted and neck fixed — high head-rest composed of heads, low body-support supported by bodies. Bodies stretched, twisted, tensed, illegal to move, cast in concrete to preserve the most humanly impossible shapes; their heads in velvet pillow cases fashioned in uniform with the rest of their bodily upholstery, monochromatic from head to toe in wild Truchet tiles. Hems cascaded from the edges, obscuring traces of humanity in their droops.

The one on top had his right arm crooked sharply outwards to imitate a sloping handrest of a chaise longue; the other in his spider stance, abdomen and thighs tightly tucked to reach their fullest consummation as unified objectification of themselves.

Obscurity masquerading as profundity.

I shudder to suppose that both were perfectly lucid in their contortion, maintained without so much as a stir; better would it be if both were taxidermied, so to say, or wrought by some god-awful case of sclerosis, or doped up with heavy opioids to isolate them from their cognition and prevent them from forever drifting into madness.

My speculations were soon to be betrayed by the discovery of quiet upheavals from the pillow cases.

(2/2)
In another corner of this small gallery was a woman, lithe and shapely in a thong, leaning forwards, back arched for love, hands grabbing a pole in front, soft contours of her body in full display. A vase had been placed delicately on her lumbar curve, protruding oddly, trail from upper to lower interrupted then misaligned, her spine a flexing seahorse; the vase stable in its position like on any flat surface, top and bottom quarter of its circular base hemmed tenderly within skirts of her silky skin, most carefully and craftily balanced; the slightest jolt from her body would let the vase drop and shatter.

I was impressed.

Upon further inspection, I spied two trails of tears flowing from her blindfolded eyes, and panning downwards, a single thin wire like a fishing line, its ends hooked inside her skimpy panties, the sinker tracing from a bulge, rattling, rippling small rivulets that ran down her thighs, the two small, salty brooks from upstream flowing in vain to reunite in the grand tributary that cascaded to her feet to irrigate the barren flooring.

While I couldn’t help but admire the living furniture’s resilience, puerile thoughts arose in me to fell the ridiculous lounge chair, to shove the vase off her skanky arse and put an end to all this tomfoolery, ridicule their faces of defeat while I spit and kick at their worthless bodies like the objects they are, treat them like what they desire to be and show those ingrates how their meandering, petty actions amount to nothing and change fuck-all. Yet as all random musings and power fantasies tend to be — passing thoughts that do not necessitate action or fruition of any kind, fit only for assuring us of our own importance — I shook them off and moved on to explore the last part of the room, driven by an unhealthy obsession, my anxiety from being left in the dark.

I circled the lounge chair, took off my jacket, and placed it on the head-rest. The thing did not complain nor move an inch.

people.cs.ksu.edu/~acraig17/docs/Cryonaut.pdf

Cryonaut

Pins and needles shot deep into all nerves simultaneously. Someone put the kibosh on the little comatose ice-age I’d been having to myself. The window to my frozen coffin was too blurry; I couldn’t imagine anything corporeal in place of the white blurs inching closer to...

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Where'd you get the Cross? I lost mine long ago.

you fucked the title on the cover, user
Otherwise sick cover
CRAYONauts
will provide more feedback later after I read the thing

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Fuck, haha. I've had this story for a while and never even fucking noticed the typo on the cover.

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Based.

Posted in the last one but this one might get more activity. It's the ghostbuster story, I'm probably annoying people now with how many times I'm shilling it. Just want thoughts I guess.

pastebin.com/h4BNUCVb

I've posted a few of my poems he before but they were all sonnets which have a rigid structure/rhyme scheme. This one is more free verse and admittedly I wrote this on the tail end of an acid trip.

Half a centimeter squared.
Half a centimeter squared
Of paper thin euphoria.
My darling sweet baby
Rocket ship to a different dimension.

In a transcendent state of pure becoming,
I killed the person i am
And i wandered the void
As the air in my lungs
Danced into the snowy night,
As one of many.
All that i was, left
Only the vessel was left.

The person i wanted to be
Reached His hand out
And He said to me
That person that was,
That person was Me.
The person i wanted to be
Looked upon me
Thus He spoke
That person you are
That person was Me.

He reached his hand out to me.
i reached my hands to meet him.
My hands clasped upon his
And i saw the person I killed.
The person i was.
i reached my hand out to him
And i said:
That person you are
That person was me.

i whispered this truth
To the phantom of my becoming
With bloody lips and
And falling voice
As the knife
Disappeared from my chest
And slid out my back
And i looked and i saw
The person,
The person who could be
Plant my chest upon his knee
And that person i became
That person i became killed me

>It's the ghostbuster story,
the compulsive masturbator one?

A lot of unnecessary exposition right away that makes it read like a new article rather than a piece of fiction

>shouted the young police officer Magnus Holström, 27 at the supposed assailant.

>The attacker, 20-year-old Eric Torell, a name that of course, Magnus did not know at the time

>his female colleague Erin Eriksson

Why do you include/intro full names and ages like this. It ruins the narrative flow, try to introduce this information in a smoother and more natural way. Include it in some dialogue later on or even in narration later on, but you're writing an action scene and any information that isn't pertinent to what is happening should be excluded to maintain the flow of action.

christiansupplies.com.au/category-list/religious-items/rosary-beads.html

Thank you for the crit, you’re a nice dude.
t. DFW pasticher

“Celebrity?” pushup man asked, “But what about?” Some say your star. “Not me not really.” Everyone else thinks otherwise. “Ah cavemen don’t know a mountain in a molehill.” Their naivete could be envied; the stars were fuller, brighter: some stayed in place - some barely appeared in foveal view; Pushup Man, like Orion, Pisces, etc., had not been thought of. No one thought to do that. Pushup man was but a potential person, a nothing. “I am no one.” And nothing. “March 28th, 1997, first time my mom held me steely. She was Anna Áine Greenplate and said it all all the time the kind of lady she was - was you know. Down the bay, down by it, the big bay it is. Celebrity? Status, stardom, cheesers, the grin of a cowboy before the rope and his lovely ones is all nice, but what about the gun? A five tens piece, a finished cherry grip: the silver “Down J.Hole Mountain” made me famous’s what it did. Mom too you know. Anyway I’m just saying that it’s not all me. And there’s nothin about me worth crying over or saying stuff like, “Oh! What I’d give! The day ends and I remain cretinous! And into oblivion!” I don’t think them any less, and don’t mean to say anyone’s stupid or whatever. They’d be better spent with a matt on their porch facing mecca, and that’s a lot comin from me and my take on that.”

Well written, and intricate, but exhausting to read. Like Joycean stream-of-conciousness meets DFW.

I kind of went for that mix between action and news article and I have to admit I didn't really work a lot on this, it's quite raw and altough it's not a real excuse I might add that I'm not a native speaker and my english prose writing experiences are quite limited

Posted this before but no one answered, anyone got any advice/thoughts?

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It's pretty good.
But what do you mean with: Your contented both becomes a bewildered none?
Not a native english speaker btw

that is such a stupid thing to say

Moby dick memer detected

Damnit, I wondered if that line was overly contrived. I just meant that the protagonist now has neither the book nor the water where before he had both

Ahh I see. But yeah, I think it might be too much.

>How funny it is
Proceeds to not explain whats funny
>the form of a trunk without braches or leaves.
I'm glad you explained what a column is, it's a very exotic shape
>inwards
I think you meant outward, or downward, unless the trunk is a neutron star
>your contented both becomes (became?) a bewildered none
Dunno, this sentence just annoys me for some reason.
>but what has happened is the most natural thing in the world
Man, my glass cups dissappear all the time, fucking wizards and their pranks. What I'm saying is maybe bring your story back to the realm of mortals, people spill their drinks all the time, usually by an akward hand or a malicious pupper leaping on your lap.

Thanks for the criticism my man

What I considered 'funny' was two things that would spoil each other being in such close proximity

Hmm, yeah maybe you're right on the column thing, I'll reconsider it

I actually used inwards because I had in mind the Black Smoke Wells describes in War of the Worlds lol, which I think he describes similarly, idk I kinda like it still

Yeah that sentence sucked, I got rid of it in a later edit

Same thing with the 'natural' comment as the 'funny' thing

It definitely needs editing. I still kinda like the thing in general, but if the writing didn't work it didn't work, I'll keep at it

and she greets the world early, lover

rise ahead, and lasts long after bed;

red eyed, she told cockerel: another

few moments, for too soon to be wed

Half heaven caught, red hand over spray,
Smiles, clouds in his eye before bed,
In wooden buoys his decrepit bay
Riles, afraid of what lies ahead,
Yet hearken her song over waves,
Child, remember all that is said,
And when turquoise does dampen the flames,
This moment he'll never forget.

Bump

plz respond

To Symon of Worcester, Graecian legend became alive. Parched, sun-weary, he stumbled onto it. Nestled within a forgotten inlet, not far from his master’s galley, the beauty slumped. Her marble walls reduced to rubble, her stairs cracked and fallen - the pillars that once upheld her crown toppled. Despite the heathen significance of the place, Symon couldn’t but lament the fane’s lonely ruin. Its aura moved him. The wild around felt her pain, masking the bruises of rude hammer-blows and doing its best to conceal the wrinkles of time. Despite it, Symon’s archer eyes had pried back the visage of pagan past.

Memories recurred of student halls of his youth. Illuminated vellum, tomes brought from Italy depicting the flower of Hellenic noble youth in war with Troy. Agamemnon, Achilles, Ajax. The elysian warriors fabled by the mystics of that golden age. Its chivalry secretly allured Symon, but he wasn’t as rash to dash an outward mien of piety. Clerical tutors being men of God, they weren’t keen on indulging their proud, impetuous students in the destructive passions of life before Him. Guilt arrested his excitement. Mass had never stirred this in him, as he now stood before a home of false gods.

Furtive steps took him closer. As if ensouled, a harsh dirge of sea-wind shrieked at his approach. Turn back, the salty breath exhaled, cutting into his doublet of murray. You are no supplicant of She. The Englishman forged on, relieved by the odd disappearance of sun behind mounting cloud. Faces peered up at him as he strode, submerged in hard earth and veined by vine. Carved eyes delved his own, enchanting him with a spirit belying inert rock. The corpses of idols; some strewn, bisected, while others entirely shattered. Exultant biblical verses echoed in his mind, the verse of the Church Fathers and Hebrew victors over idolatry. Perfectly chiseled, immaculate in their fealty to God’s creation, stone limbs reached out at him, or clawed toward their severed torsos grotesquely. All the more unnerving, for instead of revulsion he found himself admiring the Satanic forms. Never had he seen artistry like this in all his travels. Thunder answered the evil thoughts, a downpour washing the grime from his brow. What course could there be but to enter now?

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I like it a lot, but I think it'd benefit from just slightly more geographic description, the actual space the protag is in is kinda blurry for me, and though it's clear broadly what the location is, it wouldn't hurt to differentiate it slightly more (though it's possible I'm just retarded), flesh out the landscape etc. You mention this ruined shrine is by an inlet but could you go into more detail maybe? Is it on a beach at the river mouth? Or a cliff/hill overlooking the inlet? Or inside a cave? Did he get to it over a path or through wilderness? That kinda shit you know? Idk if this helps, it's possible you've already tackled this shit, but whatever

Dope. Whatever you're working on, don't give up, you can write something complete and great if you stick to it.

What do I read to write like you? Who are your influences?

I also am interested in medieval settings, archaic language and the more flowery and ornate prose which you are attempting here. You definitely do it better than I do right now. I'd love to write a novel with something of the Alexander Romance influencing or the Lives of Saints narratives.

I'm trying to make my text somewhat like epic poetry, in the sense that it's oral more than textual. Does this feel like a spoken story?

His boot pressed down the soil, blood seeping deep into the mud 'round his footprint. Above his helm soaring, his gauntlet swift and unbending struck down his foes. Along the silvery surface of his pauldron, drops ran leaving no trail. A chest rose, a scarlet mangled mess of splints and ribs. Last survivor of the battle lost she, drew her breath. Witness of an ally's impending fate. As the watcher and his armor, Were lit incandescent. Dust and cinder. His Soul, Fire.

I like this style a lot user, what's the context and story? Stick with this and your golden, it's not pretentious and pretty cool.

Got it so unbeknownst is a no-no tryhard word. I think the rest is solid though, i like to write one off pieces and if they're good enough develop them into a short story or book. I wanted this one to be about the wild west.

Honestly, I'm still working out the context and the storyline, I'm torn between writing novels and trying out other media, so I write short segments like this one for each scene before fleshing them out.

The setting would be historic/feudal and the prologue would be : Two protagonists find themselves trapped between a sieged castle and a zealous captain on a crusade to thwart an imaginary evil. As they escape the keep, they end up having to guide a group of invaders back inside.

This "watcher" (not really liking this name) would be the hypothetical evil, who ends up having to fight the zealous commander. It's a prologue to set up the different characters, and the mythos surrounding them.

I'm sorry for the bad explanation, english not being my first language, it's a struggle to give native readers a good reading experience.

I don't know if anyone would want to read this but here is my dream from 2 nights ago

I’m like at my lake just outside the bay and there’s a structure in the water, partially subsumed, but symmetrical on 4 sides. Minecraft? I’m at the side farthest from my cabin, closest to the center of the blue body. There are kinda anonymous figures about this structure. Their attire of note is somewhat strange, different types of suits, vests as if they were randomized from a selection of grey, different patterned, different buttonned formal wear. I don’t know if I am beneath or above the water’s surface — it does not matter. There is some sort of, must be B-tier, pornographic actress atop this pyramidal structure. I see her from the back, panties askew, blonde hair slightly unkempt. Her body doesn’t seem particularly blood-fillingly potent. She is dancing in that trashy, forced, badly acted way that you can tell she’s done a million times before and will proceed to do, on autopilot, until the schlubby, frankly he must be gross, grisly, greasy, bristly chinned, stained T-shirt wearing, I picture his eyes crossed, tongue lying in the open, mexican but with a yellow tinge, not to mention teeth crooked like those of a child — director; until he thinks, ‘that scene was hot let’s do the blowjob now.’ Now a figure comes to this temple, interrupting the ritual. Standing proudly, Wonder Woman stance, on some glider THINGY. A baby blue garment stretched at the boobs down to the ass — Lisa Ann. Her breasts are large, my mind knows from seeing her movies that her areolas point outward like a lazy eyed goat.
(1/2)

(2/2)
Her breast are fake, misshapen slightly, just enough to give them a subtle charm. Her face too, it’s aged but hidden, combated painstakingly. That sneer that becomes of a smile when it has been lip injected, botox firmed. Her makeup on point, brunette hair with a classic bounce that is to me very sexual. And of course those misty eyes only she has that genuinely say, “I want to fuck you.” She is a perfect example of what Bill Burr said about how, “Americans want someone who can be dressed up to be hot, not someone naturally born that way.” It is very American, it fits into the whole American dream thing of being whatever you want to be. Kinda crazy how we find these makeup caked succubi hot. I think Lisa Ann is very hot. I want to fuck her so hard. There’s something about her. Her magical presence. Her. I just want to slide my penis in her ass and start pounding. She just seems so nice and sex loving. She looks into your eyes, and it seems like she would fuck all her fans just because she’s a nice person and loves sex. Her ass is stunning. A tan line revealing olive skin. You know, it’s actually the ass of Lela Star, wonderful, beautiful, huge. Lisa is easily, without question the best porn actor. Queen Lisa has arrived at this pyramid. The superior woman, porno sex fiend has come to oust this rather portly blonde. The anonymous faces walk the structure’s one-block pathways. There’s talk, conflict? I hear it back, squinting, the physical me obscured. But what are they talking about, Why?

Yeah it's vague, idea is he's come off a ship in the Mediterranean (in quite hostile waters, lots of Islamic pirates) to requisition supplies in the journey ahead ravaging Moslem holds for plunder. Land would be typically craggy, desolate Laconian coast so I'll type a bit up for that. Thanks fren

Thanks bro. I'm a pleb so this is comfy to hear.
>influences
As I said I'm pretty plebby. I've always been a tryhard on the purplishness, and I'd say Lovecraft is a favorite in this regard. Typically I read non-fiction, historical books and the like. The 15th century is my thing, Cousin War era England as well as Burgundy under Charles the Bold. Got into the Greeks recently too. I haven't read any High Lit books like Joyce, Tolstoy, the usual staple (but intend to).

Delving into era-chronicles is a great insight into anachronism in language. Commynes on Charles the Bold, for example. Crowland Chronicle, Arrival of Edward IV at Ravenspur, etc. Depends on the century + decade you're interested in, as well as region.

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Was this a wet dream by any chance lmao

Yes

No shit

The second bit is a lot more coherent than the first, keep working on it

>TFW done with the outline and everything else. Start writing my novel and I fizzle out quickly.
I don't know what's my problem is, I don't know if it's my self-perceived or actual mediocrity as a writer, I cannot go more than a week of writing before I erase it and start all over again.

>>n word
>Stopped reading.
tranny detected

Maybe try writing something with no outline, and see where it goes

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My fetish and favorite character archetype are inquisitors so that would be right up my alley. I'd read it user stick with it we're all gonna make it.

Here's mine.

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Once there was a man named tyrone, some call him the bull of passions. The thief of innocence and purity alike, to swoop in only lil wh*te boi and take what he loves is a most precious thing. When the moon aligns with the sun and all that you love is being taken all you will see is the eclipse of the black bull. So ferociously pounding while touching and licking. So gratuitous is he to allow you to partake even from afar. This majestic bull comes not from hell but a twilight, the sparkle in your lovers eye as she refuses to cross to the other side of the street.

Did that already, I don't know how I should feel about it.

Thanks

This is me, now I'm critiquing some others.

Mostly pretty well written but overdone subject matter. MC's definitely a nigger.

seems all right I agree with the user that said something about writing a longer piece

sick rhymes mate

Couldn't make it past the first paragraph. Not going to say that it's bad but it's certainly not for me.

Reads high-school-tier trying hard. Didn't glean anything interesting from it.

Don't have a whole poem I’m ready to post but I have a couple lines I need tested:

"Snow rose thick in brittle fields"

I'm mostly peeved about the alliteration. "..thick in brittle..' I'm trying too hard. I like the word choice of 'brittle'--a November stubble field, or a huge field of frozen grass--and I like describing snow as rising on the ground instead of falling from the sky. But is it "on" instead of "in"? Could I use that instead? I can't tell and don't have anyone to show at the moment. “Snow rose thick on brittle fields.” Hmmmm.

"Mist lies thick on hayfields"

Pretty much the same line, so I have the same problem. Am I using ‘thick’ just for the sound? Can mist even be thick? I’m also wondering if ‘thick’ is too obvious of a word choice. It might be precise, but it’s not creative (and cliches might eve lose their precision as they become cliches).

assonance* sorry guys

Make that shit less wide, and increase the font size. Also add margins. I's hard to read like this.

Could use a bit more rhythm. Read about poetic metre if you want to do epic poetry.

Bump

Wow

>Make that shit less wide, and increase the font size. Also add margins. I's hard to read like this.

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Start of a novel I'm writing, feed back lads.

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Bad. Bad in the sense that the writing is extremely uninteresting and your tone of voice makes me fall asleep

This just reads badly. I dont know if it's your writing style or general content or what but it read bad

I'm also wondering if 'rose thick' makes sense. Why describe something rising and pair it with density? Does the snow get compact as more and more of it falls? I don't know. "snow rose high" is redundant. So?

Hey everyone look at this guy, he either skipped past most of it or he can't recognize great writing when it's right there in his eyes.

So steep is the heat from AOC’s feet
She stomps on huevos and cooks scrambled treats
Or so steps on beans for some dank frijoles
Stirring in the pot her feet’s girlish glazes
No punt of her boot nor jolt of her heel
Could peal from my pipes any joy but the squeal
A shout of pain, sure, even scrotal agony
Blessed all flesh struck by her majesty
Tucked into soft pumps or gliding in sandals
Thefts of her Loubs ignited great scandals
Keeping her slippers and flip-flops locked tightly
AOC’s schedule keeps her feet sprightly
Send your best goons, spirit me to your lair
Bathe me in shrink beams to squish by soles bare
Now but an angstrom and AOC’s nails abyssal
Lapidary escarpments, freckles, bristle
Her pheromones rain like atmosphere
Betwixt AOC’s toes, the saltiest schmear
Baptized in her funks, I feel so alive
Drenched by scents floral, cheeses and chive
AOC’s feet share many hues with rosewood
Toes not stubby nor phallic, like toes should
Asleep on her tummy, braaper to the moon
Her ventral soles loom like a scrunchy dune
Questing and climbing her flexuous ripples
Those female fumes stir heady sniffles
Rave for Alexandria Ocasio-
Cortez’s toes, Latinx pistachios

Harsh but fair

Not him but great writing IM LAUGHING

If you want me to go into detail how it fails at being anything than a conceited sadomasochist piece of literature then I'll do it but honestly I dont need to considering how poorly written the piece is and trying to obviously emulate like 3 writers at the same time. If you focused on one aspect (namely your writing style) maybe I'd give it a go but bad writers are bad writers and that will never change

please don't bother you don't sound too smart

thanks mate

neither do you with that piece. Keep trying tho champ, I need more bad works to laugh at

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>reddit
Sorry man, I haven't read it, but it must suck.

Started as flash, but think I might run with it. Tell me what ya think

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You the one who wrote the tower/blade of grass story I presume? Again, I like it a lot, marginally preferred the first one, writing seemed slightly tighter, though it could be my imagination. How many of these ya got?

I would cut words that aren't your absolute favorite. Sometimes you have to pick one over the other. Your talent for imagery is being hampered by indecision. Don't ruin a good shot by fucking with the lighting too much.
I don't know what the larger context of this is from, so idk what else to say other than talking about diction/syntax. It's playfully absurd, which I like. Give these posts a genuine thumbs up and a "nice" if you handed it to me.

Tedious, imo.

Boring imagery, which it looks like touched on. If my glass vanished I would no doubt be astonished, but I don't think I'd call it "the most natural thing in the world." Which, regardless, is a terribly cliche phrase and you should nix it anyways.

I do, however, like referring to the interaction as two becoming none. I just don't like how you worded it.

thanks i got a few. grass and this one are my latest. they range from what i've posted to imagined insane ramblings like this

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Thanks man, like I said, what I felt to be 'natural' was the water and paper ruining each other. Like a hubris thing, tempting fate ya know lol? Regardless, I think you're right, the actual wording is a lil cliche looking back at it. Oh well. The two/none thing was something I tried a few permutations of but kinda left blank cos I couldn't get it sounding right. Maybe I'll go back to it sometime.

I like your style even when I have no idea what you're on about lol, you got a fun voice

I'll rate the best posts late. translation: i won't be rating any at all because i can't be bothered. I will read through the thread though

THE ROBIN
There's a bird in my garden
a robin red breast
eating crumbs and worms
under morning bathing sunlight
rest, in space and time
when time will duly come
turns to east in swift
flight, from dusk till dawn by the silver moonlight.

The other day it snowed
and the trees did bend down their arms
to their toes, with cracking breaking bones
of pine and oak
fallen on the forrest floor
and across the twisting country roads
that lead, through my home and through the moors,
carving bleached and fresh seen lands
where the hills did once stand before.
The birds didn't fly that day
through the end of may snow fell
to the ground, and i look on leaves
where snow did lay and hoped he now
was safe and sound.
And come around with white decay
in early day of spring
on new grown branches sing and play
the robin, a new song,
he did bring to the early morning sunlight
Proud, brave
alone.
He has no time for change of grpund
and though along the forrest he may roam
he has no place to call a home
on cold months he does not save
but hunts for food until it's found
and drink in frozen ice and phoam
waits with calm in age
for warm days of spring to sink
into the forrests aging bones

In my garden there lives a bird
we call the robin of the red breast.
On months that pass
through cold and warm
a tune may sometimes be heard.
And time from now
long after born
lay down in soil to rest.
In my garden, the friendly bird
of name the robin redbreast.

gay bad and done before. i swear. why does every poetry fag on Yea Forums only do poems about nature? do you think it hasn't been exhausted yet?

go do something, then come back and give insight. A lot of Crazy New Shit has Happened and Started Existing since we figured out romanticism.

unironically bad, sorry.

I live surrounded by nature. I write poetry about nature. I'm a simple man

live somewhere else or write somethin else man idk what 2 tell u

It's ok that you don't like it user. But i don't think it's THAT bad, honestly

Posting more poetry for you fags. Say whatever you want, it's not like i have any feelings left anyway ;-:

DAY BY DAY I SINK DEEPER INTO DARKNESS
Day by day i sink deeper into darkness
with a relentless giveaway to the creeping somber
At night i feel the call of sleeping madness
whispering sigh a song
of joy that lives no longer

From the yearning light comes the call of a bleeding heart
with a burning might step nearer to the leering dark
In the black that swallows whole the strenth of gladness
To the grave that holds the path to eternal darkness
The night that speaks in tongues of sleeping somber
Through dark that grows in strenth with age of yearning bleakness

Then bring, along the call of burning weakness
Blow the flame, that glows with burning need
the call of weeping hands on plains of yearning joy that bleed
and holds the void of light , by day

And day i sink deeper into darkness
With a relentless giveaway to the creeping somber
At night i feel the call of sleeping madness
Whispering sigh a song of joy that lives no longer

its bad for a mutlitude of reasons

1. theme, while can be similar to everything done in the past, feels stale, like other user said
2. nothing is really said that adds anything to: poetry, your theme, life, anything
3. general structure isn't appealing but it fits the modern free-form so if that is what you are trying to do, make a romantic poem modern then this succeeds

dont get me wrong there are some good parts however the general demeanor of the piece makes me think that you havent read much poetry beyond a limited few.

>The other day it snowed
>and the trees did bend down their arms
>to their toes, with cracking breaking bones
>of pine and oak
>fallen on the forrest floor
>and across the twisting country roads
>that lead, through my home and through the >moors,
>carving bleached and fresh seen lands
>where the hills did once stand before.

nice general rhythm but descriptions are repeated, and it just makes your view of the world a lesser one than the poets who wrote before you

don't get me wrong, you do not have to say anything new with poetry but it helps to either say something new or to write beautifully, and it is easier to say something new (or perceived as new) than it is to writer beautifully

Welp. I guess it's a good thing i didn't send it to the girl i like then. Thanks for the insightful critique (and you're right, i don't read much poetry. Any recomendations?)

>And day i sink deeper into darkness

Shouldn't it be "and day by day i sink deeper into darkness"? Or I misunderstood, sorry.
The poem is good I think, but the word choice is a bit restrictive? It lacks variety and gives the feeling of having already read the poem rearranged slighly differently. Creeping somber and sleep madness; 2nd paragraph is a succession of light, dark,black,grave,night and dark. Even if it's intended, I feel like I've read this poem before.

Don't worry about he overly harsh critics, it's just hard to write memorable poems about "traditional" themes nowadays.

You're right. The "day by day" continues from the previous verse. I meant to write a circular poem of sorts

I posted this in the last thread but i thought it could do with a lil improvement

IF LOVE WAS MADE BY ANDROIDS (FLYING BIRDS)
I'm the sun, i'm the moon
I am the cold when the midnight blooms
My face is made of shadows
And my heart is a flying bird
Fly away, fly away
Fly away, fly away
Fly away my sweet girl
to where your words won't hurt me
Will you give me flying birds
I'm just trying to understand
my thoughts are made of sand and wind
Slipping through my crumbling hands
I'm a cheater, i'm a liar i'm a thief
I stole your words and i made them burn
Lying feels so good
when will i ever learn
My sweet girl give me childish
dreams and flying birds
I am the sun and the moon
I'm sad i went all dark to soon
My childish girl
Give me flying birds to calm my burning heart that will never bloom
I have a face of darkness and moon shadows
And all i want is flying birds

And last but not least, an ode to Yea Forums.

Yea Forums:
You sharpened my tongue,
and erected my penis.

Depending on the girl it might still be worth sending. She probably isn't as harsh ash Yea Forums and would appreciate the effort. Still a good idea to clean up the repetitive descriptions though before sending it to anyone.

I'm a strong white man, so I feel no need to hide my weakness in big ol' scary racism!

In the future, the internet will have the same restrictions as alcohol or tobacco

plastic men

martial marital
I'm training for a black belt in the marital arts

There are serial killers that hack into defibrillators, injecting alternated startup routines making vulnerable arteries a issue of biotech conglomerate security.

healthy cigarettes

Sometimes I travel back in time because the computer's power supply unit attacks me. I don't like to go back in time because the people there spit on me for being a peon. Dumb antediluvian Plateosaurii, I know everything.

If you stand far enough back, humanity is a recursive magnum opus.

Momentum momentum bitterness

choice less perfection

The old man in walmart. deader than dead. One foot in this world, one in the next. A ghost lacking any saturation of color. Bought two packs of pall malls. lied and said they were for his wife to the customer behind him in the genial way old people will talk to the people in their immediate vicinity as they would talk to people they've know for years. Said the cigarettes were for his wife. That was all I could pick up because his voice sounded like death too.

Space christianity.

Computer Religion.

Depression is an old friend you can never seem to get rid of.
The black kids at school call me "candy boy" and lick my fingers

sometimes I refer to gay people as "Hoover" or "Dyson"

*Micheal Richards Impression* : "These niggers are making me thirsty."

Loved the art work

I know it’s been over a year and a half but I feel like there’s still plenty to say.

Riot

I’m here to have fun,
Watching kids wearing
Labels like “rebel”
And “anti-X-thing.”
Some say they’re Marxist,
Others are Nazi’s,
Donning Viking shields
Or having blue hair,
As if it makes them
More than what they are.
They gab, shriek, pummel
Over variants
Of the same mindset.

I’m here to watch them
A grin plastering
My smug face, until
The screech of tires
Alerts me to the
Cold reality of
What I once viewed as
Cheap entertainment.

Not half bad

You sound like someone who thinks they're some kind of chaotic neutral amoral centrist. Very cringe and bluepilled. You ought to learn how to use meter properly.

Also:
>’s

Your roommates are too loud at the wrong times. The hi-hats rattle at absurd hours. You’re too busy. Your shoulders are not pulled back; instead hunched and scrunched like single use plastic bags. Things are just overwhelming, you’ve figured out. You managed to drop to only 12 units this semester, but still you find yourself totally incapacitated by the sheer quantity of things you feel obligated to do.

And then, the tasks are all completed. Waves of nostalgia immerse you at the slightest trigger. You start calling things your last. “Last night class ever,” “last hungover morning class ever,” “last group project ever,” “last uncomfortable pull-your-phone-out-of-pocket-to-avoid-eye-contact.” You’ll never see that one shaggy brown-haired boy you kissed that one time when you drank too much again, even though you hardly even drink like that. It totally was not even your scene, either. Those functions are too loud and cliché and just too banal, for you. But you’ll never see him again. The faux-humble, fake embarrassed, and poorly concealed brag about that time when he touched you that way, will totally lose its frame of reference. The framework, which brought the story intelligibility, is suddenly just gone.

Songs that you haven’t liked in years sound new. The snares are tinged with something you didn’t think you would ever feel, not at this age. You’re not even that emotional or ridiculous. “So much water on my neck I need a boat or sumn.” You don’t even own any diamonds, nor do you want to. You think rap music is totally problematic and needs serious revision. But the lyric still seems so completely and legitimately beautifully meaningful.

Pieces of the structure remain, here and there. Not all of your friends are going home, or have prestigious white collared jobs lined up. Some of their futures are just as muddy and obscure as yours. But the framework dies either way. The community dissolves with each passing minute, like sugar stirred in tea. These parts of you, the stories, the things you pretend to be embarrassed about but really give you a place and meaning, lose their effability without the scaffolding that supported their creation.

You’ll walk across the stage with your pals. The gown you wear will flow in the wind coming in off the coast. The hat won’t fit you the way it seems a hat should. You’ll scream when your best friend crosses the stage after you. You’ll smile and take pictures with your parents and friends and cousins. You should. It’s rare that death and rebirth are so clearly demarcated from the rest of quotidian life. The nostalgia is just an unavoidable part of the dissolution of your personal intelligibility.

Read the last stanza again.

my bad, i'm assuming everyone here trying totp ublish these works; if its for just someone who doesnt study lit, then its nice - hell, its a nice thing to receive a poem anyway so clean up the general format and give it to her

recommendations are the romantic period, any of them and all of them, you obviously have an affinity being around nature

As I sipped the dead mans whiskey, I thought about the lies. So many vices and the biggest offender is that of a liar. To break paths so casually spoken and to cheat those who trust you is that of a coward not a man. I took another sip, the previous owner was a family member whose drink I snatched from their belongings the day before the cancer took what was theirs, that mutant cell so decadently feasting on a soul. It tasted good, the burn reminded me of the voices, the ones who told me to go to the funeral. I wouldn’t. I’d sit there and sip thinking of all the wrong I’d done and relish the fact I didn’t care. So broken a being to not feel a thing but still succumb to hedonistic urges. To chug the rest of the cheap whiskey would be my downfall as my humanity slipped away. I threw the empty plastic bottle and returned to my passion, living as a coward.

>Yea Forums - 2019

german-grown girls
aryan
'mongst men as if
carrion-kissed their
blood-pale
blue-pink
skin shimmers sun-sung
'gainst gold garlands giggling
as they pass
the thuringian
windows of an
automobile
autobahn-ready

unclear and unknowable
how exactly I #ed up
to find my key here
in this lock
was however
not a shock
strangeness stuck
to me since who knows when
to me its who I am
provincial plowman
in a small red town
may
be even a clown

england-ejected
tossed from her tits
unemployment
failed enjoyment
false deployment
a farewell kiss
doubly cross at my
double-crossing
I cry out
even shout
"death deemed
me too worthless for hell
so I will ring church bells
hoping helplessly
for mercy from some god"
but all I
got was a plate of cod

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Fin

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>the bewildered teen

stopped reading

What did he mean by this?

I think he means he doesn't like the premise

The Symbiosis of a Seaside Town and a Nearby Shithole:

Our dismal neighbour keeps us here,
apart from England, and no greater consortium
of thugs has ever lived and done a thing so noble.

Wrong investments skirted off, thugs lift tools
off worksites and are known to make off
with planks and bricks for their backyard patios.

It is well our council gave us open-topped tubs
for our recycling so that when the North Sea wind
blows, every street is a confetti of cereal boxes and bottles.

Now that the fish are all gone off to Norway somehow
(they have the decency to sell them to us),
I suppose we'll have to do for wind.

The Danes are building offshore mills for them.

I don't see anyone shepherding our gormless teenagers
to the boats so they could help harness our lovely wind,
but I suppose somebody would have to pay money if they drowned.

Teenagers of the Town, rejoice, your task is a cultural one!
You custodians of static England. You are not selected to
build a nation, you are too stupid, but you can preserve one.

Smoke, don't go to school. Piss where you want.
For the love of God, rob corner stores.
Keep us a little too close to you
for the taste of London.

Ha!. He thinks i'm gonna read his longass poem. Btw could you critique my poem? I gave you a (you)

When writing in first person past, is it assumed that the narrator is actually relaying the events as if they've already happened? It might seem obvious, but the reason it's an issue is if the writer has a certain attitude during the events of the novel that they will have gotten over by the end, so writing in first person past where the narrator has a chip on their shoulder doesn't make sense if they're no longer a dick. With that in mind, present tense would be the way to go, but it's so damn awkward to write and even read sometimes. Is this something you ever think about, or do you just take first person past as simply a method of writing a story?

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I don't like your poem very much, but I do actually like the very last line. I also like the title. I don't know if the sentiment of the poem is something I can actually appreciate in poetry, or if maybe it would be better if the sentiment was more mature. It seems to be a poem of yearning and self-criticism, which is fine. So yeah, I guess I do like those kinds of poems thinking about it. You are sharing a universal experience of individuals, but you are not sharing it in an individual way. What I mean by that is there are certain idioms, certain symbols, and certain phrases that I have seen quite often repeated in poetry. These would be:
>Slipping through my crumbling hands
The idiom of something slipping from one's grasp, or slipping through one's fingers is quite common, and is excellent in conversation because the conversation partner will know exactly what the person means, and so able to respond in a fraction of a fraction of a second - useful social lubricant - however, for that same reason, it will make a weak line in a poem, because it is unoriginal.
>I am the sun and the moon
These two symbols are common in metaphors, and you are not wrong to use them, but because they are so well-known, it would be necessary, I think, to explain yourself, or explain the sun or the moon and how they relate to your situation. If you have an interesting connection to make between yourself and those symbols then it would be prudent to make them. Otherwise, it's almost like 'namedropping' a famous person you're friends with without them having any apparent bearing to the conversation. These are just two things that stick out I would say are worth considering.

"the sun and the moon" refeers to my polarising personality. Idk i think poetry should be both personal and open to interpretation. Thanks for the crique

I guess it depends how much the narrator has changed. The dick in them can come back out in reliving the events. In retelling a story sometimes a piece of the person you were in that story comes out. But that sounds like a cop out to me. In truth this is a layer I haven't thought about before, and I would fall into the 'simply a method of writing a story' camp. Thinking about what you describe puts me in the mind of that video where people talk about how Mel Blanc would do a Bugs Bunny doing an impression of Daffy, and then Daffy doing an impression of Bugs. There's some subtlety to it only connoisseurs would notice and appreciate. I wouldn't notice, but I would appreciate that if someone pointed it out. I guess to do it the character narrating themselves would have to be as distinct in your head as the person in the story. They would have to be emotionally related to what's going on but in their own way particular to themselves. That is, due to being retold, there is an invisible arc to the story that the reader cannot sense but is surrounded by as if in water - depending on the level of emotional detachment of the narrator. That is, they may be experiencing emotional states, but narrating using matter-of-fact language that renders such states unknowable only to the author, who is in the mind of the narrator. However, it may not be invisible to the audience if the author cannot help themselves and just blabs about the differences between 'past me, and present me'.

It can be such a challenge conjuring some workable version of the past so you can understand what was at stake in a tale like this. As a shortcut to an immersive virtual time period, I simplify the situation to whether there's the presence of a roast beef vagina and whether or not they likely had aesthetically pleasing feet. All other details are insignificant and a faithful service to those heuristics would reduce this scene to pair of vying vulva, each made awkardly bipedal by the strange joining of the respective disembodied female feet. Françoise Gilot was born into French comfort and a household that emphasized femininity and the role of hygiene in cultivating feminine energies. Raised surrounded by beauty and formally trained to master the creation of beauty, Françoise kept her feet beautiful with a meticulousness that won her great renown as both subject and painter. Capturing the elusive beauty of her tootsies evaded many a paint brush and as she sprouted and earned her beef curtains during her artistic curricula, the pursuit of her feet drove many a suitor wild, some to spectacular suicides, with tearful speeches pledged to Françoise's feet before then leaping into canyons, river rapids or peak traffic. Marie-Thérèse's feet, however, were significant because they are what seduced Picasso away from the ballet-battered feet of his wife, Olga. They were the immaculately feminine feet that reminded Picasso that roast beef needn't be the only thing on the menu. Marie-Thérèse set the standard for all future lovers of Picasso: archlets and neglected feet of any detectable aspect were not welcome. What a thing then to imagine Picasso's much venerated foot goddesses vie for the privilege of their feet being not only worshiped with great salivary and auditory gusto but also the subject whether direct or indirect of much of Picasso's artistic energies. Reduced to their core, their simplest form, the mortal combat of two vulva propelled by those notoriously pallid and cared for feet of two rich roasties would appear silly or absurd, but it reveals something essential, that with all the trappings of society stripped away and the only important notation appearing, we see the adversarial labia grappling like pugilist bivalves and see in this contest that all else is just as well circumabulating the fight, waiting for the victor, the next cog of causality to lurch and move the universe on to the next era, so great the import and the climactic clash of these two unsuspecting if bewitchingly beefed French ladies. We discover ultimately that vaginas have always been sorta gross and have an agenda all their own. To the aesthete, the artist the same as the aristocrat: women's feet are the only thing about them which matters, and a good pair redeems all the other bullshit and nonsense you have to put up with.

I would remove the exposition and details from the action or find a way to strip only what is needed, barely. The action might flow differently and maybe you'd like it more.

Nice intonation-deliverable type text, this seemed cathartic to write

>corporeal
this language throws off the comparatively playful "ice age" and "frozen coffin" lines. I was picturing a Duke Nukem type gruffness but corporeal doesnt jive with that.

this seems like a notepad with ideas that could be expanded upon

someone making the student experience interesting will be a showcase of great literary mastery. this is a tough time to describe, perhaps because so many have our own reference points. I still like it, however because its trying to capture that moment that we'd otherwise dismiss and forget as a youthful apparition.

speaking from experience as a BTDT baddie, your post sin report to self is usually a more serene affair, almost like settling into the evil, like you learn to tread in your newly more horrible life youre still worseningly stuck with - oh, I thought it was the whiskey of someone you'd just slain. I like it for the introspection, it feels real but not quite sorrowful and depressive enough. There is not enough sadness. You are holding something back.

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The Life-Debt

In dark days you may fall to the altar,
Sob for salvation, but you move not to be saved.
In despair you may reach to the halter
For the road to repentance is not to be paved.
Weary you be, you must walk further still
To make yourself clean you must prove to me your will.

Carry this stone to the high mountain peak,
Wander the land 'til your proctor returns,
Gather the fleece and all that he may seek
Toil and burn while my mad machine churns.
This is the repayment, it's true and it's fair,
To fall to your knees; bow, my immaculate chair.

You asked not for forgiveness, 'twere given for free,
You received the gift, and must forever serve me.
I like this. Only part is that I think this line:
>off worksites and are known to make off
is kinda iffy. I don't like how it starts and ends with the same word for no real reason, and I think it's short length throws off the flow of the stanza.

I know is not perfect but I poured my soul in it.

An earthquake shaking my reality
Trees rising, children falling
Full speed through my bloodstream
A locomotive with no driver

My hand a gargoyle with no tower
A lion devouring his circus-master
The Nile running through my visage
A thief of me and a perfect crime

The greatest pleasure on the world
Was ripping of my pilgrim soul
My friends, I was not strong enough
In the end, I had to scratch my balls.

.

First time writer, so take it easy I am aware of the edge that seeps through. Mainly looking for a critique on the writing. I was going to go somewhere with this but kinda experimented.

Irony is a funny thing, Life is. I always thought life was a joke or game, But disillusionment doesn’t do well for ones heath or mental state.
. Upon hearing of my best friend, Or so I thought. Any way Erick asked out Raya, Who was our friend from Junior High despite me telling him my desire to ask her and of my feelings. I was sure she returned them as well. Here I was as per a Monday morning first period history, I think todays lesson was a introduction to the enlightenment, I was to tired to lift my head from my arms pathetically just listening, writing down the odd sentence. I could feel some people looking my way, probably some rumors of what happed and my confrontation with Erick. I decided to give up writing anything and pretended to sleep. What are friendships anyway, Why would I need them anyway? I’m smart, fairly good-looking if do say so myself, Id just have to go back to what is like before I knew them. Temporary as human companionship is for a moment I fell for it, But do I really just roll over and die? Submitting to life taking the easy way out? Isolation, nihilism and most of all self-hatred? Its evil,the hierarchy is. Ignorant sick humans fighting for power until the little life they had is gone, with nothing to show. No significant contribution to the advancement of human civilization if lucky pass on their genes which seems to be the most meaningful to life, Ironic isn’t it? The suffering the soul has to endure and remember. It’s foolish to acknowledge that I’m not any different besides my indifferences with my fellow men. Hearing the teacher calling out my name I answered “yes Mr Smith” smiling knowing he probably thought I was off-guard. I answer his question regarding Rene Descartes “I think therefore I am” I thoughtfully pondered and then answered “I think he is talking about our sense of self and how we identify with the world around ous and we are surely are real and exist if we have consciousness While it wasn’t a difficult question the class was moved on and the teacher gave a “ alright good answer”.

Realized a lot of mistake,But its 420 and I wrote it very quickly. Just like I might end my writing career very quickly...

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In late September many voices
Tell you you will die.
That leaf says it. That coolness.
All of them are right.

Our many souls—what
Can they do about it?
Nothing. They’re already
Part of the invisible.

Our souls have been
Longing to go home
Anyway. “It’s late,” they say.
“Lock the door, let’s go.”

The body doesn’t agree. It says,
“We buried a little iron
Ball under that tree.
Let’s go get it.”

Blood moon rising above buildings
Flying on the highway
Shotgun side
I draw my camera and shoot at it
Through the windscreen
As a Latin cover of “The Next Episode” plays
And my new friends laugh
Out of focus

I want it bad so I undo my seatbelt
Hang out the window
I’m a dog in the cold wind
As the drawstrings on my hooded fly back
I try again
Open my mouth
Savour a second before returning
Out of focus

Later in the night
She pours some rum
Into “shottinos”
Agree today was a good day
Smiling joking and looking into
Each others eyes
For good luck
Things come back into focus

you guys know the thread loses its purpose if you just dump your shit without critiquing anyone else's

sad, he mused. “sad is the way they should feel.” he cracked his finger on the side of his desk. the motion sent a tremor through the flimsy wood surface (weakness). “i don’t feel sad,” he said, balancing one foot against the wall and leaning his chair back. his vision was blurry (weakness). the small white cursor slipped across his screen, though he didn’t feel his hand moving, didn’t remember the impulse to do so. it clicked reply (weakness). “you’re a faggot,” he said, he typed.

I like this poem a lot. The only part I don't like is:
>That leaf says it. That coolness.
>All of them are right.

All of those full stops make it seem a bit melodramatic. It reads like you're trying to give it added punch. I think the opening stanza would be more effective if you got rid of those full stops, made it one sentence (and edited the words so it made sense), and made the metre of that new sentence identical to the first sentence. The reason why I think this is because the first sentence is so deadpan and flat, yet so suitable an introduction to the tone of the poem. I believe you could get away with bending the rules a little here for creativity's sake and beat us over the head with a cudgel of sameness in that opening. However someone else may tell you something different.

I like this, but the cursor shouldn't 'slip'. There has got to be a better verb than that.

No, keep writing, but stop smoking pot. This reads very much like the writing I did in High School, and the thoughts themselves are similar to those I wrote down in High School. Even the situations are eerily similar. I hope I'm not offending you by presuming that's where you currently are, and in my thinking the situations in this writing is only partly fiction, as 'Quick' writing often is. I would say to keep experimenting, and writing for the sake of it. As to 'going somewhere' with this kind of writing, I personally would be at a loss for how to continue. You could have a collage of different scenes like this brought together into something disjointed but coherent, but it may require at least some plot. More importantly than this I would say the trouble with writing/improvising personal meditations into your main character is that the main character/narrator will not develop unless the meditations also develop - the meditations could regress, but the main character is already in a place of apathy, so for things to regress, things would have to get worse. Interestingly, and I think this truly is the most superb kind of arc, things could steadily get worse for him, but his meditations could become healthier and more balanced. As to critiquing the actual writing you've done I don't want to do that, because you yourself should do that with this piece in a month or two with fresh eyes, reading other works in the meantime.

Snot drip
Wet patch on pillow
Puffy eyes
Wallowing in sorrow
Deepest despair
and self condemned suffering,
inducing sleepless nights.
Same weariness tomorrow

Nice poem user.I enjoyed reading it. Have you read "Spring and Fall" by Gerard Manley Hopkins? It has a similar theme - you might like it.

One of many to come in this series.

Envelope of darkness,
dry earth,
devoid of love,
bound his reign,
marked , with the bodies of the slain,

The dead, asleep at their graves,
Their stories, sewn at the very end,
as the dark lord consumed, the brave fell,
No one left to listen, nor anyone left to tell

Fading hope, dwindling order,
were rekindled by the prophecy,
The one to conquer you know who approaches,
his strength will pave a way,
his arms will weave a resurrection
laughter, love, learning will fly again,

The prophecy was exposed, hidden were its details,
But the dark lord will fall,
Professor exclaimed.

His words came true,
A baby did what others couldn't,
Winter ended, spring came,

Now we will grow,
Around the symbol of light,
The boy who lived,
The darkness which died.

The intoxicating allure of drunken madness and anger infests us all. How easy to submit to rage when the scenery goes red as blood and your thoughts melt in the inferno. So easy to strike out in feral lust for blood when the words fail to form and you’re left wrestling with the rabid animal inside you. So easy is it to spite venom like a cobra when you’re bound by morals and let sin slip. So hard is it to douse the gasoline sparked hellscape that ravages your temple. To sacrifice your worse half and become less of a human is to deny your sanity its chance to break free. This prison we keep tucked away, only few have unlocked the cages to self restraint. What is the price of true face? To live as you are, to be whole? What is it worth? We’re fools juggling ourselves deciding what to satisfy and satiate.

From an average reader I think you need to go deeper, more descriptive. I realize this is just one piece without context but why do I care about some high school romance bullshit? Maybe I need to know about what the protagonist really feels, something we’ve all felt but have a hard time expressing. I say deeper but you need less exposition on the irony of the world unless you have something new and interesting to add, not an insult but we’ve all read it or thought it.

Reads like an edgy essay. There's no characters or narrative to give life to your points, which isn't necessarily wrong but why should I care about your (the author's) opinion? If you wanna write stuff that makes a 'serious' point, remember that most people who read at all will naturally be of the opinion they know better than you til you give them a reason to believe otherwise, which I don't really see. This reason might be anything from a novel argument/theme, good prose, a dynamic narrative, structural dexterity, personal/autobiographical authority or even just unrelenting sincerity. You might be tempted to shoot for the last but it's tough to nail without sounding cliche/overwrought. Keep at it. The benefits vs costs of self-restraint could definitely be interesting if done well.

There's more, but I haven't typed it up yet. Would you keep reading?

Attached: novel sample.png (1529x867, 95K)

It's not bad, slightly strained at parts, but decent. At its best it felt a bit like a Gothic version of the early Vauquer boarding house scenes from Goriot.

>slightly strained at parts
example? and what do you mean? thanks for the compliments

I'd really appreciate some critique for mine from anyone who has the time: I would keep reading. Some of the sentence structure is a bit repetitive. in my opinion too many sentences begin with "I ____ed." That's just a style thing though.
I dig it. What's the intent behind the line break here, though:
>Our many souls—what
>Can they do about it?

Just that the prose verges on melodramatic/overwrought/clunky in a few small places, at least in my opinion, some examples:
>inured...through years of deliberate exposure and mastery (feels inelegant, could be reworded imo to sound better, and with less of the edge implied in the phrase 'deliberate exposure and mastery' - esp that last word, idk just rubs me the wrong way
>cavern of my flesh
>timid and firm all at once (could be fine, jsut needs some elaboration imo)
>cloying weakness (maybe there's a way you could show his contempt rather than just telling it in such a blunt, and again verging on edgy imo, fashion?

I understand it's a Gothic-styled type thing, so a certain amount of what I might find edgy or tryhard in any other context might be acceptable here, but whatever, that's just my gut reaction, gl tho, again pretty fun overall

>>his language throws off the comparatively playful "ice age" and "frozen coffin" lines. I was picturing a Duke Nukem type gruffness but corporeal doesnt jive with that.

Definitely not trying to go for Duke Nukem type gruffness. You should keep reading.

Actually, I agree with you. First one rubbed me the wrong way as well, but I haven't thought of another way of wording it for now.

plz go easy on me...

Streetlamp glare on wet paving-stones, the sound of heels clopping, people laughing, singing—signals that possess an innate impedance with which we can hold against the Night’s advances, it's creeping threats.
Time passes.
Despite their roars and cackles and cries and calls, the tacit language of their figure, their fashion, are so dim, and so muted. No one wears any color. Grey men and women wander wearing only shades of ash.

—Time passes again.—

Its later, now: more faces—only blurs, inarticulate murky swirls—sneak by in their sooty clothing and disappear into the crevices, the nodes where the darkness is thickest, where the trajectories of the Moon People and the cultists intersect, at angles odd and inexpressible. They retreat, like roaches, from the the nacre, down to dens deep in the earth, away from the glow of shop-windows and even the cool hum of neon.

Again, time passes.
Sybils and Whores, Dionysians and Lunatics; Magus, Werewolf, Wytch, tempered Mare of Night: dreamers and poets and perverts all, each of them stalking, craving, a fount from which might gush—for them alone—some of Saturday’s dark blood, and a dim corner of their projected world in which to curl-up and enjoy it.
Again! Time passes again! How can it be?—in this night so long, and so stretched? And how dare it pass for anything other than eternity!
But look: the rims of the taxi-cabs—caked with entropy, city-dirt—rotate at a slim fraction of their normal speed, and raindrops—one of the few sources of light, reflected, in this little hiding place of mine—slide down windows the way great bodies of ice once slid down mountainsides.
There is bruise-colored coagulation in the stream. A jam, a dam, a dyke. And it’s me—my vivisection of the present—that, I think, might be the cause.

Typed up a little more before work

Attached: longer sample.png (1515x865, 131K)

This oddly resembles the novel I'm currently writing (see ). It also revolves around whores, Dionysus, the moon, Time, and lunatics. We must be responding to some weird zeitgest-like force. That's pretty curious.

“There’s nothing like driving on a full tank of gas,” he said to Mark, half-mockingly. Mark didn’t have his license yet. It was a consistent source of banter, that Mark would be able to drink before he’d be able to drive. That Mark’s wife would drive him and the kids around everywhere. That his wife would wear the pants in their relationship. That Mark’s just holding off until self-driving cars are the standard. That Mark’s a bitch. That Mark’s wife will have to drive herself to the hospital after her water breaks. That Mark will call shotgun then, and always. That Mark will get a divorce.
So Birdie drove and Mark sat shotgun. It was a two-door standard Toyota Tacoma. Birdie got it for his 17th birthday as a gift from his parents. It was a blandish matte gray, and though Birdie had often considered getting it repainted into a sky blue, some nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him that that’d be kind of gay. His friends and schoolmates all drove Jeeps and Audis, BMWs and Range Rovers, and though Birdie was hardly of a lower class than his peers, he sought out the small truck for its “charm”.
Mark assumed Birdie secretly enjoyed ‘playing poor’, a term Birdie coined himself one afternoon when he observed with disgust that a ragged old plain white tee-shirt with holes and dirt stains was going for 350$ on some obscure designer clothing website.
“Hey, I just cut my fingernails. Can you open it?” Mark asked Birdie, offering him the unopened tin of dip. Birdie flipped the turn signal flasher downwards and grabbed the tin. Once Birdie maneuvered his way into the left lane, he looked down and examined Mark’s recent purchase.
“Long cut?” Birdie asked as he began the delicate dance of opening the tin. He raised his left leg to take control of the steering wheel and pierced his long thumbnail into the crease on the side, and with both hands quickly rotated the tin until the seal was fully broken. He let the tin fall to his lap as he brought his hands back to the wheel.
“It’s more bang for your buck. Much more tobacco than the pouches. Gimme that.” Mark grabbed the tin from atop Birdie’s dick.
“Easy, cowboy.” Birdie said with a smile. “Buy me a drink first, why don’t ya?”

Thoughts are like staircases, but not stairs we walk up and down on, rather we meet staircases where we are being tripped, pushed, forced violently by an assailant to meet each and every step as we lose the tether of connection between them and sometimes I would tell myself when I was young and having trouble falling asleep. STOP! Just stop. And it would work for a sec or two but as was always the case I would meet the staircase panels again and again and the assailant was there when I arrived at the next, lower floor ready to launch me forth again into that dizzying amalgamation of possible thought. Things that have no connection were made so and they were streamed together by the finest of threads to make linearity about them. Right now as I write this I find the writing is also becoming like thought, becoming like an echoing dreamstate, the dream within a dream, the cave that lies deep within a cave, those are the places where the real treasure lies. Sometimes when I was thinking I would think about the artificiality of my thoughts, this being because I looked at thoughts I had had from like a year ago, month ago, perhaps minutes ago and think how silly those thoughts were: what is that? The skin dies, the organs falter to nonfunctioning, everything about humans is prone to failure and dissolution but we seem to tell ourselves that we are the man that we saw in the mirror minutes ago and we are the boy in the pictures at grandma's house, we are something uniquely us... That is the thought I cannot pass when I arrive at it, the thought of 'i', that is the tether I reach for in thought, because the thoughts are necessarily without me now, not present thought true, im rambling and not making much sense, even this writing to me seems to display the dilemma I am facing, I use the pronoun I, thinking I am saying true connections to myself but I am just descending the longest staircase any man will ever face: his thoughts. He becomes sick of thought; he does. Sleep to me was the greatest relief, especially when dreams were met that were phantastical as anyone could never believe, the only time I felt I wasn't in the ever-looping prison of thought: I was free to be non-I in the soup of dream.

Clouds fill up the sky,
Proudly spill down water
On all matter then they die

I was there. Standing in between two moments. I could feel the wind, I could hear the river, I could see the horizon. I knew it was right, to be there. The feeling of freedom from all pressures, but I still felt uneasy. It was unshakable, this feeling. Everything was right, but it wasn't. All that I've done up to this moment was in search of something inexplicable. An experience, a feeling, something that would tell me that all of this was worthwhile - that there was a purpose to this chaos. Yet, still, in that moment, there was a hole inside of me. Why is it that I cannot formulate what it is that I want? If only I could describe it, make it clear, maybe I would be able to posses it. But what is it?

Disconnected. Alone. Empty. Vulnerable. I felt separated, alienated, from the moment. The blowing of the wind, the running of the river, the setting of the sun, there was a deep silence behind it all. The more I focused on this silence, the louder it became. There was nothing but silence. Unbearable. Was this what I was looking for? Where there was beauty, there was nothing. Where there was disgust, there was nothing. I could see only nothing, an emptiness. It was useless, there was no purpose to this emptiness. Why was it there? I could not handle it. It was unbearable and I didn't want to see it anymore. I wanted to be rid of this image in my head. But, I couldn't. What is seen, cannot be unseen - only changed.

I'm writing this short story for my literature class, looking to get feedback on how i've started it so far. insults count too.

now for obligatory giving other people feedback

sounds too pessimistic to be enjoyable to read. i could relate to what was being said, apathy is a weird thing to write about, i feel maybe it could be channelled into a different kind of story/writing, or with different symbolism. what you have written is just crushing, and harsh.

i dont know what this means

your stream of consciousness is a bit too foreign to me, hard to follow. i feel like i read the words but dont understand anything from them, you are writing about complicated things. maybe im too tired to make sense of it all. reading this makes me sleepy.

im too sleepy to give more critique now, but i will do more in the morning if anyone wants it.

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i think its a good message lad but work on the words it sounds clunky

my hand in awkward efforts
creates sophomoric work
but still it holds effective
for improving my light verse
though couplets take my liking
there is but many yet
that never seemed so striking
till i once tried them, yep!
my tone could be more casual
or i could be a bore
but the point is self expression
and there's lots of that galore

Very good user, maybe expand on the last paragraph a bit more though.

The rhythm falls apart in the middle paragraph, and trying to get back into the pace after that was annoying. Switch your wording around a bit and it should be good

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>with all the haste I was once created
Maybe word it differently, it doesn’t sound right. It feels like you’re just naming a noun then not addressing it in the rest of the sentence, although I do get what you’re trying to say

Keep crying

Here's mine. Cringe intentional, very snappy, plebbit-like dialogue

Attached: storey.png (900x1200, 75K)

I see you in my dreams almost every night
the lights still shine but not as bright
since the day that i had lost your sight,
lost love for love of lust’s delight,
I hope that one day ,the light
again I shall see, despite

bump

Thanks lads. That was a really fun shitpost. I'll post some actual work -- some day.

Bump.

You could lose "thick" for the first, imo. "Snow rose in" is plain pleasant – impossible to not blend together. It also has a pleasant ambiguity. One rose or "rose" as plural? I enjoy it, anyway. "Brittle" also contrasts "rose" enough by itself.

This is just the beginning of the poem. Am I going in the right way or is it shit?

Every dreadful night.
After the milky and hipnotizing whisper of the lady dark.
Sssssss leap, ssssss leap.
The dreamer navigates though his sand-
like river of subconscious.
Riding on the mighty ship of thought. Hunting whales of ego and windmills of delusion.
Goes Sinbad The Dreamer following the sun.

Whirlwinds full of honey and sand
Drowned the hopeless vessel;
Buried in island full of ocean, was our everlasting Captain.
Lonely, broken, with no treasure was the bandit of le mer.

Hiding hands, Australian pigeons
Felt the dreamer warming calm;
Took big pieces of the ocean making snowmen out of sand.
Sculping hazlenuts and peaches
Made the dreamer fantasize
Of a mundane evil creature blowing kisses to no one.

>Sadly I only make stuff when emotional and paranoia has only been kicking around so ill just repost

why do the days pass by dreadfully but go by in haste,why has yellowstone yet to erupt, why has the sun yet to explode,why can't i stay stable, why am i so sensitive, why am I so annoying, why have I placed such a burden on everything, why am I typing this, who am I typing this to, who is reading this, why cant i just be happy,why am i dirty why do i keep getting these headaches,why do my eyes have to be so big so they dry up so easily making them burn, why are my teeth bleeding,why am i such a burden to everyone,why cant i just go away, why dont you just go away for a bit it wont make a difference,why am i typing here? to who?, i've managed to do nothing but inflict pain into those who love me and those who come with the preposition to love nothing more nothing less,if only there was something to hang from in this house, if only i can guarantee myself to not exist would such an attempt take place,why cant i find happiness anywhere?everythings tiring everythings o-so tiring everything is exhausting me to bits,a few more years i think, im psychic so i know a few more years, not now surely not now but a few more years, im a lazy complacent piece of shit that needs to shrivel up in die before i place the burden of my existence and the everlingering shadow on those who only prepropose love,no one ive placed such a burden one can have no such strong feelings toward me because im a wreck a wreck a carcrash a bridge falling apart people want to be my friend to cherish their self better,no one cares no oncaresnoonecaresnoonecaresnoonecaresnoonecaresnoonecares if your reading this no-one-cares nobody 0 dont talk to me anymore dont talk to me anymore accompany me off the bridge and ill be finitely grateful, i need a gun, why am i writing a blog entry hehe , why cant i sleep why am i living why do i live why do i have to live its such a fucking chore im tired of it exhausted i dont want to deal with this shit anymore i cant be happy or sad for any extent of time i cant be satisfied i always have to exhaust my self for fucks sake fuck off let me rest let me fucking breathe i cant take this shit anymore fuck you fuck all of you burn in hell whywhywhy all i fucking ask im sick of this shit why dont i jump off a fucking bridge fuck you dont fucking talk to me fuck you piece of shit fuck fuck fuck i have the ability to do absolutely nothing terribly its all i have to fucking to why do people place expectations that are unfucking reachable why do people think im smart or do people not think that all? I suppose I give myself too much credit my intelligence its the only thing i cherish and its below average-average no doubt im not made to do anything i want to do in this world fuck you piece of shit

lies......lies.....everything is cruel.everything is false.everything you know means nothing. tomorrow......tomorrow. another lie....another lie

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gimme a topic

What the hell you guys? I finally fucking post my own shit after giving advice to other anons and the thread just fucking dies?

Are you the edgy teen?

No, I’m a little further up

Which one user

And then he went back to Malmo and got robbed and beaten by a pack of Somalis.

they did
would
could should
they did
one said

p. gud

>Tao Lin
Fucking nigger.

I stopped in a grimey roach congregation on 52nd and 3rd, your typical bodega. I'm waiting in line to pay and this putty-faced slipknot t-shirt wearing bozo puts down a dozen doughnuts, two big bags of Doritos, one of those cheap-o one gallon jugs of the generic brand fruit punch, and a nasty old rotting banana.

He turns to the expressionless Punjabi clerk and for a sec I think he's going to ripen up this place with sincere human contact, whether that be a passing anecdote, or peek inside a window to his dim depressing drug-fueled life.

He say, "uhhh. My girlfriend just had an operation, she can only eat certain things."

I look at this joker straight in the mug and I go "ya right what did she have, a bong-hit transplant?"

This one

I like how you describe the setting. It's really well written, but it feels kind of boring if I'm being honest user. It feels more like describing a picture than anything.

Do you have any ideas on what I could add to make it better? The purpose of the piece is to describe the weight of undecided futures, and to do so I purposefully bloat it with characters that don't exist to emphasize that, but I still want the main theme to be what readers take from it, not just a list I made of different kinds of people. If you've got any suggestions, I'd be happy to hear them, user. Either way, thanks for the compliments :)

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Idk user. But i think you need to work in 3rd paragraph i like the footprints part. But the rest feels kind of weird to read
I feel it blurs the message

I feel you are going fine until you hit half 3rd paragraph. But I do like the last one a lot though. I feel it wrapped what you are trying to convey really well
But 3rd paragraph is where you had to convey that message and hit the reader

Ok, somebody just tell me if it's shit or not

Every dreadful night.
After the milky and hipnotizing whisper of the lady dark.
Sssssss leap, ssssss leap.
The dreamer navigates though his sand-
like river of subconscious.
Riding on the mighty ship of thought. Hunting whales of ego and windmills of delusion.
Goes Sinbad The Dreamer following the sun.

Whirlwinds full of honey and sand
Drowned the hopeless vessel;
Buried in island full of ocean, was our everlasting Captain.
Lonely, broken, with no treasure was the bandit of le mer.

Hiding hands, Australian pigeons
Felt the dreamer warming calm;
Took big pieces of the ocean, making snowmen out of sand.
Sculping hazlenuts and peaches
Made the dreamer fantasize
Of a mundane evil creature, blowing kisses to no one.

Sleeplesss when sleeping, worked his dreamer heart
After every hide-and-seek game
Of the father and his sons
He made a little finger, he made a silky hand
Shadows dancing in the fireside
Restless dreamer and his sand.

Silhouette of a lover started to be seen
A greek pot was her body
And the dunes were on her lips

Fury In Shanghai, The Unmistakeable Sound Of A Keyless Man Pissing On A Face
Prehistoric Fuck-Faced Ho-Down
Mona Lisa's Nemesis
The Whore By The Quay
Antonos Jackson, The Last Drowned Man Standing
The Unassuming Flying Chair From A Lobby
After Knocking Down Countless Priceless Artifacts And Paintings,
A Blind Thief Crashes Through A Museum Window
Littlefoot's Last Voice Acting Paycheck
Loquascious Fires, The Flames Fifty Abyssfal Flame
The Stolen Throne Sold To Juan For Tacos And Cocaine In Mexico
Undulating Spice-Devourer
The Sky Fortress Finds A Chariot Lord With Five Names
700lb A&E Star Trying To Lay Off The Sweets
Capitulum Casus, The Male Father Figure Justin Timberlake Never Had, Jazzercises First Heart Attack Victim, The Tree Root Growing Under the Cable Lines, Spear of Rapunzel
Glowfish Barflash
Dragon's Last Dance
The Rat Denied His Cheese
The Whore With The Heart Of Gold
El Dorado's Leftover Trash Heap
Pussy Full Of Pencil Sharperners
043X1 Rotund Thundercougar
Tougher than Catshit
Nuevo Sol Fowl
El Paso's Dirty Little Secret
Tulsamae Rencomatose, The Cursed Corpse Sun
Udibras steals a jewel in 蒙娜丽莎, Kansas
The Trans-Dimensional Stampede
The Humphries Provincial Bitch Speaks In Forbidden Tongues
Kenney Chesney's Great Aunt
The Chupacabra's Lingering Shit Gas
Forehead Grind
Selfies Taken On A Fun House Mirror
The Bolshevik Phantoms
Guapo Sanchez, The Yuletide Dream-Eater
Locusts Feast On A Dead Moose As Ch. 16 Burns To The Ground
Two-Named Fabrito Heckleteme
Enko Firejacks and Liquido Kellerman + Yamada Arun Huran Jebediah Runehoof
A Creaking Wheelchair Springs To Life
Hillsides Corkscrewing Into Mountains
Black Hole Skeleton Key
Centuries of Mysterious Whores
Dividing AIDS Comet
Ghostly AIDS Meteor
Bone-Fed Afterburners
Jacimo Markova, The Victimproof
Geppetto's Shapeshifting Whale
Four Hundred Thousand Dead Kings
Secrets of a Pigwhore
Mauling Ray
Darth Gepetto's Final Solution
The Opposite Of Prophecy
Jezebel Luca, The Shattering Water
The Motorcycle, The Sniper, and The Elevator
The Man With Wings Of Flame
Provost Kosotep, The East Juggernaut
A Giant Hayabusa Falcon Rides For A Dying Empire One Last Time
Second Sight Anathema
The Court Jester's Faked Funeral
Levitating Circus Firewalker
Rift-Breaking Barrier Exit Collapse; Enters Colonel Gyre Starfucker, Lord of the Northwestern Winds
Multiverse-Shattering Divebomb Interceptor
Tripod Douche
Seven Uncurvable Bullets
Runaway Plague
The Gyre Virus
A Flaming Discoball Flies Towards The Sea
Rat Face Divine
Whirlwinding Druid, Collapsing Cocaine Mountain
Omega Code: Whore

Excalibur's Truth
Corpse Mountain Escort Service
Generic Epitaph For One Trillion Dying Stars
Bartavius Roman, The Clawed Hand
The Impossible Orgy
⠠⠉⠥⠝⠞
Pencil Delgatto, The Fire Douche
The Golden Halo, The Gift from the Cambered Jester
A Flame-Forged Pact Blots Out Every Sun
The Collapse Of The Element: Carbon
Seppertine Fulton Spinners | West
The 6th Attempt on Colonel Gyre Starfucker, Lord of the Northwestern Winds, Reader of Chapter -36e^7 Exorcist Edition's Life
An Attempt Out Of Spite, An Attempt Out Of Life, An Attempt Out Of Sight, An Attempt from the Knight, By the Knight, To the Night, a Prayer Sent but Never Received
Fuck Queen Unstoppable
Young Lafiatte King
Demaunchio Paxnanos Technanos Del Mar
The Smell Burglar
Unkockamonos the Fuck Monger
Little Debbies House of Decay
9 Chickens and a Duck That Can't Stand Up Straight
Hoodwink Minx
casablanca Rosefucker, Wanderlust Autotargeting System
Cogs On A Mecha-Whore Machine
Magnifico Heights and Ramadi Nights
Dead Phoenix
Lockpicked Crystal Chastity Belt
Scene 1 Verse 8161524267829093888490
The Evergrinding Wheels Of Fate
Painter, The Forgotten Knight That Carries The Forgotten Wishes of a Forgotten King From a Forgotten Place From A Forgotten People From a Forgotten Land From a Forgotten Time
A Simple Question With No Simple Answer
The 38,564th and Most Notable Attempt on Colonel Gyre Starfucker, Lord of the Northwestern Winds' Life

- Whispers from a Haunted Whorehouse
- Teleporting Applause From A Bottomless Pit

Well, you both seem to agree it's got to do with paragraph three, so I'll have to look into that more. Thanks for the advice!

It was me twice. My bad
If you could read my poem would be great

>hipnotizing
fix the typo

The flow could use some work, since the punctuation is inconsistent in a lot of places. At times it feels like I'm supposed to keep reading without pause between lines whereas other times it feels like the end of the line is also where the sentence ends (mainly in the 4th stanza but elsewhere too). As for the contents of the poem itself, I think that rewording a couple of the lines would do it good, like the third to last line where I can kind of tell what you're trying to say, but overall it would benefit from a change in sentence structure. (there's a lot of ways it could work depending on how you handle it so I'll leave that to you to decide). Otherwise, I liked the adventurous - though perhaps also melancholy - vibes I'm getting from it, as if it's lamenting over the passing of one's golden years. Fix the few things that need fixing and I think it could be really good.

Thanks user, really appreciate it. It's
my first poem in English, so I'm still pretty new to this

>i just realized there's at least to critique threads, so i'm shamelessly reposting what i just wrote on this one, too
>1/2

"I don't really know what to say, man. I've never prayed. But of course you know that, if you're real. I've never believed in any heaven or hell or whatever the fuck all the other names are, but I figured I'd do this, just in case."

The man peered down at the revolver in his hands, almost sparkling under the moonlight. The baritone harmony of wind hushed through the trees, accompanied by the melody of insects steadily chirping. He took a drag off his cigarette, and continued.

"Of course there's a lot of shit I'd have like to've done. I'd've liked to not be so prone to leaving everything to chance, without even making an effort to be straight-forward in my decisions. I'd've overall liked to have some sense of purpose, too. A lasting love wouldn't've been too bad, either."

The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a single bullet, and proceeded to load it into the gun. He spun the cylinder and raised it to his head.

"If you're real...give me a sign, man. Or whatever, just do your thing."

He pulled the trigger, and the sound echoed through the hills. Except it wasn't the gun. Close by there was a sound of peeling tires, immediately followed by a loud crash.

The chirping of insects disappeared. And for a moment, the man felt something. He snubbed out his smoke, and ran towards the source of the sound, and he knew deep down that this was his sign. There really was a god, he thought. Everything was going to be fine. Everything was going to make sense, and years away he was going to look back on this night and revel in how everything suddenly clicked, and how close he was to not knowing the true beauty of life and throwing it all away.

When he finally arrived to the source, there was only the sound of the radio playing some pop song he didn't recognize.

The car was crushed, wrapped around a tree.

He ran up to it, heart pounding. He clasped his hands to the side of his face as he pressed against the window, gazing in.

Dead.

It was probably a woman, when it was alive. Wet chunks of brain and innards were splayed and sprayed within the interior, with a symmetrical splatter stretching over the windows.

>two* critique threads***
>2/2

Once again, the man felt empty. This was more than likely due to what he saw in the backseat.

"How the fuck does that...even happen..." he muttered to himself.

There must've been a small, dense object in the car that perfectly bounced around to hit it just right. Just right, right at the top of the head through the soft spot, pressing into the brain with such force that the eyes were popped out, with a trickle of blood running down from each lifeless socket.

The man wandered back to where he was before, solely kept company by the sound of wind that was noticeably colder now.

He looked up at the stars, and a vibration in his throat began an attempt to summon words, but he immediately stopped. Once again, he spun the cylinder of the revolver, and even the wind died down, leaving him alone in an absolute, serene silence.

He pulled the trigger, and the shot was louder than the crash.

As soon as the echo disappeared into the distance, the wind and insects once again began their song.

1.get help 2.writing is not bad 3. its exhaustively narcissistic 4. pessosa if he was a edgy witch house band teen

>writing is not bad
how is not?

it's fine, a little bit boring and edgy
>"If you're real...give me a sign, man. Or whatever, just do your thing."
this line is very trite. it reads like a Dan Steel, I'd say publishable if the plot was good but not special

Could someone help me with this sentence?
"Are you really trying to get a sneak peek of my panties? Ha! The joke's on you! I'm not wearing any!"

Should it be "get a sneak peek" or "sneak a peek"?
"peek OF my panties" or "peek AT my panties"?
"The joke's on you" or "Joke's on you"?

I know I sound like a brainlet for even asking about something so basic, but figuring it out on my own is a nightmare. Grammar checkers say that every version is correct. I've found examples of each version, but without any explanations when should I use which one.
If you have any books recommendations for learning grammar, they would be appreciated as well.

I’d say “sneak a peak”, use AT instead of OF, and start the sentence with “Joke’s”, not “The”

I posted my reply too early but all the versions are grammatically correct. I’m just telling you which one I think sounds best

Thanks user, I appreciate it

The violet sky showed off its glamorous, bright stars of varying shapes to the pond. The beige rocks and cliffs stood strong on this serene night. The soft wind allowed the water to mirror the sky almost perfectly. The pond was sorrounded by healthy green grass and little grey birds. At the edge of the still pond was a copper-skinned man, on his knees and hands, weeping silently.

The moment was captured by the unknowing critters of the pond and the thin man who was standing on the opposite side of the lake. The man who caused this.

This is the opening to something experimental I'm writing. Basically I just want feedback on whether it's too weird and whether you think it's interesting enough that you would keep reading.

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thanks for the input. i asked for a subject in the other thread and wrote it under an hour, lol. any suggestions on how i can make my writing less boring? i was going for a hollowed out, fucked up cynical kind of feeling, so i can totally see how easy it easy for that to cross into the realm of edgy and boring.

Bump

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Howth finished off polishing his gun. A glock 17. He was proud of it. He polished it every day, oiled it, and kept it in pristine condition. The gun looked brand new, indistinguishable from one straight off the production line, apart from 2 small etches on the handle. The etches were intentional.

Howth motioned towards the first one. “This one got too cocky. I can normally stand a Muslim, but this one got too cocky, abusing our generous welfare system, and he paid the price”

He moved on to the next one.

“This one threatened me. He was drunk. I don’t drink, as it is a toxin and damages the mind. Varg teaches of the dangers of alcohol, and I seek to emulate the life of Varg in many ways.”

Howth took out a small sharp blade. At this point I noticed blood on his hands.

“As for this one, no real reason. I felt in a bad mood watching the assault on Europa from its enemies, and no black is safe from my wrath when I am enraged.” He dug hard into the gun, adding a third etch.

Such a lust for revenge.

>I was fucking my girl pussyways

Made me kek and cringe at the same time