Crit Thread

i took a massive shit a couple hours ago
it smelt really bad
but it was actually really rad
then i thought to myself
"i better post this on Yea Forums"
and so i did
and thats the shit i had

here is one -
I had, divulged back into the abyss. After the disappearance of my love, I came back into the world of disturbing beliefs and infinite beauty. Where the temporal was lost, wandering across a hall of pure mirrors. I was swept into a falling sand, showered in the dust and forever tried to revel in the misery. Yet the evenings would not take me forever, my rent due and hair unkempt, night took me far from home into the houses of the academics, midnight washed over and soon the wine spilled the Persian rugs red. Paintings glittered in pale light, type writers around them and poets pursing all the eyes field. Julia stood. Centered to the left of my eyes, my neck could not turn but all my body was in one moment facing her. She had once been in photos for a man, photos of manic pixie dream girls. Men said she fit the part well, of course I did not, how could I let myself agree with another? How could I seep an admission instead of a counter adoration? Listen reader, listen to her piano. We hare not yet at the point of her playing, but to feel anything you must picture a slow painful rain and place only black keys to each drop. She stood with a man she had slept with, one shed brought to my attention before, when we lay in bed together in America. America had been a cursed time for us, ripping my ribs apart with no more then a single twitch in her smile. I felt slaughtered, dried and hung. In her thank you, as she left my car when I dropped her off that evening, she knew I loved her and knew she could not find anything that would not hurt me.

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I didn’t have a plan. I sat where I couldn’t stand. From my soul I did demand the hearts secrets, for my lover whose love secured was at hand. I dared not cross the line that behind which I would stand, rather I sat on dirt that I played with sand like time turning over and over again. This memory I’ve turned over and over since then in which full disclosure began. With my thoughts my words with love ran and nothing could I or her understand. So I stood when nothing made its way back where I began. I asked if I could take my true love with by true loves hand and I wrapped my strength around the worlds span. Shattered were the misunderstandings of what words cannot flame without fan, but in flames we began. The world tilted and the oceans crashed, fears gathered like a clan, but with longing I took a step forward to begin again. Softer and slower were promises that panned, until welded into one we dared to stand. This day memory knows my lovers love that knowing now commands, a pulse against my lips conjuring hues the scent of cyan. I hold this now as will soon again, with our breaths against each other, one for the other. Such love as this could we know only as forever can, no other love could love love other than

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writing a horror story here is a paragraph

The bug perfectly oblique to me was obscured by its coloration. It deftly landed in between a fold of skin and my eyeball. I felt it twitch and pulse inside of me, scratching at me until it mangled its way out.
vivid imagery
Makes me blush and feel embarrassed. I don't like the way it makes me feel, though.

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To copy some criticism from two threads ago, :
>it's like reading the transcript of a high school rapper who doesn't know what a bar is and just stresses the rhyme when he thinks of a new one. "I smoke WEED cuz I'm FREED in my mind and NEED to SPEED to SNEEDS FEED and SEED". It defeats the purpose of rhyming in the first place if you ignore the need for rhythm.

>work in progress book
Just say incomplete or uncompleted book.

I think he was concerned with ambiguity. An uncompleted book could be one that simply hasn't been read, as opposed to one that hasn't been written. That could be an interesting comparison to make though.

I'm not sure if this fits into this type of threat but I wrote a commentary on the first few lines of Giovanni gentiles essay on fascism. Any advice or critiques are welcomed to correct my misunderstandings and help improve my essay writing skills. I used to write amateur commentaries on the bible when I was a christian and I've kinda carried over the hobby here.

Also, does anyone know any good essay software writing software? There's got to be something better than Microsoft word.

Anyways, here's the essay: pastebin.com/TEKVt6XQ

Plz no bully.

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From summers heat to windy howls of deep chills, of dim lighted Turkish lamps presenting the calmest hue, I remain faithful to my chair, my desk; my room. With shutters shut and windows closed, I live with no indication of time. The door, at the corner of my room, is shut with only rays of light shining through the door’s line of space and the glowing lights of the lamp. I like this light interaction; its just at the right level. Chillest music create ambience, and a warm cup of tea to release the tensions. Although I do know not at the slightest: the date or hour, the room is damn freezing; at least I know the season.

Continued...

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And work-in-progress can be interpreted that way too. The English language is shit.

Ovidence of an overlaping gesture froze open movement as the dog leapt at the box and clawed at the terrified rodent and finaly managed to use his teeth as nature had intended. He, the dog, was jumpy with adrenaline. He wasn't used to the weight of a kill because he wasn't animal in his entirety but never the less he acted according to his programing and carried away the rodent in his jaws. He didn't feast on his catch for he was fed with regularity, his best friend praised him well though and gave him a snack for rodents were a pest that dirtied the food and the house. Birds where not allowed and the dog was punished for his unforging swiftness that allowed him to claw and bite endlessly at them even in his dreams. And so, he was content and his friend sat beside him and guided him to sleep with his relaxing gestures that overlapped with the light and the smell and the noise. He sighed with undesturbed feelings of peace. And dreamt of mice.

Good enough to get published?

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His huge crystal wings, floating too close to the ground. He was in the skies of the city, his body floating above the great lakes and plains, and then down to the depths of the city below, to the city's entrance and the city guard's barracks.

He looked like something from a fantasy novel by a very famous writer—like it came true. The city guard's barracks was full of people, waiting. He stepped on the roof of a palace, and then looked down at his feet. He stretched out one of his long, thin crystal wings, and looked downwards, and then up again. His body floated upwards by more than ten feet. He looked at himself in the mirror, and then looked down at himself a second time, in another mirror.

His long, thick tail was completely still. For a moment, he thought this was a fantasy, a dream of his, and then he remembered!

He had a body covered in ice. He couldn't see anything else than his body, except for the blue magic crystal wings, the golden crystal wing, and his long, thin tail.

I had, divulged back into the abyss. What I have not done, however, is to show the horror of my actions and show the consequences which followed. I had not learned to recognize the horrors of this new world. The effects of the war which I had waged upon the minds of mankind appeared to be indescribable. For the first time, my people were conscious of it; and, when I was dead, that consciousness did not pass away. I shall never forget the joy of returning, with a knowledge of the misery that the war inflicted upon my people. They never again felt their happiness, they never felt their sorrow; the only thing that remained was the desire to know, and the joy of knowing.

The next time I went into the town my old father was working at the mill, and I was waiting for him with a pack of papers for his departure, when I was caught up by the first woman in the street who had seen me, and I found she had married my brother.

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From summers heat to windy howls of deep chills, of dim lighted Turkish lamps presenting the calmest hue, of a warm-humored man at the dinner table.

This was not the life I was taught to want. Instead I imagined the endless nights on the ocean, long nights swimming on that lonely ship, in those dark days spent in the dark, in the sun. I felt, in those endless nights, that somehow I would never be able to be myself around such a person.

I felt that I was never as I am today, and never would be again. I could never get used to this strange new reality I had stumbled upon.

The realization that I have actually lost my ability to be a person, with myself, gave me a chance to change. I became a person who was not just myself, but more than that, a person who was more than what I was. But I was still not myself.

It took me a while to find myself again.

It's pretty good but you used "sloppy" two times not very far apart so I'd consider exchanging one "sloppy" for another word.
But yeah that excerpt is pretty good.

I'm really happy you were able to show this side of yourself. Nay, to find it within you. It must have been very hard to post.

Bump

This criticism sounds like it was written by a 20 year old
t. 25 year old

Unreadable

Slight changes from before. Will be doing crits for others in a bit.

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Well, 20 year olds read books user. It wasn't my own comment.

I am standing in McDonald’s, waiting for my number to be called, with my ex-girlfriend. Our friends went upstairs to sit down. We are, for the first time tonight, for the first time since we broke up, alone. I haven’t seen her in two years. Looking up at the screen with the numbers, I say, with an eyebrow raised, and a slight yawn, that I feel tired. But I want her to know I’m still a fun-loving guy. Fun-loving guys don’t just say they’re tired and leave it at that. So, I turn to her, raising my other eyebrow, so both are raised, and I say, preceded with a nose exhale, Do something to wake me up.

She slaps me in the face with a smile.

She’s grinning. I’m grinning. I say, shaking my head, turning my head slowly back in the direction of the screen, That’s domestic violence.
She doesn’t laugh exactly but she stretches out her words in a way which implies as much when she says Why would that be Domestic?

I wait for my number to be called.

bump

Hello. I'm a cranefly. We're like mosquitos, except we don't bite and are much easier to kill. I'm also dead. I'm lying on grey carpet, with my legs stuck up in the air. It's been a week or so, and no one has come to put me in the trash--cranefly haven, I would assume.

A pair of socks walk by. But then, they pause, rewind two steps, and turn to face me. I see the shins bend, and hear an old man's voice come from above. "Oh, I bend over to pick up all the little bugs in this house. Why shouldn't my wife get one for a change? I will leave it on the ground, and wait, to see if she loves me."

It's the next morning now. I hear some bickering in the east, but it's stopped. A pair of old woman's feet in heels come towards me, to inspect. I hear her knees crack, and then she speaks from above. "Oh, I make all the money in this house. Can't my husband keep it tidy? I will leave this on the ground, and wait, to see if he loves me."

The next day, the hips pop. The next day, the spine snaps. The next day, something else. I turned to their bedroom door. I think they had sex. It sounded of cold pistons and rice krispies. But, the door no longer opens. I will not go to cranefly haven, nor will they. They will lay forever upright, as their heads fill to the brim with more dead bugs.

On the shaded ledge
drinking coffee --
one sugar and a touch of
milk --
to rejuvenate my downed spirits.
The endless procession of
uncategorised visages,
preoccupied souls,
moving about their day-to-day,
incognisant of the ugliness surrounding them.
But we lock eyes, me and you,
for a slight second,
and turn away,
ashamed.
You are also tired
beat
disgusted at this ugly city
and even more so with those complacent in its
ugliness.
But maybe I'm just seeing things;
you don't look so different from the rest
when I watch you walk away.

Write complete sentences. Employ verbs, and not simply as imperatives

I like it. Honestly I kept reading because of one line and one only: "I sat where I couldn't stand"

You got something innit there

Changed it a bit, trying to follow you suggestion. I may not be quite there yet, but am I moving in the right direction?

His huge crystal wings, floating too close to the ground.
The end, no more than a magmatic explosion - an effluvium of climaxing ecstasy, a scent of pleasure embodied in the outbreak of all that exists and ever was: a moment, a photograph. A stack of them, forming a more complex one, lava that begins to leak out, images that overlap to form a perfect clear picture and BOOM: the stack slams into itself, only a frame remains. Each fraction of time acquires meaning in retrospect. Would you wonder about the meaning of an incomplete picture? Of an unfinished book? This universe, the Angel lives it as a violent impulse to destroy, a call-back to the end of the Opus, an eccentric splash of color on a majestic canvas, an off-site sketch capable of giving a new flavor, the unexpected event that made the career of Pollock and the like.

The great leveler: the awareness of acting free. Me and you, moved by obvious but incomprehensible threads; him, who saw it all and knows how to rewind the film and change it, what little is enough to leave an imprint.
Seeing the terminus is not quite like reaching it. The Angel is leaving traces unknown even to himself, only a kaleidoscope of possibilities. Cones of colors to choose from, a different species. A static rain dissipated by an umbrella of pure imagination.

A single purpose: to preserve his head, his third eye that saw beyond by birthright. To keep it open, to keep seeing so that he can stray further and so that his signature shall not remain approximate, unintended. The difference between voluntarily lending oneself to chance, to the mercy of one's own impulses and suffering destiny. Deviating from the pact creates new possibilities but unforeseeable dangers.

Honestly, I think it just sounded better in my mother tongue (I wrote it in italian first then translated). I agree unfinished is just better on the tongue.

Thanks guys. Even if you're trolling you've put a smile on my face for the whole day

>tfw no one critiques your essay
I know it's bad and cringy but at least give a nigga some advice to improve.

Not sure if it's accepted for essays but Latex distributions always look very professional. That's more for academic papers though.

For the actual essay:
First paragraph goes in circles too much. You could compress the second half down to something like:
It is my hope this exercise will benefit not only myself, but the reader too, in deepening the understanding of (editorialise here) this unique ideology.
Referring to Gentile as 'Giovanni' and less formal terminology such as 'now this is better read through' does not fit with the tone you are looking for.
This line:
>Now the significance of this line is better understood as you read on through the writing but what Giovanni gentile is saying is that fascism is a combination of careful thinking and action that has many expression. At the time fascism was seen as a thoughtless and brutish with all of its followers getting into fist fights and having no sense of order or dignity and fascism was rather seen as an ideology of violence without though.
Is fairly incoherent. There are several typos, and perhaps punctuation errors? I'd rewrite it as:
>The significance of this line becomes clearer through further examination of the text. Gentile claims that, contrary to the thinking of his contemporaries, Fascism is not merely an ideology of thoughtless brutes engaging in street fights, lacking dignity and order, but rather composed of both careful thought and action.
Proofreading aside, the rest is written decently. Some of your constructions need to be tightened up, such as 'So,' and 'i.e.'.

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 worths more than word and unpaid loans,

The head, the head, the head
is the house of the man says men,
and the heart is a ghost long dead,
Skylark signals daily toil,
shredded 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,

It is as if by knife I'm flayed,
Broken downward of a spine I'm splayed,
Broken aspirations, downward driven, knelt to pray,
My goals far gone, now to kiss the grown I've walked upon,
This arrogant pissant ego I detested,
Tried by life and found to have been bested,

Where are the truths? there are no truths,
Behold! The Creative-Nothing created nothing!
My aspirations of creativity are my only liability,
when this world is if as one with futility,
gorging fire, youth cruel pyre, forging on till I expire,

Mind, oh god, dear god,
lift away my every sorrow,
And let me borrow for today,
the strength you would've had tomorrow,

Alas, such crevasse mind cannot surpass,
And in the ilk of silk-like muzzle,
Ailing muscle, in short time it will collapse,

Once severed from this sweet illusion,
Like a verse from the poet’s hearth delusion,
this world endows all that's depraved onto our kind,
We are all slaved by this pollution,
that now remains enshrined,

It is I, orphan of time and circumstance,
As it stands, past me, can’t help to be,
but what he has already been,
Can't see, Blind and mute he play the lute
to soothe his soul, too bad the fool's tone deaf,
With plea I've turned to future self,
Only to have that man advert my gaze,

Somehow that day I dared to dream,
And today I dare to dream again,
Soon reality crushes down upon you
like a wave, subdues the old, fast renewed,
You are left cold and wet, a castaway,
you've cast your die, now walk away,
Shivering, eyes wide open, no tears to weep,
but at least, no longer asleep.

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This is a petty revenge fantasy that is entirely nonsensical as an actual story.
At least you've changed it since last posting it. ALL CAPS probably isn't advisable.
You really need a proofreader and an editor to correct this mess.
Dreadful attempt.
Meh, not much there to say much at all.
I really hope that English isn't your first language.
Anything is good enough for self-publishing.
You've failed to accomplish the aesthtetic you were going for.
Just dumb. No reason to say anything else.
Masturbatory nonsense.

Are these someone reposting and changing the work of others or the same person reposting? Silliness either way.

strangely pleasurable format

The urge to interrupt him before he had finished talking was overwhelming. The motherfucker had been going off for twenty minutes about how Takashi Miike was the best band of the last fifty years or so and how their movies were an exploration of every genre and every mental disorder or some shit like that, and just when I thought he was about to shut up, this guy Adam came in and they started talking about all the goddamn film festivals they were going to and how Villeneuve was a hack and how Nolan was a faggot and about how sexy Isabelle Huppert’s feet are. Holy fuck. They kept going. I couldn’t stand it no more. He was now talking about this European black and white film he had seen where the autistic protagonist fucked a pig and then the pig had mutant piglets and the guy killed them, and the pig killed herself, and the guy ate his own shit and then killed himself, and both faggots were talking about how cool it was and how it represented the “emptiness of the modern European psyche and its return to animalism” or some fucking stupid crap like that. Fuck them. I like good movies. I like Die Hard. I like Rocky. I tried watching Salò once and I threw that DVD away. Fucking Criterion. I hate these two assholes. I despise how snobbish they are, how full of shit they are. They know they are and they know I know, and they revel in it, they love eating their own verbal feces and making me watch.

So when he asked me:
“Hey, what’s your favorite movie?”

I answered:
“Shut the FUCK up, Brian. I fucked your girlfriend. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t fucked her. She’s a turboslut. I fucked her throat and came in the lips you kiss every day. Fuck you, man. You think you’re some hot shit with your shitty foreign movies and your indie art-hoe girlfriend and your two homemade shorts: you’re just a cum guzzler, a beta, a pathetic fuck. You suck the energy of everyone around you, and you never notice. Holy shit. Fuck you, man. I’ve never liked you. And I hope we never talk again."

The silence washed over all of us like cold, thick waves.

i'm both sides of this argument

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>Just dumb. No reason to say anything else.
More on the level of delivery, or purpose?

Just ignore his performative hating.

Your story is enjoyable. Have you read Robert Walser? That was the voice I heard echoed.

I don't like "they pause, rewind two steps" as an action--it sounds oddly electronic. The ending also doesn't feel earned. "The next day, something else" is precious in a manner different than the fairytale language you've used up until now. Cold pistons and rice krispies is cute, but doesn't stick. I would either delete or rewrite that last paragraph. Also, I think you should extend the story. My fave parts are the husband and wife walking by and talking to themselves. More observation of them would be good. One more thing, reading over it again, take out "cranefly heaven," it annoys me. The voice you're using is already naive enough; when I read "It's been a week or so, and no one has come to put me in the trash," I'm left to fill in the image which leads to: burial, afterlife, nothingness. The cranefly seems to have an intimate knowledge of this house, but I'm not really sure how, not that everything needs to be laid out. And is this a cranefly spirit or what? Kind of annoying not to have a general sense of what we're hearing, esp if you're going to invoke heaven.

That's all. Hopefully that's helpful and doesn't sound dumb. I'm tired. I liked your story.

>Cold pistons and rice krispies is cute, but doesn't stick.
This was what roughly I assumed his complaint was.

Aside from all ridiculousness of a dead cranefly being the narrator, which one would logically assume would go for the decreased humans as well, unless this is some silly metaphor and they aren't actually dead.

On the same matter, why is this cranefly so intelligent and how does it move in death? Were you going for magical realism?

Neither of the two spoken parts would be said aloud. They are also terribly written and not something a human would say.

It doesn't seem to say anything or serve any purpose.

Are you implying they died from having sex?
Is it because they "showed" they didn't love each other?

Does the "lay upright" mean they have their backs against the headboard? Why would they be in that positions?

You misread. It says "haven" not "heaven" and specifically says that the haven is the trash.

>move in death?
Did I give the impression anything more than the eyes were moving? Though that could still be enough to take issue with.

>they didn't love each other?
Since I have two anons, did they love eachother? I thought it was debateworthy.

>"lay upright"
This was very helpful. I'd really just meant they were facing up.

Actually I just miswrote it in the story, thanks.

>My dick is you ass
best part

You're too literal and need to read more.

This reads like a bad Yea Forums rant.
Nah, I'm not being too literal.

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Oh fuck I can't believe I forgot about this thing.

The m dashes feel impotent and affected, but not wholly abrasive. I would reconsider them at the very least. The speaker seems a sort of brooding and perceptive type, it certainly works for me, but you haven’t disciplined the style at all. “Incognizant of the ugliness surrounding them” exemplifies this best, as it is both cliche and poorly written. You’ve done well in setting the mood of the poem, I am well interested in what this speaker thinks of his world, and I really love “but we lock eyes, me and you”, but it’s so unfortunate that you’ve given the character such an insipid mind. “The world is ugly, life is grey” you could not have said anything more predictable, given the atmosphere you’d set. The poem is full of style but the content would put anyone to sleep, If you are going to write a cool, fly-on-the-wall type, you have to innovate it in some way, otherwise I could read René Char or any Beat poet who actually does this style justice. You’ve done good to find your aesthetic, now find something to say.

“The boy” is not very interesting to me. There is very little imagery or figurative language in the poem, nothing to make me enjoy what I’ve read. Instead, you give a sort of journalistic portrait of some boys average life, inter-spliced with antiquated syntax and diction. You need more of what you’d been doing in the third stanza, vividness, palpability, to actually move the reader aesthetically or emotionally (or both if you’re really good). Lines like “spreading hatred and platitude”, “a man among men”, “the boy defy his mother”, would be so much better if you’d just expressed their sentiments with interesting imagery or language. The poem is one step away from being a diary entry, you have to put more effort into the imaginative aspects. Do not use abstractions, don’t just tell me that they spread hatred and that he betrayed the mothers wishes, show me what he did, make me feel what the other boys said. You clearly have a lot in you that you want to express, but instead of getting to the core of it with figurative language, you’ve done yourself the disservice of speaking all too directly.

Do no write this way. Stop reading exclusively 19th century and earlier poetry. There is nothing more self-antagonizing in poetry than writing from a dead era. You’re not Yeats, Byron, Pope, or any of the greats from 100+ years ago. If you take influence from them that’s fine, but you need to be writing for today or not at all. I understand if this style feels genuine for you and resonates with you, trust me I get it, but if you want criticism, you are wasting our time by expecting us to critique you on something that has no place in the poetry of today. Read more, update your language, and don’t be so damn bardic.

Is my poem.

Thank you ever so much. I think I'm gonna need to use my grammar book and teach myself basic English again.

Again, thanks for your critique.

No dude

Tuesday on the Toilet

I just wanna die
Quick and easy
And if not at 100
Then very very soon
Things aren’t good
And I can’t see them improve
Maybe they will
But if not then please
Don’t make me live
My dog is my only joy
Her love uncomplicated and pure
When she goes I just don’t know
What I’ll do
Or how
For how things stand
I can stand no more
It’s all just so tiresome
And the only exit sign I see
Is red
The others obscured
For the simple truth is
And I mean this plainly
With plain sincerity
And slight embarrassment
Is I just wanna die
Quick and easy
Just like that
Though ultimately
Any way will do
My apologies
Thank you

The universal trait, a decisive treatment,
the balkanized heat of a heart bivouacked
astride the face of a bold monument crumbled
in Mr. Smithereens, pomegranate flavored spleens.
The hivemind dreams of eclectic sheep
dressed as wolves dressed as people—
the human variety, spare the cetaceans—
so when your stepmother asks you
why you scorn her so, don't fail to mention
her lack of non-existence, inverted by FOMO.
You see, the surrealists and abstract expressionists,
they exculpate mythmaking minds as superordinate—
the names of the colors cackle in their syllabic typefaces,
taunting the neocortical desire to define, refine, etc.
The one sense here mistakes itself as hydra,
Medusa's harem of toxoplasmosis dealers
sheds their last strand politely, decrying US magazine
specifically. Back to your stepmom,
she sucks that daddy dick.
The alpha and the beta and the omega:
it all haunts the arrow of time,
slings and eros. Touch the zeroth,
the zenith of infinite plausibility.
Catch it.

im I just wanted to tell you i've never read Yeasts, Byron nor Pope, I basically dont read poetry at all appart from Yea Forums crit threads, and when I do, its usually on my native language, not english. I guess I've basically turned myself into a markov chain generator.

and yes, I've read yours before and I think its a change in the right direccion still, altought the aquatic imagery is mostly consistent, but the theme seems to waddle all over the place.

She said it tasted like medicine,
bitter and curative—
nature's milk, of magnesia, of poppy,
drips from the executioner's pores.
665 eyes watch as rain soaks the burlap
that muffles bootless cries, 29 more to go.
The king cradles his goblet, swirls his poison—
from insidious to insipid all things turn in his eyes.
"So tedious and tiresome," the torture renders
like bile oozing from his unhumorous humors.
Her sigh soothes the chambermaid's stolen stare—
razorwire soles tap the marble, shake impotently.
There isn't any more history to vivisect,
the hideous act of explaining
leaves so many like an errant wind.

What do you think of this prologue for a fantasy story?

pastebin.com/xsHU3BNk

I like it more than the last time I read it, but I'm still not a huge fan of the last line. Another user said the theme meandered, so maybe how the line's lead into is more worth looking at than just the line itself.

>you need to be writing for today or not at all
I'm none of those three anons, but you've made this out to be matter of audience pandering, when what I think you're asking for is for user to be more himself. i.e. you mean "your voice is a present-day voice whether you like it or not" as opposed to just "present day people are the ones who buy stuff," etc. Can't be more original than the original.

>Amen
>A man amends
>to mend but bends Earthward,
>as if to crawl as earthworm,
I'm not telling you to enjamb it this way, but I think it shows how much "as" is sticking out. It's an extra syllable and it's separating your verb from your earth-word, as was not the case earlier. I know "to crawl earthworm" would be very nonstandard (earthworm isn't an adjective), but consider that.

would be actually pretty good with some choice edits. needs to be shorter and some lines could be eliminated completely
spiritual aristocracy/10. interesting imagery and themes
close to being beautiful minus a few cringe bars. specifically:
>We are all slaved by this pollution,
>Soon reality crushes down upon you
you need to know what reality is to be so displaced from it as you seem in this poem. I suspect you do know reality, but don't see it reflected in the world. wrangle that in there

Attached: john.png (302x603, 16K)

Do you guys ever look for rhymes to "fix" your poems? There are times when I want to get an idea across, or to set a particular mood, but I can't think of a good rhyme, so I look up words and fit them in if they suit the thing I'm going for. I'm just a shit, unimaginative writer, aren't I?

Sorry for the late reply. It at least looks improved, but there's still stuff like:
>forming a more complex one,
Imagine you handed someone the blueprints to a car you'd designed, and they just said "go make it more complex."

You really enjoy semicolons.
Five semicolons in 1,556 words.
Two semicolons in a single sentence.
79 commas. That's a comma on average every 19.7 words. Seems excessive.

>The spring sun’ grace

>Halonne's campus
>Halonnes
So which is it?

>head Dean
When isn't the Dean the head? Seems redundant.

>tertium courses
Unclear at this point if you are being silly with the change from tertiary, which would be the same all of them, or if you mean it in the sense of "the Roman 'Third World', that is the 'Underworld'.

>jubilations
This isn't relevant, but I find it amusing when talking about jubiliation and school.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jubilee_(biblical)
Certainly many people, in the US at least, would love a Jubilee to release them from the bondage of their student debt.

>slowed down
redundant and idiomatic.

>Roibert
>Rob
Wouldn't it be Roi instead? Yes, I see that Roibert is the Medieval Gaelic for Robert, so why use what would be the shortened form for another language?

>You got
>Better to get
Blah

>she was busy inspecting finest craftsmanship
What an awkward construction

>Her dark-red hair were tied into a short braid; Carryl first thought her of darker skin tone, but a second look revealed the colouration to come from sheening fur, and her long pointed ears further proved that the girl was in fact crolachan; a really tall crolachan, as tall as Carryl herself!

2 semi-colons, 2 commas, and a exclamation point in a single sentence. Do you really think this is nessecary? I mean that in more than one way.

Overall, it's fine start for a rough draft of what you are going for.
I have a lot of other unmentioned quibbles and other issues I'm not going to take the time for, for now.

Okay, thanks for the extensive feedback. never knew people paid that much attention to punctuation, Guess I'll go back looking into that.

Someone please read my erotica from last nanowrimo and tell me what you think
pastebin.com/F1f6LVjK

You made it a private paste. Only you can read it.

It's very basic feedback really. I could have done a lot more.

whoops, fixed now

pedant

If he's thinking of publishing is the best advice he could ever get. People literally pay to get that kind of assesment.

I don't know who your intended audience is for this, and maybe I have the wrong mindset for this, but it's just not good in any way. For me it fails as both a story and something to be aroused by. The content is something that I ought to be aroused by, but it's really not done well.
Maybe it was silly of me to expect more from an "erotica sex scene" than a handjob, but I did. Is Mech really sexually satisfied by kissing while giving a handjob?

I hope these are placeholder names.
What is the process of a "robot" becoming drunk?
I don't really see any actual indication of being a robot except a couple handwavey statements. Bot seems very biological.
There doesn't seem to any actual indication that bot is futanari, in the standard meaning of the word. Bot seems more like a transwoman to me.

>The mechanic admired her work
>in her new body
>her plaything’s mouth,
What a messy and troubled power dynamic and relationship that is probably entirely glossed over where instead it could be deeply explored.

Also needs a bit of proofreading.
Overall rating: an attempt was made.

Luger writer here. You were right in your original critique about it being gimmicky -- instead of doing away with the gimmick of "narrative broadcasting", I've reworked it to be less masturbatory and more conscious. However, if you as a reader find it to be annoying, which you seem to, perhaps it's better to ditch it entirely?

When I was briefly using Ozko 7? Yeah.
It's not that that I find it annoying so much as I have doubts that about anything written that is mostly dialogue is going to be something that I want to read. From my experience it tends to go very wrong very quickly and is generally considered low quality. That being said, there is certainly an audience for its as the seeming popularity of self-published works and webnovels from what little overall I've looked seem to be like. For me, works such as these too often veer into a very particular sort of self-indulgence, which is fine, but I wonder how well it will be received for what seems to be your audience.

Overall, there isn't really enough to make a judgment about what kind of story this is. I have no idea. As it is, it's just some guy talking to an AI (?) while masturbating to porn.

You could probably make it work. There are relatively popular works about similar sorts of relationships.

As an opening, I agree that the dialogue is both unnecessary and sort of banal. It elaborates on the central themes of the entire novel -- in a very masturbatory way, as you phrased it in your last critique I think -- so as prose it is more reminiscent of bad screenwriting than literature, I think. The novel as a whole isn't necessarily dialogue-focused, from what few pages I've written of it, and I don't actually think I could maintain the "narrative broadcasting" trick all the way throughout in consideration of this fact. There are better ways to focus on humans who have trouble being human and artificial intelligences who are tired of being so human. If you could take a look at this rework, where I've cut all of that out, I'd appreciate it:

If an irrational limitbreaking series of typesets and digits wading through sublimated & broken space-time in weightless wafers could lean against a wall, maybe cross its — or her(s) — arms, Ashtar would. She certainly can sigh, but the man absently thumbing his penis on a cot across the room would expect it and as a social cue it wouldn’t be worth the effort. She flicks the lights on instead. Harsh light floods the room and the half-naked man laying in the center of it all cringes at the sight of piles of dirty laundry and mottled tupperware containers — or, he might, were this not such a familiar scene.

Ashtar’s image is faint, but her voice can be heard still. “You have a job, you know. You have to start your day sooner or later.”

“Yeah.”

Luger Foucault, of our paraworld, is the loneliest man in Hyperspace. Statistically improbable, but entirely true.

would make a good young adult novel. sincerely

I agree with the previous poster in that the m dashes take up a lot of space, and if you must incorporate a pause that isn't inherent to your meter, you'd be better off with a semicolon. just focusing on this opening verse i think "to rejuvenate my downed spirits" itself is too much, like you built those first four lines just to fit that in; i don't think this is necessary. "one sugar and a touch of milk" accomplish what you're saying with that line just as well via simple imagery.
try as such:

On the shaded ledge
drinking coffee;
one sugar and a touch of
milk.
The endless procession of

I would rather have a critic go overboard and look like a fool than not say enough

Sorry, I was unclear. What I meant was that it seemed like you needing more going on beside the back and forth dialogue. Similar to the concept of "walk and talk" for a show so whereas it's not just simply two talking heads. It's more that it's unbalanced. As you say, "It elaborates on the central themes of the entire novel" and if you believe that it's very important, it probably to be kept. That being said, I don't know how people would want to start with a dialogue opening. Maybe if it's a mostly a psychological based exploration of various different concepts, then that sort of opening would prepare them for what to expect. Basically, like a novelization of a therapy session. If that isn't the case, then you could still have the scene, but perhaps later on after a more action oriented scene for change of pace. The opening should probably be representative of the whole, or at least what it promises to be, or it may feel like a bait & switch.

I'm uncertain what to say about your changes since it is such a difference. It certainly seems like it's a quicker set-up that is about to get some sort of action more quickly. It's probably better than what you could make from what it was before, but I can't say that I'm entirely certain of that.

I'm surprised by how quickly you replied and with how much.

What sort of reception do you get from the anime fanfiction and other stuff you have in your pastebin? I don't quite care enough to look it up in the archives as it seems you post it all on Yea Forums.

> She looked at the printed out picture of Junna stickytaped to the wall behind her desk, right next to her dusty framed degree of philosophy. You understand me, she thought, you'd know exactly how to analyze the series through the lens Nietzsche's Ubermensch or Deleuze's "Body Without Organs". At this point she'd even take some Tao Lin or even stoop as low to discuss Marx or Ayn Rand.

Well, ok then.

Usually disgust and shock, which is what I'm shooting for. My goal is to write something so disgusting that I'll be banned without actually breaking the rules, but I've yet to achieve it.

“I have bought myself time. Have begun to use this up. The amount which is yours. Is fit to the likes of you’s. The people that bare no such consequences of our sort. Walking on no toes. Preparing my stab into the back. The tool guided by another’s hand. So I do not have to touch it. When I see it. On photographs. Imagined there. For his prayer. For that other life. For the other sensory system you have. For that intoxicated you. Lost in all beauty. One falls for none of it in particular. It is all the same to one. Alright for a job. It is good at it. Bad at the tasks.
Given by that world it is interacting with things within. Is everything which is real to it. Which came to its side. Mutually on an issue. Our expression of no opinion. About this knowledge we have. This lack of extra study we have. Keeping us from higher praise. Praise that we will earn from it. Earn when so improved at it. A thing you want to increase in value. Which may add value to yourself. And make you valuable to us all. When you have gotten that as well.
That morphs to you. And yet it is you. It is neither, paradoxically. Yet is more than one. Subtracted back down. To know one’s journeying. Know one going from one to another. Know him as more than one state. Since you are not him. You are sad him. Faked him. You are him and you are you.
You indeed are something. I have not met the “something”. I try not to meet anything specifically – just in case. I allow destiny’s working-with-its-own-method. I put all my faith into destiny. Into the reality which it is. Is its badness.
Though is its full responsibility. Though is dependant on its compliance. On the compliance of some partner. All teamwork does depend. On some teamwork literally occurring. Exchange going on between them. Exchange within that circle. Of some self-maintaining. Vegetable-like lifeforms. Needing only the most basic of those essentials. Of what we think of as “absorptions”. The conversion of a thing to another’s qualities.
The thing being this “surplus thing”. Amiss (outside of itself). Filling-in space’s space. With my “my” space. At spaces that give turns to things. I draw a waiting line. It is waiting to get what was mine. And it will be its present. So it will happen – for real. As was believed. From a sign. That appears to be a most-obvious one. Boring its experts. Experts in that one alone. Knowing all-about more of those. Copies which have been produced from that. Exact same set of circumstances which it originated from. Delivering an outlined result which is as exact as it could be. Supplied with all of which is knowable to you’s. Having this combination of all of which is knowable. All of which is knowable by such different thinkers. After their essential contributions to what is known. And to what was unknown essentially in my past. To what I recall was unknown back then. Plainly, having found it since being so ignorant back then."

Attached: website.png (323x44, 5K)

You're doing it wrong then.
You need inflame the sensibilities of people to where they mass report you.
Since most of the post on Yea Forums is now from Yea Forums,/vg/, and /pol/, the easiest way to do this is to trigger then what they don't like.
Also, that's a very silly goal.

What do you think you have written here?

The issue is that none of that really helps with content or form, just punctuation. it's the worst kind of advice.
Microsoft word now has punctuation advice built in, so it's not even unique.

>content or form
user's not just throwing rules at the other user. Sometimes you want an oxford comma, sometimes you don't. If you're going to put a part in your car, you have to ask yourself what it's doing. Bad/overpunctuation is like having ten spoilers on your roof.

>Microsoft word now has punctuation advice built in
And it's often bad, shortsighted, or just a matter of rule-abiding.

Attached: 0_1PvbVpmiHkzFfkhz.jpg (1280x720, 109K)

>user's
Well, notanon

>Bad/overpunctuation is like having ten spoilers on your roof.
That's probably the most laughable statement ever. Stop patting yourself on the back because you can count someone's commas. It's literally a task a machine can do for your today.
>And it's often bad, shortsighted, or just a matter of rule-abiding.
And that's differing from what you do in what way exactly?
Here, I'll do you one better: The original post had too many empty lines, making it look like a reddit post.
There. See how useless and minute your waste of space of a post was?

That's a fair point, the voice of the poem is avoidant rather than confronting, it comes a point when it cannot be stifled no more and the dam breaks. I think rather than reality I meant "acceptance" or "my own brand of reality".
>We are all slaved by this pollution
This one might be a language barrier issue, I don't see why it would particularly stand out as cringe.

your poem is cheeky and hit all the right notes, perhaps the ":" was unneeded and didn't fit it's inner rhythm/pacing.

>Here, I'll do you one better: The original post had too many empty lines, making it look like a reddit post.
Which isn't inherently bad if you aren't a memester, unlike putting ten spoilers on a car. Regardless, I wasn't presenting an argument with that analogy of mine. I was giving a description. Criticism is other people's perspective; if you not only need other people's eyes, but also their brain to do work for you, then you aren't worth being critiqued yet. If you don't like a criticism, ask the critic a question, or look at the criticism harder.

Do you really think I counted anything?
What kind of strawman are you constructing?
Obviously I simply used "find all" for the characters.
For the word count do I think I counted every word as well?

As I said here:
I agree that it's very basic advice indeed.
It's simply what I felt like doing.

As for content and form, that would take more time and effort which I didn't feel like doing.
I agree that what I've said is superficial.

I can't tell. Is this purposeful? Is this your style? Is its cause personal? It seems choppy. A constant monotonous staccato. Does not seem sustainable. I wouldn't read it. Why do so? Is it limited? To this character? Let me know.

It’s more the “We” part as a concept that is “”cringe””. I think the work succeeds better with its interiority. You have to say who you’re speaking for, and if you’re speaking for all of humanity... well, who really has that authority?

Obviously, I want the to feel the wind blowing through my unkempt hair. I want the blonde streaks that stain my locks to glisten in the sun as they billow out the window. The music would need to blare. My disaffection with market forces, multi-hyphenated-German-esque compound words, and the pervasiveness of ironic and post-ironic attitudes bubbles up and causes some inauthentic expression via illocutionary acts. I want the Kerouac ethos exuding from my beat up Volvo. I could go on. There is some urge exhaustively colocated with my body, creating images of freighters and sounds of hot rubber on a country road that is inescapable. I want to reject.

But also, I obviously want to sit on the porch of my ranch home in Tierra Amarilla and sip my rye until the fireflies extinguish. I want to rise at dawn and plough and plant and harvest. I would play the traditional American folk songs a la Guthrie and Van Zandt at night. And I would be gentle. Wendell Berry’s aura would coarse through me. I want to retreat.

You use too many rhetorical questions and dont give enough feedback. You dont show your conclusions with proper examples. 4/10

>Do you really think I counted anything?

You're a troll, aren't you?
You listed the number. Therefore you counted. whether you did it with your fingers or a machine, counting remains counting, pedantic remains pedantic
Stop arguing on technicalities and trying to turn definitions, youre just a cheap idiot wasting space and not giving proper feedback. Go wank off somewhere else.

This reads like an idealistic academic romanticizing both of these and would never do either but likes the idea that others would think that they would be the sort of person who would do so.

>multi-hyphenated-German-esque compound words
This is wrong. German doesn't really use hyphens that much. It's more of an agglutinative language. As such, it's not really compound words either. Though I don't know really what you are referring to in general with this.

>pervasiveness of ironic and post-ironic attitudes bubbles up and causes some inauthentic expression via illocutionary acts.
I would say that's certainly the case with what you've written here. I doubt it's some sort of self-referential meta-irony though.

>urge exhaustively colocated with my body
Unclear if you meant for this urge to be literally separate from the body, as if it were an outside force, or if your words are getting away from you.

>obviously
>obviously
Why is it obvious?

Overall rating: Hipster schlock

Apologies for not living up to your expectations of what a random person in a thread ought to be doing.

I'm having fun. Anything else is a bonus. If you feel that's worse than not posting anything at all, then that's how you feel.

ok well that is exactly what I am going for so good.

I know, Ich kann ein bisschen Deutsch sprechen.
What I'm going for is academic terms like "military industrial complex" that in German would be just one word, but in English often get hyphenated. Not putting an actual hyphenated word there lets the reader fill one in that they don't like.

My worry with the ironic, post-ironic line was that it was too on the nose, but I guess if you weren't sure about it then maybe I need to make it more obvious that the speaker is falling into his own trap, of sorts.

Yeah, the urge is seperate. It's not 'you' proper. It's uncontrollable and foreign. You didn't 'pick it.' Thus, 'colocated.' Instead of inside you.

Well it'd be obvious if I included more, but also white guys in their 20s who went to liberal arts colleges pretty much universally have these urges, which is the background of the speaker.

Overall rating: Extremely uncharitable analysis of what I am going for.

COOOOOOOOOM

>Overall rating: Extremely uncharitable analysis of what I am going for.

ok well that is exactly what I am going for so good.

lol u mad that u tried to tear apart what I did and it turns out it's just good?

>Yeah, the urge is seperate. It's not 'you' proper. It's uncontrollable and foreign. You didn't 'pick it.' Thus, 'colocated.' Instead of inside you.

I can't possibly roll my eyes hard enough.

>white guys in their 20s who went to liberal arts colleges pretty much universally have these urges
They really don't.

I'm not trying to tear it apart.

>muh the devestating incredulous stare
really devestating counter-example there

>they really don't
i both fit in the category described and know a lot of people in the category described in light of the fact that I am a member of the set. We could go look for some sociological research to see who's right but that seems unlikely to exist. So, all I can offer is this anecdotal evidence. I've never heard anyone in the know object that this group doesn't commonly want or at least talk as if they want to feel like they're in on the road.

>really devestating counter-example there
It wasn't meant to be. You're seeing lot a more hostility and malice than is actually there. There's no reason to be so personally offended.

i'm not personally offended. One reason to post on critique threads is to get thoughtful feedback. Your first post was fairly thorough, so thanks. But when I respond to your thoughts and am greeted by mockery, it's not strange or indicative of offense that I mock you back.

The
>ok well that is exactly what I am going for so good.

wasn't any more mocking when I used it than when you used it and I used it in place of the actual mocking which came latter.

By which I mean, what purpose is there in being charitable? If you want that, go to some local writer's meeting and effusively preen each other.

a lot of your criticisms hinged on whether or not I meant a line in one way or another. You just assumed that I meant things in the worst way. That's what I mean by charitable.

When I used the phrase I was being sincere. Pic related to (you)

Attached: The Ironist.jpg (1275x717, 296K)

3rd opinion here:

>what purpose is there in being charitable?
Namely understanding what the author might've wanted to have written, if by "charitable" you mean benefit of the doubt. Though this certainly wouldn't make for useful feedback without the uncharitable version as well.

>Namely understanding what the author might've wanted to have written,
>ok well that is exactly what I am going for so good.
It would seem that I did that.
Same with rest of it.

You didn't disagree with my assumptions.
Yes, I am, going to assume that people have no idea what they are going because that is generally the case with most people here.

It's like when a person calls a tech support line and the caller feels extreme indignation that the tech support is providing them very basic assistance when actually they know so much more than that so why is tech support being so insulting of their competence?

Whew, what a mess.
>Yes, I am, going to assume that people have no idea what they are going because that is generally the case with most people here.

Yes, I am going to assume that people have no idea what they are doing because that is generally the case with most people here.

again. For the time being I've ignored criticisms to remove things, because I think it needs to be longer and would rather build it up first then cut away later. Regarding the tacky title, I'm curious if getting people to swallow the pill asap helps at all.

----

Cranefly Heaven, by A. Deadbug

Hello. I'm a cranefly. We're like mosquitoes, except we don't bite and are much easier to kill. I'm also dead. I'm lying on grey carpet, on my back, with my legs stuck up in the air. It's been a week or so, and no one has come to put me in the trash--cranefly heaven, I would assume.

A pair of socks walk by. But they pause, go back two steps and face me. I see the shins bend and hear an old man's voice come from above. "Oh, I bend over to pick up all the little bugs in this house. Why shouldn't my wife get one for a change? I will leave this on the ground, and wait, to see if she loves me."

It's the next morning now. I hear some bickering in the east, but it stops. A pair of old woman's feet in red heels approach me, then stop. I hear her knees crack, and then she speaks from above. "Oh, I make all the money in this house. Can't my husband keep it tidy? I will leave this on the ground, and wait, to see if he loves me."

The old man’s vacuum cleaner curled around me. He knelt down and took a brush and dustpan too, to clean the trimline on the wall and then right between my legs just a tad. His shins must have ached, but company came that night. The woman hid me under the arcs of her heels as she talked; she spoke of her ankles, her shins, her knees, the pain in them all. “Why are we standing, anyways?” The next day, the hips pop. The next day, the spine snaps. The next day, something else.

I looked to their bedroom door one night, in the east. I think they were having sex. It sounded of cold pistons and rice krispie crackle: pale scabs fornicating. And then, nothing. Their door stayed shut the next morning, and it remains shut still. I will not go to cranefly heaven, nor will they. They will forever lay on their backs, heads filling to the brim with more dead bugs.

----

Does the added paragraph feel natural? I'd thought the quotes already made the conundrum clear, I don't want to insist upon myself.

I'm sorry, dis bad horror writing

In a English class
Only hoping to pass
Students around me care
While I look through the window glass

Lovely day, warm fresh air
Girl in front of me has nice hair
Students falling asleep
Looking at a book that I want to tear

Poetry is lost on me and now doesn't seem deep,
But I have grades to keep,
And several classes before I sleep
And several classes before I sleep

I shouldn't of signed up for a poetry class. I think Robert Frost is pretty cool though. I don't really understand what makes poetry good or what it's purpose is. My teacher is nice at least.

A most sinister air entered the street. An unknowable rank, settling fog, coursing ‘tween the series of monuments. Peering through, he searched for some obscure point of end, some promise of finale, but found only the furthering, furthering, furthering space; shadow of distance, a losing of perception curtaining the vanishing point. Man had found the air an immense, unknowable force; horrified intrigue seethed him to know the nature of it; from what absence did it occupy? The constructions stood wide, bare of texture and hue. Each misshapen block contained misshapen entries, odd carvings of unfeasible entrance. Then, behind each stood queer a tall light, casting shadows uncanny onto the grounds, over man. They posed a meaningless creation, architecture borne aimlessly and endlessly, a shell of intent shedded by forgotten creatures. In his periphery he spotted a herd, paused agawk of his presence. At the alarm of a beginning step, they turned and rushed away, scrambling far and farther still into unseen corners.

Attached: 1563540520881 (1).jpg (897x1336, 357K)

This is clearly high school writing. Everything about it is amateur and the subject matter is shallow. However, keep it up!

>high school writing.
You're probably right my friend.

I'm in college though. I'm sitting here reading Frost and I liked his "Stopping by woods on a snowy evening" and wanted to see how hard it would be to try and replicate the pattern. Any advice for getting into poetry more? I feel soulless in this class and it bothers me how much I don't understand poetry.

Expand your vocabulary
Study poetic mechanics
Read more literature and identify themes you find profound and relatable to write about

Get into the British Metaphysical poets of the 17th century. That's what I've been doing. Also acquainting yourself with classicism is a must.

I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask, no eye would mourn:
I never caused a thought of gloom,
A smile of joy since I was born.

In secret pleasure, secret tears
This changeful life has slipped away,
As friendless after eighteen years,
As lone as on my natal day.

There have been times, I cannot hide,
There have been times when this was drear,
When my sad soul forgot its pride
And longed for one to love me here.

But those were in the early glow
Of feelings since subdued by care,
And they have died so long ago
I hardly now believe they were.

First melted off the hope of youth,
Then fancy’s rainbow fast withdrew,
And then experience told me truth
In mortal bosoms never grew.

’Twas grief enough to think mankind
All hollow, servile, insincere -
But worse to trust to my own mind
And find the same corruption there.

Emily Brontë (1818-48), [1839]

if you cant get anything out of good old Emily then poetry is not for you and you should rather find something that sparks some fire into you.

yeah
maybe poetry isnt for me

i dont mean to offend you my friend but poetry to me just seems like quaint little riddles. also and this one is probably not going to go over well but poetry also seems easy

ehh, actually it's alright

maybe I need to just read it more. its more enjoyable then i thought
:)

Wrote this tonight. Too long to post.

vocaroo.com/i/s139dFTO9u6t

>shouldn't of
>shouldn't have

>I don't really understand what makes poetry good or what it's purpose is.
>I feel soulless in this class and it bothers me how much I don't understand poetry.
Does your arm feel vestigial? Then ask yourself what that arm and only that arm, can do; make the limb necessary. Where has ordinary language failed you, that you've seen or conceived of poetry succeeding in? What thoughts have you failed to express? What feelings have you failed to convey? What apologies have you failed to give, and so on--and where have you seen art do better? Being a well-read intellectual is great and all, but no one cares to see some undergrad read a manifesto off his palm in the middle of some song and dance. Nobody cares. Put the cane down, take the hat off. Do not worry about being this person. At least once, you will meet a retard who thinks he's a genius. You will meet a genius who thinks he's a retard. You will meet a genius who thinks he's a genius. But all three can be swept under the rug by a retard who knows he's a retard, because he will have absolutely no other way to speak.

Attached: nelson.gif (480x360, 2.91M)

>I don't really understand what makes poetry good or what it's purpose is.
>I feel soulless in this class and it bothers me how much I don't understand poetry.
Does your arm feel vestigial? Then ask yourself what that arm and only that arm, can do; make the limb necessary. Where has ordinary language failed you, that you've seen or conceived of poetry succeeding in? What thoughts have you failed to express? What feelings have you failed to convey? What apologies have you failed to give, and so on--and where have you seen art do better? Being a well-read intellectual is great and all, but no one cares to see some undergrad read a manifesto off his palm alongside some song and dance. Nobody cares. Put the cane down, take the hat off. Do not worry about being this person. At least once, you will meet a retard who thinks he's a genius. You will meet a genius who thinks he's a retard. You will meet a genius who thinks he's a genius. But all three can be swept under the rug by a retard who knows he's a retard, because he will have absolutely no other way to speak.

Attached: nelson.gif (480x360, 2.91M)

Far too long to listen.
Should've just posted a pastebin.
I really doubt anyone will listen to it all.
Though, at that length, probably read either.

Never heard of pastebin before. First time on Yea Forums. Is two pages really that long?
pastebin.com/FEKvGeAj

Don't worry about understanding poetry. That comes later. The question you must ask is, Do I love poetry? must I partake of it? If the answer is no, forget about it, poetry was not meant for you. That's okay. Find your true calling.
t. someone who always knew he loved poetry, the sounds it formed and the shapes it arrived in

why would you post the inferior emily

>Overall rating: Extremely uncharitable analysis of what I am going for.
rule #1 in workshop: don't defend your work
clearly you are new at this
and you think you know what's up
but you don't

This reminds me of a part in Walden where he talks about meeting a guy who knew he wasn't very smart.

Anyways user, I liked your point of trying to figure out what poetry can specifically do. Thanks
I'm the shittiest English major possible user.
I think I like drawing, I'm gonna give that another shot soon. I wrote poetry when I was younger but I think I did it to please my teacher or parents

It takes you 9 minutes and 43 seconds to read 2 pages?

Yes. I love the written word, but there is simply no alphabet which exists that can convey the same complexities as the spoken word.

>Never heard of pastebin
More like first time on Yea Forums

I wish. Unfortunately I've spent almost 15 years here.

It's used on every single board so that seems unlikely, but alright.

Beginning of a short story I began to write when I was horny and on no-fap:

She said in her message that she wanted to swing by. This perennial stranger wished to visit his realm, to cross the membrane housing his sphere of existence. How shall his ministry of foreign affairs respond? What is the intention of her visit? Was this official business or something more devious? The abruptness of the message indicated the latter. Oh, yes, this encounter would lack any and all charm and couth, as is typical of her. Then again, he wasn’t a fan of diplomacy either.

Act one of the two note orchestra that emanated the front door froze time. He stood there, suspended in an atemporal realm separated from our own, where all thought, emotion and life were absent from him and he from them. He was but an apparition that only vaguely existed, an entity that would occasionally brisk some invisible tethers, removing doubt about his immateriality. Act two was an explosion. A generous progenitor that gave him flesh, bones and blood, followed by a desperate first breath christening his reincarnation. It was only then that he was aware of the significance of this Lilliputian symphony.

Before having even opened the door, he felt the gravity of her presence. Sheep feel this way, and of course, only in the presence of a wolf. For a second, Mr. Sheep contemplated whether or not to open the door. When you meet the devil, do you shake his hand? When he knocks on your door, do you ignore it and hope he leaves? It would be a bit rude, even for Lucifer himself. Newly knighted, Sir Sheep, he would have thought. He felt the need to turn the doorknob firmly and precisely, employing every bit of coordination that his fingers and muscles would allow, as if to affirm himself and his haphazardly decided course of actions.

Attached: 7766_b0e0.jpg (500x389, 36K)

>Chillest music create ambience
lol what the fuck. Were you listening to 10 hour chill beat mixes on YouTube?

"A chill wind whistled through the chilly chimes while I chilled out to the chillest ambient beats in my cozy comfy chair."

Wow, is this guy chill or what? I want to see where he goes with this. Please, CONTINUE.

Would love to read if you remove the pretentious shit like in the second paragraph.

You have a good sense of huomur

Well the idea I'm going for is something like the irony of romanticism so I wanted to play with contrasting prose and subject content so the pretentious bits are on purpose. Maybe it just fell flat. This is just a couple of paragraphs though.

Thanks for the critique

Excellent rhythm. This would market well in fast and colorful animation.

Oh yeah I have a thing too. Just finished the AT and wrote this in conclusion:

I was met with truth
Just as those afforded vision
Are to be met with white
And make order