New Critique Thread: Not started by a retard edition

Der letzte Tag, ein Samstag, brach um sieben Uhr fünfunddreißig an, als N.M. klingelte. Die Augen unseres Helden, D.F., bewegten sich rapide hinter seinen zugezogenen Lidern, Wasser mag doch jeder, das Klingeln dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong dingdongdingdong vermochte ihn erst beim dritten - aber nicht letzten - Läuten zu wecken, dummer Hurensohn, dummer Bastard, und er verließ das Bett (lechzte, lechzte, lechzte), noch im Gestern verfangen, das erst um vier Uhr vier erloschen war, mit einer Bewegung, einer Rührung, die die allerletzte dieser Art bleiben sollte. Ein Mann wächst nur bis zu einem bestimmten Punkt, das Namensschild an seiner Tür, der Türrahmen. Kleiner Hurensohn, nichtsnutzig, albern. Ein Blick aus dem Fenster, schlagartig wach, als hätte er noch nie geschlafen: Ein grauer VW Polo auf dem Parkplatz - ach was - der Zahnarztpraxis. Dort stand er zuerst im Sommer zweitausendsechzehn, zuletzt vor einem Jahr. Also, dingdongdingdongdingdongdingdong, kein Vogel war zu hören, keiner, öffnete D.F. seinen Schrank, eine Flasche fiel um, anlasslos, derweil N.M. vor der Tür stand, warum - er wollte ihn ermorden - wusste nur er, allein, einsam, keiner sonst, auch wenn D.F. es hätte wissen müssen; vor 15 Jahren schon, gottloses Stück Scheiße, hätte er es wissen müssen, kétségtelenül. Er trat auf eine Plastikflasche, er war schon angezogen. Gestern Nacht hat er wunderschön gekotzt, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, mehrmals, immer wieder. Heute Morgen: Nicht einmal Vögel hört man, dingdong dingdong dingdong. Er ging die Treppe runter, wie jeden Tag. Die Tür ging auf. Er hat wunderschön gekotzt, gestern noch, ist auf seinen Magen gefallen, ja, jetzt ist alles dumm, jetzt ist alles blöd, kein Vogelgezwitscher vernahm er. N.M. stand vor ihm, wie ein Baum, hinter ihm war der Rest, die Sonne fiel auf seinen Nacken, unverändert. Der Rest: Sein Auto, die Straße, die Zahnarztpraxis, weiter rechts das Tanzstudio. Er, N.M., versuchte sein Grinsen - er grinste wie ein Schwertfisch -, wie immer zu unterdrücken, meistens gelang es nicht. --Sag auch, warum du lachst, D.F. fragend, selber lachend, er musste nach oben gucken, seinen Kopf heben, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, sein Rücken tat weh, seit Jahren schon tat er weh, trotzdem hob er seinen Kopf, um in sein Gesicht zu gucken, entwürdigend war das, sieben Uhr siebenunddreißig war es. Das wusste er nicht, konnte es nicht wissen.
--Hat seine Gründe, immer noch wie ein Schwertfisch.
--Seit wann bist du in S.?
--Seit ... Er schloss seinen Mund, musterte das Vorzimmer, als wäre D.F. nicht anwesend. Seine Augen, sie waren schwarz, durchliefen den Raum, rastlos nach Veränderungen suchend, fanden nichts. Alles war gleich. Nichts, seit A.L. gestorben war, die Ananas die kann was, hatte sich verändert. Nichts: der Boden, die Wände, die Decke - alles war gleich, an Ort und Stelle geblieben. Auch das Bild, in Front vor ihm, hing noch an seinem Platz, unverschämterweise.

Dusk hangs thick in violet air.
Laying on dead grass, alone,
I recall your wiry hair,
Coarse as weeds on garden stones.

You and I in hands embrace,
Eye to eye and soul to skin.
You touch your nose to my face,
And my blood runs quick and thin.

Every leaf now hanging dead,
Autumn yields to dark and frost.
I think of all left unsaid,
From that time, now ever lost.

I unironically read the beggining as "she had lovely blue pills" fuck i don't even go on /pol/

Stop posting this shit!

A Black Bull Rhino with the H&H Double Rifle

At noon my father took the rhinoceros in his sights, a bull that stood as still as a boulder at the center of the thatching-grass veld. Across the rhino’s back a string of shrikes was perched, chattering in voices like the ringing of chisels on stone. The African sun was overhead and sweat ran into our eyes. Do not take him too soon, father, I whispered. I won’t take him too soon, Kermit, my father answered. What I will do is wait for him to take a step with that foreleg, then I will blast a hole in his great heart.

The sirocco sang through the cattails and our game did not move. I licked salt off my lip. The rhino stood in grass up to his chest, his nostrils breathing the wind and his eyes full of stupid glory, while my father watched his prey with naked lust. His spectacles gleamed; his mustache bristled; his teeth bared ivory-bright under the sun. We crouched in a swale ninety meters away. Our Swahili porter lurked beneath a fever tree, his skin of the same taupe richness as the rhino’s.

There was an eternity in that moment of anticipation: My father squinting along the sight, his finger on the trigger, while I watched him and the beast, my heart quickening with the nearness of death. When the sirocco calmed the shrikes would alight from the rhino’s back to turn circles through the air, spilling music, hunting dung-flies. All else was stillness, heat.

Then the rhino shifted its leg and a crack of thunder shook the veld. Through the gunsmoke I saw the birds take flight as a beautiful arc of blood sprang from the rhino’s chest. The brute emitted a low groan, what seemed to me a grateful sigh of release, then its knees buckled as it folded itself into the golden Kapiti sea and died there.

Fetch the Smithsonians, my father shouted to our porter, his face blazing with joy. He split his rifle at the breach and hung it over his arm. Together we walked toward the carcass, the smell of fresh gore carried toward us on the wind. Do you know that’s just how it was in Cuba, Kermit, my father laughed over his shoulder as I followed, when I doubled up that Spaniard boy. Shot him in the gut and he laid himself down just as gently. I believe this will be a fine expedition. I think this continent will be the theater of great doings for us.

I agreed, while our porter sprinted fast as a sable antelope through the grass, carrying the word of my father, the President of the United States. I agreed, having seen firsthand the power of the place. We had not been in Africa a month, and already he had grown a foot taller.

Why then shouldn’t I believe that those wilds could cure my sickness. My bad conscience, as my father called it. The fading warmth of my soul.

Recall the clustered stars at night
where elk get rest beneath the light.
Some crows will roost in sunless streets
and gutters of communities,
but soft dirt never makes hard feet.

The hipsters pay to park their cars
outside of bougie café bars
while pidgens coo and pick at scraps
the bums had left beside their camps,
but soft dirt never makes hard feet.

Somewhere beneath Pacific seas,
a sailor drinks his grog while he's
still thinking of his surface love--
she left him, on the pier above.
But soft dirt never makes hard feet.

And poppies grow where soldiers rest;
a time when pride had slain our best—
"We'd march once more into war's shame
so that new youth can do the same"
but soft dirt never makes hard feet

—so we've covered it with concrete.

Not sure I like the ending line. Your rythm and structure are solid, message is passable, the nature setting is always a good choice to use for a love poem.

Good:
L: 1, 4 6, 8, 9

Needs work:
L2 (does grass die in winter and Autumn? I thought it was summer when grasses died. Either way, this like doesn't do much for me)

L5 (clunky language)

L11/12 (message is just too boring and cliche. The purpose of poetry is to eliminate cliches.)

Thanks m8, good advice.

this is a song
A weight on his head
dragging his tread
answers only with one word
but it sound like a chord
of a sad sad song

Chorus
if you ask him
he'll say
that he's okay
but he wishes only to fade
away (hold)

he dreams of the day
of that white walled tomb
how his shadow would loom
over the dour policemen
their face so grim

chorus

every failure is the last
every word is eulogy
he wish he could plea
to deaf ears
black book passim

chorus

What do you mean "not started by a retard"?

>(message is just too boring and cliche. The purpose of poetry is to eliminate cliches.)

Au contraire. It's to elevate them.

What are you trying to say?

It was interesting because I thought you were writing the story of a young South African, then you turned it into some gay fanfiction about the presidents kid.

>Do you know that’s just how it was in Cuba, Kermit, my father laughed over his shoulder as I followed, when I doubled up that Spaniard boy. Shot him in the gut and he laid himself down just as gently. I believe this will be a fine expedition. I think this continent will be the theater of great doings for us.
terrible.

You dumb as fuck if you thought Kermit was the name of a South African

Are you a fucking idiot? Why wouldn't one of the Anglos on South Africa name their kid Kermit. It could have been a nickname too. You are a faggot.

I have a terrible idea for a sci-fi novella. I will greentext it and need thoughts on if it is retarded:
>humanity has, using sub-light speed travel (with a max speed of around .2 the speed of light), populated the local cluster of solar systems
>instantaneous communication is impossible, as is full body cryostasis, and the civilization is unable or unwilling to use AIs
>in this age because traveling from one solar system to another can take up to 50 years conventional travel between them is highly impractical even with the average human lifespan topping 200 years
>conflicts between human civilizations in this age are almost entirely driven by ideology, and because of the amount of time it takes to travel between them conflict has lengthened to decades or centuries of years of policy
>sending soldiers is impractical because they will arrive 20 years older minimum (for the shortest distance between Sol and Alpha Centauri)
>simply sending missiles is often impractical as you often want to do something requiring more finesse than a sledge hammer
>instead what are sent are tiny ark ships containing frozen sperm/eggs and artificial wombs
>the ark unfreezes the egg/sperm a little over 20 years from their destination
>enroute the vats will grow and give birth to several dozen humans, one slightly before the others to create an older caste of commanders
>these vat grown humans are indoctrinated with all their personal media outlets entirely controlled by the ship (essentially on a 24/7 propaganda diet)
>they are trained to be soldiers
>these humans are augmented to be superior soldiers to the norm, but not so much so that they appear in any way non-human, merely physical exemplars
>they spend their entire childhoods/young lives in deep space fed on a single diet of propaganda and training
>the commander caste is giving a little bit of a wider view of the world so they can make decisions, but by no means are they aware of their home for what it really is

The novella would follow one of these vat grown soldiers through his life and end at the arrival at the enemy, only to find their civilization had collapsed due to severe internal strife (this would be arks launched from Sol to Gliese 876, so a 80 year journey), and what was left was petty nations fighting over ashes. Their particular Ark has essentially be left because recalling them had no purpose, the humans onboard were military hardware.

The word you're looking for is Africander you fucking cockweasel.

Lol it's Afrikaner you dumb faggot, and that has obvious linguistic implications of being descendant of Dutch. Write what you know, instead of your gay pseudo travelogue.

Alright man fair enough. Though I'm 95% that Afrikander is a kind of cow and the only term that refers specifically to Dutch settlers is Boers. Anyway fuck you.

Read Philip K. Dick, sci-fi should be used to express human emotions, don't goon about all the world shit and instead write something about human emotions. Your idea for a character seeing the world for what it "really is" or whatever is very unoriginal and has been done a million times before. I don't mean this in an insulting way, I'm just dishing out criticism. What could make your story different? What would make it relevant? The sci-fi part should just be a backdrop for good characters and intelligent themes, which are not present in your idea.

When I say that I was visiting old friends, friends from whom my life and my sense of life had diverged, I am not trying to set myself apart. Marta and Eli had lived in Los Angeles for a number of years—long enough, I suppose, that whatever logic connected immediate impulse to long-term goal to life plan to identity had slipped below conscious awareness and become simply a part of them. I was by no means innocent, either, of the slow supplanting drift by which the means to our most cherished and noble ends become the ends themselves—so that, for instance, writing something to change the world becomes writing something that matters to you becomes publishing something halfway decent becomes writing something publishable; or, to give another arbitrary example, finding everlasting love becomes finding somewhat lasting love becomes finding a reasonable mix of tolerance and lust becomes finding a sensible social teammate. And, of course, with each recalibration you think not that you are trading down or betraying your values but that you are becoming more mature. And maybe you are.
In any case I was writing a book, one that I hoped would make my contemporaries see how petty and misguided their lives were, how worthwhile my sacrifices, how refreshing my repudiations, how heroic my stubbornness, etc.
Eli and Marta, for their part, were trying to have a baby. They would spend the ensuing year attempting to get pregnant, and eventually they would, and later this baby, and their second baby, would grant them some reprieve from the confusion we were all afflicted by in those years. But before they had their baby, during the week when this story takes place, they had decided to do every last thing that a baby precludes, every last irresponsible thing, so as, I guess, to be able to say, Yes, I have lived, I have done the things that mean you have lived, brushed shoulders with the lurid genie Dionysus, who counsels recklessness and abandon, decadence, self-destruction, and waste. The Baby Bucket List, they were calling it.
And I was game. Though I was not planning to have a child anytime soon, I thought we could all stand to chemically unfasten our fingers from their death grips on our careers and wardrobes and topiarian social lives and ne-plus-ultra __vacations in tropical Asia. The words “we” and “our” are somewhat figurative here; I remain unsure whether I rounded out our group’s eclecticism or stood in contrast to it. But we were, in any case, a particular sort of modern hustler: filmmakers and writers (screen, Web, magazine), who periodically worked as narrative consultants on ad campaigns, sustainability experts, P.R. lifers, designers or design consultants, social entrepreneurs, and that strange species of human being who has invented an app. We rubbed elbows with media moguls and Hollywood actors and the lesser-known but still powerful strata that include producers and directors, and C.F.O.s.

The main character is not the one who sees the world for what it really is, and in fact the main character never sees what the truth of the matter is. It’s supposed to be about the warping effects of propaganda and indoctrination over the course of one’s life. Also the blurred line of if these individuals are in fact self-realized or property.

The ‘seeing the world for what it is’ would only be the commander who would not be a perspective the novella would be told from. Instead the main character would only ever see the struggles the commander goes through in a detached manner.

It is supposed to be about indoctrination more or less.

That could be interesting, but that would take a lot of knowledge about humans, propaganda, and the ability to express something you have probably never felt. I would try writing something simpler, something you are familiar with before getting into something like that. I'd also scratch sci-fi, its mostly a trash genre desu.

but if you do write about propaganda read this book first

The complete isolation of an ark ship and the fact that the children within the ark ship have no human contact except each other is a large part of the idea. Isolation and complete media control.

You may be right though I need to do more research.

I will give it a look.

Interesting, makes me want to read more, especially the stuff about the baby bucket list. Sounds degenerate.

Cliches in the language, I meant.

Her eyes were as blue as the sea--too cliche

(Improv example) her eyes were a blue raspberry jolly rancher on the tongue, all sparkling and sweet.

The boy’s father looked like he had some money, so Evan chose him to be the one to dump chum in the water. He reached into the cooler at the back of the boat and dragged out an orange bucket full of bloody slop, a puree of various baitfish that they’d caught over the last week and ground up that morning at 5 a.m. Evan gave the bucket a slosh to wake the gutty tang then moved toward the boy. The kid, maybe eleven, as white as anything, wore a blue T-shirt with a Hammerhead on the front and was afraid of him, afraid of whatever in the bucket was releasing that smell. He just wanted to see some sharks. He didn’t know this would be part of the deal. Seven miles off the coast of Galveston in an ancient walk-around with dried blood under the rivets, their guide a freak with his face carved up in strips, their skipper a shadowy bulk behind the bridge window.
Evan Slusser saw himself clearly through the boy’s eyes, caught his reflection in the revulsion that registered there. He looked over at the kid’s mother, sitting behind him with her hand on the back of his head, fingers in his hair, her sulky face behind a pair of those big sepia sunglasses. Evan could hear her thoughts. She sat there, thinking, this was supposed to be a nice simple fun family vay-cay and now here’s this fucking ghoul coming at my dearest boy with his mincemeat face and a bucket full of carnage, saying, “Alright buddy, you go ahead ring the dinner bell for ‘em.” Well, if his parents had just grabbed the pamphlet two to the right on the rack at the hotel they’d be at this very moment on a double-decker catamaran with a see-through bottom and a snack bar being told about the gulf’s ecology by a marine biology student with a ponytail and a perky ass in stretch khaki chinos. Instead, here they were with Evan, at fifty bucks a head, and “Here’s the bucket, sailor.” The boy stepped back against his mother’s knees. The father winced slightly, moving forward to take the bucket himself. But Evan waved him off and smiled, a sight he knew to be distressing. He worked his face like a puppet, felt his lips split at the seams where the Mako’s teeth had torn through. He took the bucket over to the edge of the boat and upended its contents into the waters of the gulf.
Evan struck the bottom of the pail with his palm as the gory paste sloughed into the sea. The kid whispered to his mother that he wanted to go back to the hotel and Evan heard a sound from inside the bridge that only he could identify as his cousin Bobby’s laughter. To anybody else it would just sound like the outboard gurgling.

>And perhaps the one you loved could change into another form and could reveal her inner nature on a cloudless night whose moon watched over you as calmly as a spectator in a drama who at any moment could begin to sing and flood the world with sound.

This feels breathless and tiring, I don't think it works as one long sentence. Or you could replace some "and"s.

Fucking SMILE, you miserable cunt.

Tfw type out novel idea but end up writing the whole book.

Need help with this.

She's got eyes like those green jolly ranchers
that've been chewed and spat out, whole lot sadder
than any other felluhs eyes I've know
full o' want fer a place to call a home

I seen her walking along Main last week,
with a little bit of dirt round her cheek—
Must've been that sunovabitch husband
of hers; slinging scripts from across Old Dan's.

How do I finish it anons? This was my crit

You seem to have made it pretty unmelodic on purpose, things like
>spat out, whole lot sadder
just break the rhythm of the poem so much, in my opinion.

It's modest and the idea is cute, but it just sort of runs out of steam. What are you plans for the ending, just generally?

Does anyone know how deep plagiarism checkers can penetrate on Veeky Forums? I want to share a poem, but I don't want my professor finding out that I browse this place.

silly paranoia
just share it
t. your professor

Third stanza introducing the speaker as an old guy who knew her when she was young

Final couplet turning it into a condemnation of the idea that leaving a small town is necessary for happiness since the girl in the poem will have experienced life outside of the town, and had to come back, though now damaged by her experiences and led her to be abused by her husband and living the slummy life.

Share it and then let your professor know you browse Veeky Forums. It's not a big deal. Use a trip code if necessary to prove it and provide yourself some sort of proof with like your initials in the name field.

Very ambitious for the final couplet, but I like the idea a lot.
Can't really give any advice, there's obviously a very specific style that you're aiming for. But keep at it. The poem in it's current form is intriguing for its style but forgettable overall, with what you have in mind, it could be very memorable

devious

I'm hoping that some of you with more short story experience might be able to help me out here. I find that whenever I'm given a somewhat generous but still strict limit to write within, I struggle.

Setting out from the beginning to write a very brief one-off usually results in a fine if not unremarkable short story, but when my "cap" is expanded a bit more I can't help but start drifting into more in-depth prompts or ideas. The more I indulge in ideas that I would probably save for a larger story, the more it feels like the narrative suffers due to this cramming in of both story and setting that I can't ever get the right balance of.

How can I get better at discerning whether or not a story idea is appropriate for a short story? Are there better ways to weed out ideas that I probably can't tackle in a set length before I find myself halfway through a piece that I realize probably won't work?

Just wiggle your dick around some

Absolutely nothing, I was exploring word for fun

>She
>other felluhs
what are you implying

She's got eyes like those green jolly ranchers
that've been chewed and spat out, whole lot sadder
than any other felluhs eyes I've know
full o' want fer a place to call a home

I seen her walking along Main last week,
with a little bit of dirt round her cheek—
Must've been that sunovabitch husband
of hers; slinging scripts from across Old Dan's.

She came in my shop 'bout one day prior
bought a scratch ticket, gum for her daughter
who'd looked like her mum, come to think of it,
back when she was Mary's young girl—Dammit,

dear Lord, I wish I knew the words to say
the day her dad, my best friend, passed away

Thoughts?

the accent is weird, what's it supposed to be, some sort of Southerner?
>slinging scripts from across Old Dan's.
what does this phrase mean? Slinging scripts?

You filthy fucking whore, I swear to God
Lured in those silky sheets but I a lamb
To be slaughtered, again as we cum in sin
Who are you, she devil, and what is this trouble, i tremble in your sheets, I hear you speak

I hear your cry
I hear you moan
In my ear, as I caress your rear

Fuck
Again
You lonely misstress, my only temptress
Why do I
Why do I
Want inbetween your thigh?

Oh who am I
But a lost, lonely guy

Dealing prescription drugs like Percocet and Vicodin. A lot of small town nobodies resort to dealing drugs because the jobs don't pay well.

Not southerner--small town, bit older. They have a lazier, easy way of speaking. Think Montana rancher style.

I'm not sure about the third stanza, it does the job of setting up the fourth, but not much more. Asking "who's Mary?" feels stupid because the narrator obviously wouldn't specify that, but
The Idea of a short, rhyming stanza to finish is great, both to finish in rhythm and to reveal to us that the narrator is an old man and not a young admirer.

However,
>the day her dad, my best friend, passed away
sounds laboured.
I would take another look at that at least. Overall thought I felt an immediate connection with the style and the thoughts of the narrator, good work.

The day that're dad, my best friend, passed away

is how it should sound sonically.

hmm, I've never heard anybody talk that heavy here in the Midwest, although I've never been to Montana.

I just figured Mary was the daughter.

>Back when she was Mary's young girl
Mary is the grandmother of the daughter. It makes more sense that the narrator knows her parents more intimately. Its a small town. I fixed the accent in subsequent poems so its not as heavy, as per

The fan spun faster and faster
Until it became a disaster
The man tried to turn it off
But it simply blew him off

shit ironically and unironically

Well I think it's JUST FABULOUS

The last one was started by a retard

Thanks for the help guys.

She's got eyes like those green jolly ranchers
that've been chewed and spat out, whole lot sadder
than any other fellas eyes I've known;
full of want for a place to call a home

And I'd seen her walk along Main last week,
with a little bit of dirt round her cheek—
Must've been that sunovabitch husband
of hers; slinging scripts from across Old Dan's.

She came in my shop 'bout one day prior,
bought scratch tickets and gum for her daughter
who'd looked like her mum, come to think of it,
back when she was Mary's young girl—Dammit,
good God, I wish I'd known the words to say
the day that her dad, my best friend, passed away

Why do you say he(I) was a retard?

I take it you aren't a fan?

Learn what timber is before using the word.
>We play with our own meditations
You do? How? You don't play with them. "Our own" is meaningless.
>is were we lean to dine
What?

This is boring and tasteless. We know there is space between the earth and the moon.

Puerile in attitude.

I don't speak Farsi

6.5/10; Line 4 is underwhelming and stones does not compliment alone very well at all.

In fact all of your ending lines seem to fall short of poesy.

This was bad

Unpoetic. This is more fit for prose.

Your final line was awful.

Are you 15 years old?

>death grips

Gefällt mir nicht. Bemüht originell, fühlt sich aber substanzlos an. Nicht persönlich nehmen

>death grips

Expand on that

don't play dumb with me nigga

Teeg

Renaissance Man

In every talent you possess there is a possibility I see
As I watch with awe, I wonder if that could be me
A statue come to life, you were something to aspire to
And if I could ever succeed, I prayed I may also inspire you.

It brought me humble joy to feel small by your side,
But I could not cloud my envy no matter how hard I tried.
I had said too much, and found that crack in your glass
I wanted your forgiveness but was too ashamed to ask

You had something to hide behind that confident smile
Every piece to your puzzle fits for only awhile.
You sit alone during the fireworks with no friend in sight
Despite others waiting for you all through the night.

What makes the Renaissance Man feel so unfulfilled,
How can he feel inferior while being so skilled?
Will joining you lead only to loneliness untold?
If I dare to touch that fire, will I only feel cold?

The Question remained unanswered as the sun began to set
To just let you go would have left me with regret
So forgive me please for the tangled web I weave
But for just one more moment, I didn't want you to leave.

I really like this extract so any feedback would be appreciated - the language used is fairly verbose and technical, but I wanted to get a sense of something both highly creative/abstract, and simultaneously logical and engineered, like playing with entropy and order or what have you x

docs.google.com/document/d/1YbRtpMByYF-kgpQanceTGThDxpJXUKtvheoeBxe--8k/edit?usp=sharing

I think you're the one playing dumb

Tu ich nicht und hast sogar recht. Da steckt keine Story oder so hinter, wollte bloß bisschen rumspielen

Why is it unpoetic? I kept it pretty strictly in iambic tetrameter. Was it because I didn't use enough imagery and metaphor?

She walked to the curb, her arms limp, her heart heavy and her head lucid. Her shame obscured with the dirty smog that choked her lovers when they left. Her tears lost in the broken clouds, crying for what she had done.
*****
He remembered when she kissed him, the warmth in her soul, the love in her heart and the passion in her head.
How it was gone...
**
She couldn't take it anymore. The judging eyes. The lifeless talking. The infinite cold she had made.

Start of something I had written in a day or two:
>He settles to the floor, staring at the empty furniture: Mnemosyne’s locks wrap about his frame. Shadows hold her breath of betraying sugar. Hiding in his palms, he quivers. Across from him is an ajar bedroom door, beyond the borders she croons. Under the bedside table is a mirror; it reflects, Aphrodite, who makes him yearn for a reversion of Aeon.

what did you mean by
>Shadows hold her breath of betraying sugar.

Just moaning, seems redundant with the "crooning".

sorry but this made me puke. scrap it and start again.

burn this entire thread. it's all shit. we need to start anew.

If you want to build your house on burnt garbage then go do it somewhere else, you're supposed to help people take out the trash instead.

think i found the draft im going to send my friend here if anyone doesn't mind reading it over:

Renaissance Man

In every talent you possess there is a possibility I see
As I watch with awe, I wonder if that could be me
A statue come to life, you were something to aspire to
And if I could succeed, I pray I may also inspire you.

It brought me humble joy to feel small by your side,
But I could not cloud my envy no matter how hard I tried.
I had said too much, and found that crack in your glass
I wanted your forgiveness but was too ashamed to ask

You had something to hide behind that confident smile
Every piece to your puzzle fits for only awhile.
You sit alone during the fireworks with no friend in sight,
Despite others waiting for you all through the night.

What makes the Renaissance Man feel so unfulfilled,
How can he feel inferior while being so skilled?
Will joining you lead only to loneliness untold?
If I dare to touch that fire, will I only feel cold?

The Question remained unanswered as the sun began to set
To just let you go would have left me with regret
So forgive me please for the tangled web I weave
But for just one more moment, I didn't want you to leave.

make sure to include a "no homo" before you send a ~poem~ to your friend.

sure but faggotry aside, how is it?

Damit spielst du jetz schon aber n paar Monate rum

I don't read poetry, I don't understand it, and I don't like it(there are a few exceptions of course).

If you have no opinion, no critique, no interest and no identity then surely there's no reason for you to post at all?
What compels a man to write something so pointless?

First I made a joke, then you asked me how it was.

Different anons.
There's no me or you, only what is stated.

You are right, I shouldn't have posted that. I apologize.

eh give the guy a break he was just making a joke, and hes the first person to offer up anything in my repostings in awhile. better than nothing.

That was almost not bad. Well done.

though if you have any advice as well id love to hear it. plan to print it out tonight

I'll take it

Why is he so fucking fat? He should stretch his legs more often