Creatove Writing

Simple post a short piece of writing, and wait for others to roast it.

Try to pick something that means a lot to you, that you think is well written... that way the roast hurts more.

To love a girl? A waste of time,
Spent better company’d by wine-
Though purple grapes won’t swallow spunk
Unlike her love they leave you drunk.
For wine won’t leave you wanting more,
To ‘couple’ with a doting bore,
He’ll see her more and fuck her less,
Arrange her life and end her mess.
As through him order she attains,
How long can she suppress the strains?
Her want for passion, red raw highs,
The long for lust between her thighs.
Her passion? Lies with cards and flowers,
Tradition, meals and relaxed hours.
Yet flowers are a thoughtless gift-
Memorable? No. Their death is swift.
Excitement? Rarely rolls the rumble
A birthday fuck, a drunken fumble,
And Valentine’s! That day of course,
They smile when they should show remorse.
For that Hallmark day of celebration,
Lingerie and obligation,
Serves its purpose yet portrays
Their staleness on all other days.
But this fine day, romance is clear;
Who cares for their remaining year!
Not she, whilst she is not alone;
Her father, bone and chaperone.
That thing they speak, ‘relationship’-
Without love? Dual custodianship.
She likes his looks and they get on,
But void of heart is it not wrong?...
To waste rare hours in dire embrace
Of other ‘cause you "liked his face”?
What more a woman could desire?
An easy life, no chance to hire.
The stranger’s glint she can ignore,
Her friends that don’t, she’ll label whores.
Though surely sluts will have more fun,
A greater list of men they’ve done,
They’ll settle down and never sigh
Of a wasted youth with a boring guy.
And who is she? She fucks a man
She does not love and never can.
She knows this yet she fucks him still,
She soils herself with his bleak will.
And in exchange? His dull devotion,
Companionship, his weak emotion.
Every fuck, putrescent pollution
Furthering her from absolution,
From I, this is no persecution-
Relationship, no. Prostitution!

Three years spent, they’ll drift apart,
A tragic waste of her promising heart;
A heart that sadly she assigned
To beat beneath her static mind.
Romantics true, a dying breed,
Contentment grasped through reason, greed.
And saying such I sound so scornful,
I loved her once. Thus I am mournful.
As to be hers I’d have to change,
My heathen ways I would exchange.
Yet then so boring would I be,
The me she loves, she would not see.
So therefore still she'd not want me,
And I’d not want me neither.

Niggas think its easy being me
Drivin over to her place to drink up her pee

>fragment of a short story I wrote a few years ago, please tear it to shreds if you feel it deserves it.

What if?
These two horrific words danced around his head. The heinous, and almost damnable, phrase could not escape his thoughts. An insurmountable terror shook him to his fragile core. The inseparable idea masqueraded around his thoughts. These words were his Rock, and he was Sisyphus,
What if I had lived healthier? Why didn’t I take care of myself? Damn this body of mine, Damn this disease, Damn this all!
The terror was not the cancer cells spreading under his skin like mass hysteria. The terror was not the infection that plagued his frail body. The terror was not the burning bed sores that were slowly festering on his weak back. The terror that tormented him, the terror that engulfed him, was not one of pain or disease, it was his thoughts that damned him. He cursed the seemingly inept doctors, he cursed the ineffective medicine, he cursed the world for giving him this living hell, but most of all, he cursed himself.
What if I had gone to church more? This must be God’s punishment. Why didn’t I pray more? Why wasn’t I more forgiving? Christ, what have I done? How does that prayer go? Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be my name… Damnit that’s not it. Oh God, Oh Christ, forgive me!
It disgusted him that others lived when he had to die. He wasn’t done living. He was promised security and comfort in his “Golden Years”. He was told that a hard life was a virtuous life. He was guaranteed that if he sowed dedication, humility, and saintliness he would reap his grand rewards. He was told that the truth of life would reveal itself and his doubt and worries would be swept away. He felt lied too.
What if I asked her? Goddamnit, why didn’t I ask her, I loved her so much. She was so beautiful and perfect and I let her go…
He blankly stared around the room that was lit with the harsh coldness of florescent light. His eyes caught the face of his wife. It hurt him to look at her loyal and loving face and feel a surge of regret, but he did nonetheless. She was a good wife, but he felt no real love for her. He earned for the passion he felt for so many other strangers, but he was only met with the cold kiss of matrimony. Her simple face, calm eyes, and comely lips were each sharp daggers that hacked away at him. He felt disgusted and shameful for these thoughts that clouded his mind, but he thought them just the same.

...

>She soils herself with his bleak will.
Weakest line, but really it's pretty good. A little gritty for poetry imo, but all the technicals are on point, and the thoughts are cohesive. Enjoyed the read.

Overdid you usage of repetition, but really this wasn't all too bad (if it really is an excerpt (if it isn't, and it's just something you wrote up to get a crit, it's shit)). Last thoughts of a dying man is sort of overdone though. Hopefully it actually goes or comes from somewhere of interest (if it really is an excerpt (if it isn't, and it's just something you wrote up to get a crit, it's shit)).

it's fucking doggerel, you swine.

Her face was trapped between a forehead and jawline that jockeyed with one another to be her most defining feature. Her lips pointed forward, as did her nose, and her eyes squinted out to spot what the rest of her face seemed to be readying itself for. She had the appearance, then, of someone who was afraid of running into things. Like many women of her age and upbringing she wore clothes which accented her hips and thighs, but she did not wear makeup for fear that it would highlight her pointed features.

Her upbringing was typical for one in an environment of cruel desperation; she had only her body and what clothes she could scrounge from older siblings, and like all young women in those places she fought viciously with her peers for respect.

When men fight, they fight in the present. You see only the current moment in their fists, the product of an unspoken pact or whispered threat. The fight will end and each man will move on. When women fight, their entire lives play out in a drama of shrieking calls and curses, because women never fight other women, only themselves. They tear out each other's hair and clothes to get at the girl inside who they've known since childhood. She, the pointed-face girl, fought to punish this creature, satisfied only when tears and blood and shame leaked onto the street and soaked onlookers with loathing.

And so it all had been reduced to barbarism. Speech and argument fell prey to violence, and blood had taken its place as decision maker. Bruises and bullets were now reasonable methods of communication. Fires burned beside blood stains on the beaches, and the deep blue water swallowed them both up into the dark. Above the tide walked a group; three men, each battered and disheveled. They'd not spoken to one another in days. They'd nothing in common, besides their own need for survival. Every once in awhile one might crack a joke, an attempt to ease the fear, but it would only be met with forced laughter. The youngest of the three, John, had marks in the butt end of his rifle, six jagged lines scraped into the wood.

Your kindness disgusts me. It's a weak, ineffectual criticism, and it does no service to the objective we are here to accomplish. You're like a boiler room engineer who's drunk on d-day, giving encouragement to the bodies of already forget people who are just about to be voided by enemy fire.

How about doing your fucking job sailor?