CRITIQUE THREAD

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This reads like prose poetry. I hope that's what you were going for because it was a pretty enjoyable read. I felt good.
you should critique other people. but if that's you it's not bad. little flash fiction.

here mine.

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this thread will die so fast. nobody on this board even reads let alone writes.

what are your thoughts on a fantasy book that includes a map partially obscured in the beginning and every few chapters the map is updated
is that too corny?

Here’s the first 600 words of a psychological horror story I’m working on. I haven’t written much and would consider myself inexperienced. I like Kafka and Lovecraft, and that’s where I’m taking my style and inspiration for this. It’s supposed to be written in first person future tense, so it’s a bit odd and perhaps clunky in places. Please excuse typos or mistakes in wording, just let me know about them so I can correct. I guess I’d like encouragement on what’s good or at least not bad, and if I have a shred of talent. Thank you my guys

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Correction, I meant second person future tense.

it's cause everyone in these threads is a total dick. no one lends any support or positive advice, they only try to flex their prose with intricate insults and non-constructive criticism. I stopped posting shit here because I actually want to get writing done, not go back and delete everything because some anonymous dweeb who happens to not like the things I like makes me question my skill

First, you should know, Lovecraft does nothing for me, and almost all horror in general falls flat for me.
Your writing style is good. It's lucid. This puts you far ahead of any beginner. But your form does not seem to match your content. Form and content need to come together properly like different elements of music come together. Think about why Lovecraft wrote a certain way: why did he never write a scene (so far as I can tell)? What benefit did his storytelling gain from this sort of almost clinical distance from the subject(s)?
In my humble opinion you might want to try writing this in the first person, with detailed descriptions of the characters mental and physical sensations.
But that's just me, don't let me pollute your vision. Perhaps what I'm trying to say is, your vision might not be coming through here.

Thank you user, I’m the OP. I’ll be sure to follow through.

So, you are posting in the threads which you supposedly quit because you like to write and not go back and actually see what's wrong with your prose?

I would tell you guys to critique or gtfo, but your faggotry gives the thread bumps so whatever.
>Insert reactionary bait here

You already posted this, and I criticised you but you don't seem to have changed it.

Yea Forums's supposed to be the smart board
Everyone here should read this:
lel.ed.ac.uk/~gpullum/passive_loathing.pdf

no I'm just asking a sort of survey question which no one is answering of course.

>no, I'm just
Actually yes, you're posting in the threads you supposedly quit.
There's a fantasy general to contain people like you. This thread is for critiquing.

another totally uncalled for, pompous response
thanks for validating me i guess

Why don't you want to hear where your question will be answered? D:

Thanks for the link, this is great.

Because I’m looking for answers, not deferrals?

You're looking for answers, so you refuse to go where your question will be answered? Does that make sense?

You should avoid starting sentences with because.

It does because I can read he catalog you fucking mental case lol
Why don’t YOU go there and see I already asked it? I’m trying To gage opinions- do you HAVE one or are you just being this much of a stubborn retard on principle?

Are you going to critique something anytime soon? If you critique something I'll answer your question.

Your Main character seems to be a narcissist. Wouldn't it make more sense for the MC to go through extensive mental gymnastics to be completely ignorant of their own beauty. Because the acceptance of ones own exceptional beauty comes with the realization that that's the only reason anyone even likes you. Then you can play with this concept using the 'mediocre' artist girlfriend. Do you get what I'm saying?
I actually have something in mind; you stoked my imagination. But you should come up with your own way of doing it.
Not bad, overall

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This is good. Like a good children's horror/halloween movie. Which I don't mean backhandedly.

Freak hoes worship death
Wry smiles and broken hearts
I alone hold the faith
For the future of the child
That I may save our people
And I alone hold the faith
For the future of the child
I alone hold the faith
For the future of the child
To die, I would follow you
With no choice
If I could see your dead face
Walking on the moon
Oh, I will pray and dance
And pray and dance
In the middle of the night
Oh, I will pray and dance
And pray and dance
In the middle of the night
Oh, I will pray and dance
And pray and dance
In the mid-week
Oh, I will pray and dance
And pray and dance
I'm the one you can trust
The one I may save you
Saving your life with me
Saving your life with me
For the future of the child
That I may save your mother
Saving your life with me
For the future of the child
No one will care

>In Victor Von Doom's voice:
>The hand of doom has the strongest grip, he tells me. Now, twenty-four years ago, I’ve run away from home. On that day I find myself on the streets. Can a white shirt come unscathed through a coal mine? I got lost. In some filthy corner of that Godforsaken slum, I find that old man again. Bent, broken backed, mule with two bum legs.

But why are you telling this story in a tense that it isn't in? You say "Now, twenty-four years ago." That's "then." If you want to write in that tense, tell it that way. Or if you don't want to write it that way, don't use that tense. And then you go to "I got lost" anyways. Maybe the narrator's just not supposed to be perfect, but:

>I have opened your eyes to the world, he told me, but worry not, child, when you reach my age, your eyes will no longer see life’s reality.
He remembers this verbatim? Is this some guy telling me the story over a campfire, or was "find myself in the streets" supposed to be some back to the future scenario? It sounds figurative.

>the story of the universe.
>the true state of the universe.
>the true state of the universe.
all in a row

>Where the tower was standing now is a black hole of infinite depth. I stare into it and find that I am the pit on the floor and the pit is me above staring down into emptiness.
I like this. Relativism works with vertigo, turning the world upside down is how you imagine falling in.

>The universe above is deep purple and freckled like the little girls face with stars. The sun sets, or rises, shooting an orange line through the still water reflecting the sky. And on the other side are mounds. Like the peaks of hills. I try to look closer, so the mounds oblige, and come into focus; They are boats filled with piled up rotting corpses of some unknown disease.
Is the big funny™ supposed to be that she's a roastie?

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>Freak hoes worship death
This sounds like it's something which isn't supposed to sound like something MC Ride would say but accidentally is

Thank you for this. Especially the 'true state of the universe' points; I think I skimmed over that on my read.
If I remember, the piece was supposed to be a dream sequence, which is why I was trying to do something with the tenses in the beginning, Honestly I don't know what I was thinking.
>Is the big funny™ supposed to be that she's a roastie?
It's interesting that that's what you got from it. Once again, I really don't know what I was on about when I wrote it. I do know that I overuse this orange-purple motif in my other stuff, I have no clue why. I just like this color combo. My bedroom from when I was 8 had a lovely purple wall, and a bunk bed, the kind with a bed above but a desk below. The bunk bed was white with orange. The four stairs up to the bed acted as cupboards; I filled them with books. One day in fourth or fifth grade I did poorly on a math test and my mother told me that they, my parents, were disappointed and my father felt sad about buying me the bunk bed. Maybe it's something about that?

>A cold voice spoke as its echoes traveled through the hallway.
This almost implies the echos precede the voice. Moving "as" to the front would make more sense. Then change how the next line starts.

It was also unclear how literal it was supposed to be. I wouldn't call it overpersonified, but the user who did didn't do so by chance.

>She instantly felt the burden drag her shoulders,
Generally seems fine. I'd put "on" between shoulders/her.

The monologues were good.

>It's interesting that that's what you got from it. Once again, I really don't know what I was on about when I wrote it
I heard freckles and mounds, and then rotting fish, if you were wondering where the conclusion came from.

>I do know that I overuse this orange-purple motif in my other stuff, I have no clue why. I just like this color combo.
At least that much was pleasant.

THE SHINING PRIME
LIGHT THAT TEMPERS WITHOUT STRIKING
CONJOINS THIS STRENGTH WITHOUT BINDING
MY HEART BECOMES THE SWORD
UNSTRUCK
UNBEATEN
SINGING A GLOWING SONG
UNSOUNDED AND
RESOUNDING IN MERCY
BECOMES THIS GROWING FURY
THIS SPIRIT HAS BEEN STILLED
THIS PHANTOM BLADE HEWS EVIL !!!

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>“What have you’ve done Carry”
?

first thing that comes to my mind after finishing this is.. whats the point? No clue what youre waffling on about or trying to say. Are you trying to write a story or just some nebulous piece of standalone prose? People like kafka arent disturbing because of disturbing descriptions but because the story is disturbing thematically. I also think your prose is too bizarre to find disturbing. Theres no mundanity in it. Theres no indication that
the character had a normal life or anything of value to lose. Its just a rather mindless dream. I also think your use of future tense inherently limiting.

“Vomiting forth words. Putting together their sounds. Mashing up some syllables. Spitting their words. Words in untold numbers of tongues. Each known by you. All sources compiled by you. All subjects being unaltered. Confirmed solid. From that distance away. From my twelve steps made further away.”

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"Seventy Four. Over the last four months, John had worked various jobs across the city to sustain himself. From performances on street corners, to helping at a local restaurant for a free meal, his labor had culminated in seventy four unused cigarettes along with a half a bottle of whisky. The average salaryman may not accept the value held in these goods, but John understood them to be more precious than food, shelter, or water. They could get John information about the town, or a bed to sleep on for the night; this was the foundation of his economy."

This is all I have and I wrote it a while ago. I feel like I was trying to be a pseud. Not sure if it's worth thinking about and continuing. I do like the premise of a homeless main character though.

>"As the doors of her room suddenly opened, she finally snapped back. Seeing her bed, she lunged straight into it."
>"She snapped as the doors opened suddenly, lunging into the bed upon seeing her, the—"
Honestly, your edit is actually trash. Here's how it should look:
>"She snapped back as the doors opened and lunged into bed—"
Sorry dude.

The beginning of a planned short story about the Luddites.

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I like the style. Youve missed a couple errors from when you proofread this. You use exponential in a way I dont consider correct in the second sentence.

The modern suburbia with its impossible to believe goodness is a paradise: modern utopia has been created here. The aimless sun shines brilliantly, and the creatures of the earth rejoice , green with affection. In the disquietude of the afternoon suburbia, in which tts inhabitants have left, there is a listnessess which the borders of all its contents, signs, fences and roofs all vibrate with intense edge. In this secret hour, reality transcends itself.

And who has the leisure to take part in this reverie? None other than the final synthesis of this landscape, the 20 or so student bun, too alive to die, too dead to live.

You have left in an insulting number of typographical errors. Posting on Yea Forums is serious business and you should treat is as such.
On a more serious note, the typos really do take away from the experience. You like to mix and match imagery and at times I'm not sure if I should ponder what a phrase actually means or just dismiss it as a mistake. Keep in mind, intentional misspellings are typical for modernist literature, a movement whose morphological root you invoke twice in your fragment.
Anyway, these are my thoughts, sorry if they're not comprehensive.

Dear Idiots, please stop using google docs in edit mode. Only provide links to published view.

Khu**** Buy*******
Kell** Tripp

It is a story, and does come to a climax, it’s not just a nebulous piece of standalone prose. Thank you for your critique I’ve been reconsidering the gimmicky tense as well, I’ll keep that in mind and perhaps try to rewrite it from present or past tense. Could you elaborate on your statement, “too bizarre to find disturbing”? What is so bizarre about the prose?

You need a dialectal opposition between the normal and the bizarre for the bizarre to be alienating

There are many errors that a native writer would be less likely to make. "Carry Fisher". Did you mean Carrie Fisher from Star Wars?
This is a written documentary that I assume was some random essay written for school. It's not a story so I didn't see any reason to say anything about it.
Frenzied, jumbled, breathless, breakneck pace. Slow down.
"you let your gardens grow wild" Why one 2nd person line? Odd point of view structuring. Doesn't seem like it was intended to become any longer than it is.
This is some bad lesbian romance and just generally bad fiction. It would be futile to go into why.
You will find that others like your writing style. However, you will be disappointed that they don't believe that writing in this manner will work out well for you. As you write more, you will discover that writing like this is not easily sustainable in long form. After having gnashed your teeth and cursed yourself for your folly, you will have changed your mind and have rewritten it entirely or limited it to a short story. The reponse following your posting it again in the thread will be met with mild admiration. While drunk on this fizzy encouragement you will have already continued on to have written much more.
His name is Soldier Crane? Japanese in the Pacific Northwest? Literal or figurative Nazis? Is this The Man in the High Castle fanfiction?
If this is anything to go by, you are going to have far too much exposition for a short story, unless you don't intended for much to happen at all.
I have no doubt this could become something entirely trite, vapid, angsty, and aggrieved if you continued it.

Sounds cool. Though I would probably be tempted to skip ahead and look at the complete map first. So it might defeat the point of what you're going for. One way around this is doing it by book installments, that way there is at least a distinction from one book map update and the next.

>So it might defeat the point of what you're going for.
Different user.
How so?
It wouldn't be any different from having the full map at the beginning.
It doesn't make any difference.

Ultimately when the whole series, or the whole book is released yeah it makes no difference. But it can be a fun gimmick. I personally don't think maps should be included anyways.

>You will find that others like your writing style. However, you will be disappointed that they don't believe that writing in this manner will work out well for you. As you write more, you will discover that writing like this is not easily sustainable in long form. After having gnashed your teeth and cursed yourself for your folly, you will have changed your mind and have rewritten it entirely or limited it to a short story. The reponse following your posting it again in the thread will be met with mild admiration. While drunk on this fizzy encouragement you will have already continued on to have written much more.

I appreciate the parody. I have technically finished it but have been rewriting it and toying with going more or less experimental. More general or more realist. It is definitely not going to be anything long, 5-10 pages maximum. It has been annoying wanting to constantly shift into simple “You will, etc. etc.” and I have had to go back many times and try to switch around sentences to avoid this, yet still I know it happens a lot. Feels great to hear I’m not complete garbage as a beginner, and that I’ve got some stylistic foundation to build upon at least. Thank you.

Here is the ending, which I understand may be incomprehensible with no middle, but I’d appreciate thoughts on the style at least if anyone is willing.

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I'm indifferent to maps myself, but it seems to be a fantasy staple.

If I'm being honest with myself, I haven't been properly servicing my English. I can feel the ruptured sentences and ditsy prose and it bothers me. This is my first try in a long time to write something proper but I've been having difficulty in crafting sentences. I have this stack of yellowing paper stored at the back of the room that I can't materialize into proper stories and its getting annoying.
Language never came easy to me. I struggle to jot down what I want to write. I have trouble articulating. I've been consulting books on grammar but the rules refuse to secure themselves inside my brain. I'm so tired of working so hard. I just want to rest and dish out a couple of pages without bashing my fucking brain. I wish I could bring back the drive to work hard but all the time I invest turns to nothingness.

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I like the flow of it, personally; I'm not sure if others would appreciate it. When the story forces you to write in such repetitive language towards the end, sometimes that means that you've gone wrong in your set up. Sorry forthe vagueness. The easiest thing would be to do a full rewrite from memory.

Do you know how to talk? If you know how to speak, then just write what you would otherwise speak. Fuck the rules, they're for academics. There is only one rule: what do I understand from your piece? And that depends as much on me as you; the taste of the apple is neither in the apple nor the mouth but in their meeting. An artist creates art simply by being an artist, just as a tree produces fruit merely by being a tree-- doing tree things. Be the kind of tree that, when laden with fruits, bends down due to their weight to offer them to travelers who need food and shade.

You were able to articulate what you wrote here. What more prood do you need that you can write?
You're creating your own problems.

It's not much of a story, but interesting enough I guess. The prose seems pretty good, but it's too over the head with its message. Yeah, man bad, animal good, you don't need to explain it so bluntly

A narcissist character needs to be interesting. This is just jerking yourself off

If anyone wants to read my wretched paragraph:

Among those items irretrievably lost in the fire were the complete and solely existing manuscripts of the great poet Zhoraz. All of his pretty verses, consisting largely of meditations on the self relayed in ecstatic, sometimes frenzied modes, were consumed in the blaze.

There is however tell of a wandering aesthetic —only occasionally encountered by far-aways people and always in the most bizarre of circumstances— who is said to have committed to memory Zhoraz’s entire oeuvre (or at least some significant portion of it). Of course there is no way to check his versions against the originals, but they are referred to in very much the same hushed and reverential tones reserved for the marked manuscripts. This man wanders through the land and his memorized limericks have become the thing of legend. The stories surrounding the man in question are suspiciously older than he has any right to be, and yet they persists. This incongruity may indicate that there exists a secret order of similarly minded aesthetics passing down from one to another the sacred verses like the words of Homer passing through greyed lips through generations before finding themselves codified in the written word. In the case of Zhoraz, of course, the opposite is the case: the written has transmuted into the spoken, and the characteristics and nuances of the oral tradition— long genealogical lists with sudden violent interjections— have been added rather than reduced to those of written language, sprinkled among its appositives and other various ways of nesting thought in a place where it may sit still. These poems, namely their very inaccessibility, has conferred onto to them a magical status, in that they have become a means of incantation. There are reports that, upon hearing just a single line from the grizzled, idol-carrying man, a young boy’s face was cast into a grey countenance from which he never recovered. Other testimonies are more optimistic, sometimes bordering on fable— among them the story of a girl, who after listening patiently to the man recite for her one of the poet’s elegies on the great beams of architecture from his now ruined homeland, slowly arose from her seated position, politely thanked the man, and returned to her garden, where she just as calmly dug a hole in a spot near an elm tree that had grown there, uncovering an entire chest of lost Spanish treasure.

just wrote something I'm not sure about, sort of inspired by carson mccullers' wunderkind, but:

"In the clear night he felt his body swell with desire, but he put it away, somewhere behind the guitar, and began to play.
Loud, yet bell-like the tones rang from the cheap, unamplified elecric. An epiphone les paul, junior model it was. His fingers forming familiar, intricate shapes as they contacted the fretboard, and moved up and down the scales like a bird in flight. The notes sounded like the same hushed breathing, and gentle thumping of the heart that he heard when he masturbated, and in the blank vacuum of his focus, he began to fear again. What if no one would hear him? If he found no listener, no other to see him play? No one, with whom to share this breath, this young, eager heartbeat, his music? If it would pass, like all things must, but without an in-between, like a flower which blooms in the shade, brimming with life, but in vain. If this fever-pitch would not last him the night, not long enough to lie down with his passion and his love, and it went away. It would all be a waste."

should I go on with this? Is it too creepy?

>persists
>onto to
treasure -> doubloons

Desperate, lonely, and angsty and seems won't do anything about it.

I don't have anything written at the moment but am toying with a premise.

>Character 1 (BID Investigator) and Character 2 (WSP CID)
>late 1980's-early 1990's Pacific Northwest
>Upstart WSP CID Char 2. teams up with veteran Bureau of Indian Affairs Investigator Char 1. to investigate a string of missing persons cases and homicides involving young girls on Indian reservations across rural Washington State. Behind the scenes, state officials are connected to a conspiracy involving a Confederation of Indian Casinos/Tribes involved in human trafficking, drug trade and corruption.

pic unrelated

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>second person
don't even try bro

he cant do anything about it thats the point hes impoverished

My first attempt at writing, so I know it probably isn’t the best. Supposed to be about incel/lit people, the narrator is a narcissist psued. What can should I improve on?

The cold ocean air sent a shiver through my body. I was wearing my adidas tracksuit jacket, but it made little difference. This night was especially cold, even for our typical North Pacific weather.
“Gimme your fuckin’ sweater dude.” I said, turning to my friend behind me. He was wearing a comically large wool sweater which peaked out of the sleeves and bottom of his peacoat.
“Or your jacket thing, I don’t really care. I’m cold as shit man.”
“Fuck you.”
He never really said much, unless it concerned philosophy or politics. It was a passion we both shared; we were intellectuals. Or, rather, I was an intellectual. He only had intellectual tendencies. Nonetheless, we were friends. As an intellectual, friends are difficult to find, so I can’t exactly be picky.
We walked down the boardwalk and by the sea. The gentle sound of waves slushing upon the rocks below us was juxtaposed by the clatter of intoxicated highschoolers. The city had an event once a month in which shops would display local art; accordingly, the minors (and those slightly too old to be trying to sleep with the minors) claimed this day for their drinking and general degeneracy. As we continued through the hordes of drunk children, some girl stumbled and fell onto the ground in front of us. She mumbled, clumsily looked up, and slurred some sort of question to no one in particular. Her head moved awkwardly for a moment, then ended up in a defeated sort of slump. She looked no older than fifteen. My friend scoffed in disgust as we evaded her. Neither of us were very fond of females to begin with.
“Fucking Humboldt.” he said with a sigh.
“That’s what I mean man, I can’t wait to get out of this fucking shithole.” I replied. “Goddamn, I really hate this place.”
“Yeah…”
Our disappointment paired nicely with the stench of weed and tobacco which loomed over us in the already fishy-hinted air. The breeze caused me to shutter again. We walked on.
After around thirty seconds, our stroll led us to a sudden drop at the right of the boardwalk. A jump of three feet put us on a trail which continued downhill to the beach and where the boardwalk ended. As we walked down the trail, the boardwalk blocked us from the wind which had caused me so much discomfort; I felt a glimpse of happiness.

Oh, it's autobiographical. Ok.

CTRL-A, DEL

what of it

You aren't interesting.

What should I do to improve my writing?

This is actually good

Writing for people who aren't yourself would be a good start.

thats like the mantra of uninteresting faggots

Just because the only thing you know about is yourself doesn't mean that's the only thing you ought to write about.

Would you mind elaborating what you mean? Also, what could I improve on in the prose?

You can write what you enjoy and others don't care about, but all that'll do is please yourself at most. The problem with narcissist, let alone the other descriptors, protagonists is that much like they care about no one but themselves, very few others want to care about them either. Usually they have to be extremely charismatic or or some other redeeming feature. Most people aren't going to want to read about some random asshole being an asshole in an otherwise entirely mundane life. There's no draw for anyone to care there. It says nothing. It does nothing. It is nothing.

Relative to this thread, the prose is good.

Thank you, I’ll make sure and keep that in mind.

someone writing about themselves must only know about themselves alright

Why else would you be so defensive?

>He never really said much, unless it concerned philosophy or politics. It was a passion we both shared; we were intellectuals
come on lol

>The problem with narcissist, let alone the other descriptors, protagonists is that much like they care about no one but themselves, very few others want to care about them either. Usually they have to be extremely charismatic or or some other redeeming feature.
heroofourtimes.png

you are quite right

I think this kind of character can be done though. Examples being Bret Easton Ellis, Chuck Palahniuk, and J. D. Salinger. As protagonists anyway.

The dark green eyed man sat alone in what use to be a dinner. He was outside in the ravaged world again to remind himself how everything was now. His gaze on the five across the cracked street, all huddled around a man all skin and bone as he stood trembling and sucking on his thumb. Green Eyes could hear the withered man scream in his mouth as one of the four, a small man with no eyebrows, said good good good loudly as he petted their victum. It's surprising no one hasn't ripped off his rusted golden cross.
In the dinner conversation continued. 'Human beings' talking about how shit could be used as a soap if it was dark enough. Talking about how jackets and shoes were the same thing and using sharpened toothbrushes as a way to increase self pleasure. The two clean looking men and smiling woman in the booth infront of him bet the retarded withered man would be one of the four's boyfriend. It wasn't always that word but whenever it was, it sure as shit was going to happen. It meant the retard was going to be sewn to the man or woman who claimed him.
Green Eyes knows this because on the day the world and everyone changed, his wife had stumbled home in torn clothes. Finding her husband lying on the floor and suggested exactly this in her sweetest voice. He stood up and centered himself a moment before shaking his head. She nodded and hissed silently, turning and running out of the house. Green Eyes went as far as the door to watch her run through dying grass and the blue sky overhead slowly turning red...only watching her. Before going to their room and coming back to the porch swing with his Kimber .45 in a white knuckle grip, waiting for her. The red haze was slowly replaced by the darkness of night and the quarter moon over the still yellow sun. His watch had stopped working, but if he guessed it had been after three am when he finally saw her shape crawl from the shadows of the alders. He stood.

The very definition of horror schlock.

A self-contained short story. It's the first thing I've written down in a long time.

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ur critique was merely a passive aggressive remark

>The dark green eyed man
Was he a dark man with green eyes or were his eyes dark green?

There would be a comma if it were the former, moron.

His eyes were obviously a shade of darkened green, almost black. As in, the iris was almost the color of the pupil.

Um, no, it's openly confrontational.

Unclear if this is supposed to be absurd or sincere.

no it's not

Try being better rather than whinging about it.

My darling, my darling, my darling sweet
Your tummy looks yummy, and so do your feet
I'd love to lick your lips like a lolly
Pop your cherry and ride on your trolley

My dolly, my dolly, my dolly salt
When you make mistakes I know they're my fault
My dolly, my dolly, raging and red
You taste mighty sweet, but only in bed

The end never comes
Only an eternity of suffering awaits
In which we count up the sums
Of all that which serrates

very nice. any more?

That's just something I randomly typed to bump the thread

I really, really likes this

Amen
A man amends to mend but bends
Earthward as if to crawl as earthworm
Of flesh I have but this to say:
Holds sway for a day and then is lost,
Sons come and go and leave dirt behind
But dirt means more than words
The head, the head, the head is the house of the man says men, the heart is a ghost long dead
I have a body, I have consciousness,
Hear oh you who are of words to say
What I in speaking would frail wish to say
Grail, dish, display
This name, this head, are not the same. I have seen God imagine man seeing God, twas proof. I am mankind, hear me wiggle as of worm, jiggle with the fat of this late age congealed,
Skylark signals, daily toil, shreded our bark, exposed the soil ,I am lost, I have not a word to say, I spit up my bread born labor of a day,
I was easy and was made afraid
I have a belly button and as if by knife I'm flayed,
Broken downward of a spine I'm splayed,
Broken aspirations, downard driven, knelt to pray, so kiss the grown I walk upon
When Im far gone
Arrogant pissant ego I detested,
Tried by life and found to have been bested,
Heaping earth on body strewn,
Read my words on stones by living men have hewn,
Late the hour, stupid palsied chimey noon
Foul stinking steady setting stench of afternoon
A bloom bends forth, it knows not for to bed
Snowy litter of a sentence here had read,
Soon I was led by violent red, a brittle orange
an orchad of memeries in which i forage
Slumber, I slip further and further my will numb like trapped in amber.

I made a sonnet:

Bitter song-bird whose song unravels,
I want my words to sit like branches.
My home —a machine for living— has been
drowning in its own dust, like those poets
whose minds are littered with ornament—
snatches of pretty phrase, floating, still:
Consider the rose-stems but this time purple,
gathered about the blessed circle,
Where lips conspire to meet and murder.
I will leave open my doors, let the wind
clear the stale air, pass over my thoughts which
rustle like leaves bound at one end,
will read the first word on the first page,
and fashion it into a name for God.

Something I just wrote. I don't I'll ever finish it, or it will ever see the light of day, but what do you guys think?

"Who was the first girl you fell in love with?" she asked me.
"There was a girl in high school, eleventh grade onwards. She was always a hardworking girl. I used to sit next to her in math class. Every class we would be assigned a number of problems from the textbook, and I’d always finish first. I used to help her and her best friend out with their problems. The first midterm I got like a 98, and I’d barely even studied. I still remember her sitting next to me and giving me a wide eyed smile and a glowing look. She always told me I was very clever. She was very self-deprecating, that girl, and I was an egotist. By the time the end of year exams rolled around I ended up doing terribly; I still barely studied. She ended up outperforming me, and I barely did better than her best friend. But I still knew I was smarter. She knew this too. The exam grades don’t really matter, you know."
"What happened between you?"
"Well, the end of high school, really. For some reason she sabotaged whatever we had. We both knew we had feelings for each other, and we were, de facto, in a relationship, especially in our friend’s eyes. Nothing really happened between us. Nothing more than a friendly hug or a brief hand squeeze. It was an immobilizing kind of love. I’d come home and just lie still for hours doing absolutely nothing trying to get a handle on myself. I couldn’t move.
"Yeah, I don’t know, maybe I was at fault. In the end I asked her point blank about it, you know, about what was going to happen. We were both going to different parts of the country. I couldn’t get much out of her, only a promise to keep in touch. We fell out of touch in a couple of weeks— she stopped replying. A couple of months later she emailed to apologize about not being able to keep her promise. I think she blamed herself for ruining what we had. You know what she said when I first told her that I like her?"
"What?"
"She said, 'I know.' I mean, who does that?"
She smiled gently with a slight tilt of the head, like a flower bent by the wind.

Congrats on interviewing yourself.

I don't usually critique poetry, but since no one seems to be providing them, I'm the best you got for the moment. Here you are:

I like this, it has a nice cadence to it. The 3-3-3-1, 3-3-3-2 [syllables, that is] of the first to lines feel good to say out loud. I wish the next to lines followed this as well.
The second stanza is, imo pretty good. I wouldn't suggest any changes. One question: by salt do you mean the meme culture meaning of salt? Nice metaphoric throughline with the flavors, tummy, the color red and the sexual metaphor at the end.

Nice internal rhyming combined with both consonance and assonance. I'm not sure if it works, though. You'll have to ask someone more experienced with the technical side of poetry.
I'm not sure what to make of the actual content. It sort of falls flat for me.
Why 9 syll, 9syll, 10 syll, 10 syll?
If you're going to keep iambic, keep iambic. That would be my advice, but take it with a grain of salt. If you don't want to do iambic, look at this page: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foot_(prosody)
I like the matpohor at the end with the wind and the stale air, you, the poet, as a tree, whose leaves are akin to sheaves of paper. It is that wind that fashions your word into a name for God. Good.

Attached: UOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH.jpg (539x768, 132K)

It is not unusual for Deshawn to lose control. In fact, if Deshawn suddenly opted to use pleasantries, hold the door for elderly women, volunteer at a soup kitchen, or donate clothes to charity, the universe may completely disappear. Instead, Deshawn prefers to indulge in a lifestyle steeped in crime, transgressions against not just the state but the norms of every civil society. Everything he does goes beyond extreme; for example, if a man disrespected him or his goons, simple corrective-action via fists would not suffice, but a Louisville Slugger to the knees would. And here, today, his side bitch, who had courteously picked him up from the probation office when no ride was available had the nerve of telling his main bitch that she was with him, and she had just preformed fellatio on Deshawn in the bathroom of Burger King before picking up their daughter from daycare.

“—she ain’t my fuckin daughter anyway,” Deshawn exclaimed.

“Who the fuck else squirted they shit up inside my pussy? I ain’t no fuckin ho, nigga!” Side Bitch said.

“You gave me crabs while you was pregnant, bitch. You been gettin dicked down by everybody on this block, even them niggas on foodstamps. I know you was messin’ around with that dude Charley with one hand!”

“That was Kiki that gave you crabs, yo side bitch. You both is half white and ain’t no way my shit can get crabs. Us real black people can’t get lice. Don’t you be sayin that stupid shit in front of our daughter neither.”

Deshawn rubbed his temples as his head became clouded, as though he had been thrust into gale force winds and could not breathe. In every individual, therein lies a superposition of dissonant principles. He could punch his side bitch in the face but this was not what he wanted to do. All he really desired was tranquility, a moment of peace and quiet where the world ceased to drop bombs upon his head. Something would happen and he had to react, because that is what his environment demanded of him. Without the proper reaction of aggression, his meager throne would be usurped, his reputation tarnished, and his life could end in the slaughterhouse that had become of his city.

“Kiki ain’t my side bitch,” Deshawn said as he smacked Side Bitch with the back of his hand.

I think you haven't captured their dialect. It reads like an inane, adolescent, somewhat racist parody of something.

100% agree

Because who cares about poetry, let alone trying to help people with it.

Maybe someday someone great will pass through here. All we can really do is do the work as best we can.

Reading the title made me laugh