Write a paragraph and Veeky Forums tells you if you're a pleb or not

It was just a joke

>My beard sits
what did he mean by this

It cannot stand, and nobody can stand it.

but beard always stands out?

What I mean is, it's permanently sitting on his face. He keeps trying to shave it off, but the neckbeard remains part of who he is, and so it cannot be removed. And it can't really stand out if there's nobody for it to stand out too. Dude lives in a basement.

It still stands out then, even more if it's a key part of his persona as you say. It's the first thing you notice about the person that you call neckbeard

I ambulate fogging a pipe, the thinking man's painting. I am a shadow thrown by an unknown volume of the future. Like a Spinozist mystic of the non-numeric mesosphere bores his wife and snores over manuscripts, we, ecstatic monads of the 21st century, a past preterite age - tripe, this paragraph - doubt fully our Selectric, clothed only by each other.

She was an ashy skinned mixed-race girl. Mixed-race, not mulatto, sitting across the slush crusted aisle from me on the CATA (Campus Area Transit Authority) bus. An adjacent monochrome Mandarin adjusted his legs to prevent from touching mine as the activating space heater mimicked the cavernous whoosh of a passing subway train. She sat there, sow eyed, thumbing listlessly at her phone attached to her ears by two red wires of rubber fettuccine. She didn't notice me. Why did I notice her?

Fuck, I meant linguine

An ashen girl; Mixed-race, sat across the slush crusted aisle from me on the CATA bus. Adjacent to us, a Mandarin adjusted his legs to prevent them from touching mine. The activating space heater mimicked the cavernous whoosh of a passing subway train. Sow eyed, she sat there, meandering at the phone attached to her ears by two red wires of rubber linguine. She didn't notice me; why did I notice her?

I know I added that first semicolon, but I'd change it to a comma if I could go back in time. I like where your passage is going though, . Just work a little on your adjectives, you don't need so many.

Thanks senpai

>Just work a little on your adjectives, you don't need so many.

How else can I convey what I see in my mind's eye? "Monochrome Mandarin" for example: I wrote that because of all these slickly dressed rich Asians at my uni who where entirely all black except for white shoes.

don't you think a beard descending below your chin is rather redundant? all beards do that, it's kind of the point.

I saw this black and white dude in my head and it looked sort of funny and I felt it detracted from what was otherwise a pretty kickass piece. In retrospect it's a nice bit of alliteration.

if i lay on my bed to be nothing yet a yarn, threadlike on the tides of delaware. take a moment to reflect but stray too far from the drip fiend starlet before teller breaks under. made by a captor in the spit father. there lies twice yet again.

It should read "*pores* over manuscripts".

So...

these are all bad, I'm sorry

I yearn for nothing but true closeness. Yet I see everything covered by a thin translucent membrane. It feels uncomfortably dry to touch. All the voices beyond it clump together in to a mumble resembling the sound of my own voice. If I concentrate and move my mouth, I can more or less reproduce the words coming from the other side. Even tough the voices have blended together I can hear someone talking of woodwinds, the law, and mouth gags too loose to be useful.

Not a native speaker. How does the vocabulary compare?

Man am I the fool; who who would of thought that my dryer wouldn't finnish the wool, resting now pretending my comforter is dry. But here I lie, without comfort cause my mind did not try to remember to set the heat on high. Mad I be against the damp weight, my eyes tend to fade back and forth from sleep to wake, and here I lay in my before slumber mistake.

The more I considered the story, the more alarmed to the frightful condition my companion had worked himself into. I urged him to give up his work, to set his mind to a more wholesome occupation. He had none of it and insisted that my sober attitude to the situation was entirely inappropriate, and that I was the one exhibiting delusion by displaying a lack of panic given all that had come to light.

Behind my reflection on the glass, the white of a drop of rain dances from left to right.

Boring and dull, just like what your'e trying to describe. The image kinda works, but fuck you.

The whole city shone through the clouds deep into space. It looked mesmerizing from afar. Petroleum city was known for this. However, the closer you got to it, the more your other senses backed away. The smell of cheap alcohol, urine and barf overwhelmed the ones not used to it. For the people living in, it was easy to navigate among the stench, desensitized to its own nature.

Too pretentious?

Nah, just weak. Read similar a thousand times before. Get some inspiration, worry about technique later.

absolute faggot

Penn State CATA?

Michigan State CATA. The correct acronym is actually "Capital Area Transit Authority," but I changed it in order to make the setting more clearly a generic American college town.

The tremor of an unfinished idea, like the unrelenting swaying of waves, shook his hands. An oppressive silence dulled his mind, as every idea which he once contemplated seemed to morph into a repugnant caricature. The phrases which he considered most beautiful were, now, deformed beyond repair. A vulgar silliness drenched each of his words, as viscous honey drowning an insect.

Here's an excerpt of a letter from a Kierkegaardian character to biblical Abraham.

>Most venerable father! You whose plodding leap echoes in the minds of men — would that it still echoed in their spirits. In this moment I write to you, I am rent between the inquisition I wish to hold for you and the belief that, the moment you put ink to paper, you would become menschlich, wenn Du das Geheimniss zeigst. Then write not to me, but listen and see if your faith cannot be shaken.

>My soul is wearied by the trivialities of my age, which you were so lucky to have been denied. The crowd, like a mob of wethers, has cut off their humanness in so meek a procession. You may be dismayed to learn that we have abandoned your church en masse for the hallowed universities, where human reason triumphs über alles. We modern and well-bred men have no accommodations for Gods that cannot be explained or lectured on.

>I have much longed to see a faith that moved mountains, but I will settle for yours that only names them. Doubt! Rancorous, pernicious Doubt! Would that my doubt took form so that I might wrestle with it as did your seed on Penuel. A viscous grease has overtaken my skin, presumably from indolence of heart, mind, and legs — this can be nothing but helpful when grappling with doubt.

>Would that you never know the devil of refrigeration! I can think of nothing so pacifying as this instrument for ruminants — if only they could ruminate. The comforts of domestication have reached a pitch, convincing the weak-minded that a good job, a faithful wife (an oxymoron), and the wisdom of consensus are all that is needed for life’s meaning. As for faith? You might see it once a year in Christ’s mass — twice at Easter if you’re lucky. The end of the world approaches fast, and the wiser in our society welcome it as a joke.

>The father of many nations! You must see how all nations approach their untergang with the leeching of passion from their so-called faith. I ask you: even if you had the faith I seek, what is its worth when your seed falls on the soil of barren souls? Either father many nations or do not father any nations — you must regret both.

It is, in part, a critique of Hegel and the German Idealist project.

He started shrinking and became smaller and smaller, tinier than the lowest critter of the land. At the same time his limbs began to stretch and bend, his body grew stiff and hard, and his eyes parted and from his head sprang two long hairs.
The transformation was complete.
Admiring his new body he said: "Now I can pass the undergrowth and search for source of this weeping."
He climbed up a blade of grass and with a mighty leap he jumped unto the nearest leaf.

Upon an overlooking ledge he sat and watched it flow, the water from a pipe into the bayou far below him. He could see the little fish, with their silver fins and algae-choked gills, a-swimming away, each one a-darting here and there, and all together pulled downstream. He followed the waterline to the city horizon, some 40 miles further. The setting sun cast the sky in dianthus hues, and skyscrapers set down weighty shadows in their wake, so heavy that their edges could not contain them, and they spilled out into the formless dark of night. This night could not persist however, in a-smothering the day, for windows in the city turned on one and then the other, so bright they outshone the stars.

I like the idea, but "unrelenting swaying" feels wrong. Unrelenting has a somewhat violent feeling to it, while swaying is gentler. Maybe crashing instead of swaying, idk.

JUST

The faith corner of my room, or as I put it, the corner with which I keep in touch with mother nature, stands so dimly quiet and every time I glance at it, the Christ figure turns away from me. Each day, just by a little bit, but I notice it still. To lazy to stand up and turn it back, I sit behind my computer and wonder - does it turn by itself, is it just a vision from my peculiar mind, or does Christ really turn in disgust from the corporal manifest of a soul which dared to bring him to its house? But as the sun rises and goes, as the moon seeps in through the window, I see a spark in his eyes. I drown in my dreams, the unconscious takes over and the only thing left towering above my body. Is him.

Really really pretentious

The best poems are said with the fewest words.

I alone,the ruler of my world
I alone,the almighty being
I alone,the grandiose one
I'm alone,suffering silently
I'm alone,yet again
I'm alone,in my own world.

>type this paragraph dutifully on my Android
>dutifully

dropped the ball here mate

I go back. I go way back. Deep into my memories and I think of a TV resting snugly in a black wood media center. It's one of those great bloated monstrosities that took several men and a dolly to carry in from the store. I feel content around it. I run my fingers along the crisp edges and I think about the machinery inside. It is over my head and I try to climb up towards it, so I can get a look at the illusive backside of tangled wires and dust. I pull and pull as hard as I can but I can't seem to bring myself up. I hear sliding. I pull. And yet it is not me that goes up, but it that comes down, metal frame against smooth polished wood. It hits me like a train, and my ears are ringing. I am shocked by a world of noise and pain. I am bleeding out of my head and I think I am going to die. Two days later I'm in a clean hospital and I feel two staples in my head. Yes. Two metal forks in my head. For months, as a child, I felt and felt away at those two things poking out of the left side of my head and I think nothing of it, absolutely nothing.

Is there a greater abstraction here?

This is just the story of how I was hit on the head as a child. There is no point to it.

Ah,you've good pacing and a good command of language.Tell me what you think of the one above(The one about my own world)

You should put a space after your commas, like this. This isn't a critique thread so I'm not going to be comprehensive. You need to make your poem less monotonously miserable. Misery is fine in fiction, but too much of it is redundant and bores the reader. Also, free verse is a nightmare. Avoid it. I'm not a poet, but if I was i would work on trying to evoke imagery and/or sensations that are interesting and original You seem depressed and narcissistic. This is a vicious cycle. Writing is a good outlet for this, but it must be constructive. You must feel proud of what you have written as a product of your own suffering or else you're doomed to a vicious cycle of narcissism and sadness for not living up to your own expectations. You don't write with pen and paper or a keyboard and mouse, you write with your brain. Always remember that. You need to learn how to exercise a deep focus that has less to do with brute forcing your way to personal literary success and more to do with calming yourself down and approaching the words tactfully and with grace.

My life is in ruins. All I looked forward to was to climb the mountains and be with them , now with a broken back I lie here in despair, the only thing that I hoped for has been snatched away from me. My hopes are now ashes and I am buried amongst these ashes unable to move.

I see,sorry about the misery.I'm not sure how you got the impression that I was narcissist,was it because of the emphasis on myself?

In my own defence though , I took literature, and I used the literary devices that I learnt,
namely repetition and structure(I framed it up as a world that I own, then I stripped it all away to reveal my depression)[The literary devices which I think you interpreted as monotonous and boring.]

To be fair to you,I also made that poem in 5 minutes,so I didn't really plan my usage of the literary devices,I just inserted them so that they were there.

Thanks for the advice though, I'll try to be more uplifting and self-centered. I'll also definitely watch how I use literary devices, your comment has taught me that literary devices shouldn't be used for the sake of using them.

I am merely pretending to be patrician by the way, I'm actually a pleb, ie., someone who's not a high ranking functionary or a socialite.

what happened to that kid? can i get a quick rundown?

I prefer to post my poem. How do you rate it?
WHY I CAN NO LONGER READ SIGMUND FREUD

Hardly hanging onto
Heavy-handed
Highs and horizons.

Blindly giving breath to dreams: the one’s we didn’t ask for.

Looking nowhere but through
Candid correlations coarsing with choruses of their confessor
Parsing phrases that didnt name us
But we can’t stop.

Riding rhythms rich with wrong-ways to close the door on the question.

Faced: calmly only knows
We do it to ourselves.
Searching for sanctimonious solace in those who never found it.

Giant organs only operating for their own sake.
Offhand on the whole
Notion of drive only saving those along for the
Hide out, high hopes,
Heaving hysteria.

Heightened sense of competence
Fooling no one but the promise of betraying motivation
Objects seized without replacing
The void swelling
Underneath gaps in memory and interpretation of

Dreaming only happens when we stop thinking.
Death is the purpose of life but what comes after?
Dare to say we don’t or say we don’t see doorways that dare.

During my childhood, we would always stand for the pledge of allegiance. However, as I grew older, I noticed that less people would stand up. I originally thought this was because of laziness but the reason was much deeper than that. As I progressed through the grades, history classes would shine light on the flaws of America and dur my time in school, the 2008 market crash happened. The people’s trust in the government was flimsy at best, causing patriotism to be at a low.

As I sat in geology class browsing Veeky Forums on my phone I came upon a thread that caught my eye. The thumbnail was of my favorite yotuber reviewbrah! "This must be an interesting thread, I thought to myself as my professor droned on with his thick Indian accent. I clicked on thread and when I began to read the subject I began to realize that the quality of OPs post was far inferior to quality one would expect from one of reviewbrahs excellent food critiques. This realization lowered my spirits. I knew for sure now that OP was indeed a faggot.

Nigger bitch ass shit twat

Bump

From my WIP military sci-fi. I'm a pleb.

The missile rose, passing over the sun, its shadow falling across the beach. It enveloped the fleeing Legacy forces, darkening the sky with its presence. Soldiers fell to their knees, openly weeping, while others curled up and pressed themselves into the sand. The shadow passed over the cliffs as the missile curved out horizontally, gaining speed as it headed toward the beach. The sand shook as the cannons in the cliffs rotated, taking aim.
Lamprey and Linchpin pulled Morningstar down into the bottom of the trench, while Kodiak stood upright, staring dumbfounded at the missile as it raced closer to shore. Other soldiers began to leap into the bottom of the trench next to them, covering their heads with their hands as the press of bodies became a crush. Some took others’ hands in theirs, enveloping each other in hard embraces. Others ran past the trench, over the open ground. They were still running when the sky ignited.

Searing white light torched the landscape. Afterimages were burned onto the lenses of eyes and cameras. The flash cast deep, dark shadows in the sand that melded and reversed as the sand itself blackened, leaving the areas in shadow to remain as they were. The radio channels became meaningless static, and the collective visual network collapsed. The air temperature rose to boiling point, burning skin to armour as carbon plating crackled in the heat.
Lamprey sprawled into the sand, thrashing beside Linchpin who screamed inside his helmet, his eyes tightly shut. Scalding air swept down into Morningstar’s lungs, suffocating him. Kodiak, who had been looking directly at the flash, did not see his visor shut down in the wake of the electromagnetic pulse. He had already been blinded. Hourglass was pressed down into the sand by the shockwave, as the ground shook violently beneath him.
They shared a moment of collective terror, during which they imagined they were experiencing the moment of death. The absolute blackness, the pain and the fear, all coalesced, and they felt sanity fall away. Their bodies left the ground in the overpressure of the nuclear blast, their bones breaking beneath kinetic force that their armour had no chance of withstanding. The gale rushed around them in the black, bursting their eardrums in the all-consuming vibration. Their screams echoed unheard in their enclosed helmets. Melting sand battered their bodies, as they swirled in the maelstrom, before the impacts of their landings crushed the air from their lungs, stealing their voices.

Morningstar lay still, as the dying wind dragged his body through the sand. He could no longer feel anything but pain. His chest still moved, attempting to breathe the boiling air. He could no longer feel his face, or his seared throat. His limbs were broken. The pain stole everything from him. Energy and feeling, thought and memory were obliterated one by one, as he was forced first into shock, and then unconsciousness.

I killed my dog in a dream last night but for what reason I can't recall. It didn't take much effort, just an heavy weight and cold blood. Closed his body in a bag and cleaned the floor.
I didn't feel like I had done anything wrong, only relief and distressing calmness.
This morning I felt guilty, yet I played with him as nothing happened; maybe confessing will make me feel better.

I'm sitting on the couch when the handsome face of Reviewbrah scrolls into my vision, the thread peaks my curiosity and I click it. I pull my finger from my nose and try flicking the booger off my middle finger, but it sticks, and I have to repeat my shot several times before lobbing it into the air. Then I type out this description for the preceding activity, while facetious, I fear the judgment of strangers.

>dressing gown
Gay nigga, just say robe, which is what I am also wearing.

here I lay in my before slumber mistake
I like it desu, although maybe before-slumber should be hyphenated?

First sentence is clunky, not sure it's grammatically correct: "the more alarmed to the frightful condition my companion had worked himself into" is this missing something?

>dianthus hues
interesting metaphors, however you repeated night and I don't know "a-smothering" was this a mistake, just do smothering.

Won't even read, just write something that doesn't suck, change genres, your current path is not good