Creative Writing Pieces [Post Some Of Your Own]

That's pretty good.

Fucking lol'd at the fact the dude's last thought was that he hated Steve Jobs and Macs. The rest is shit though.

Living a Lie,

Within this eternal abyss of conformity, I find it growingly difficult to express what has been hidden throughout my life,
Fearful of how others would react, I would bury it deep inside, creating secrets that only I knew existed,
I find that every single day, I am living a lie,

Why does it become so difficult to reveal one's true self,
To shatter the mask that we so often don in front of others,
Is it because we fear isolation, disparity, loneliness?
If we reveal our true selves to others, would they abandon us just because we're different?
Or will they stand by us and support us?

It's this reaction that propels us to conceal it all deep within the innermost regions of our heart and soul,
If only everyone was so supportive of us, then we could shatter the mask we always we appear upon our visage,
Until that time comes, we will continue to wear this mask of ours.

Caveman farts, thus memes were born

Just submitted this in a pdf to the Atlantic lol.

Here's something random I did a few months ago based on a poem I wrote.

pastebin.com/3zzqC0yS

I know you aint, but go ahead I don't care. I wrote it when I was subconsciously edgy and in these past 4 months I can look back and see how ignorant I was and still am. Once I get over a few life hurdles I hope my shitty brain fog will go away and I can write at least a bit less pretentiously.

even if he did you're not going to win

The Atlantic receives 1000 unsolicited manuscripts every month and only accepts 7-8

Something I wrote a while back back.

writerscafe.org/writing/KateeBurns/1723648/

...

Can you imagine sifting through all that garbage? Goddamn. I don't ever care about winning a contest or being published. I just hope one day I can write something that I can look back at and not actually cringe, I don't have a good sense of self yet. Everything I write that I look back at feels like a different person wrote it. I want to be more in contact with my actual self and not whatever skin I have at the time.

Edit: vvv

Go live today and tell me how it felt.
Just admit it. How the crowd
Felt like a shroud, or pelt, and your skin was abuzz
Rubbing abreast with a stranger’s. How it was
A molting of sensitive languor; the most emotive
Mooring, then untangling, then recoupling, then breaking from
Some decades of anger. The electric taste on a tongue,
Where every nerve, latent, is strummed, called to attention,
Sated and wrung, then reset all anew. Some summited view,
One pace from a plunge, exhilarant rush. Where minutes are
Paused, or skipped, if you deem them as such. That the cadence
Of a din holds some embrace there within.

Tell me that’s how it was. Tell me. Admit it.
Tell me.

There's a good chance that 100% of unsolicited submissions to The Atlantic are immediately trashed and only submissions given through an agent get a reading.

pastebin.com/TuevuJwP

>xo
>xx
>rape culture

I read your Love poem at least. It's structurally nice but reconsider your aesthetic choices.

What A Fool He Is,

A single lie, a devastating truth, a fool left grasping at straws,
But one day, he shall find what he truly seeks,
But alas, today is not that day.
3 months have passed, but he is still last,

He had once found what he been searching for, but alas it was but an utter pollution, a lie!
His decision that had been advised against had led him to his own demise,
Leaving him with only straws that he could just barely grab a hold of.

The fool now roams the streets daily,
He cuts himself off from the world when he only wants to be embraced by it,
He wishes to find what he has been seeking, but has not actively sought it out!
Alas, what a fool he truly is...
A single lie, a devastating truth, a fool left grasping at straws,
But one day, he shall find what he truly seeks,
But alas, today is not that day.
3 months have passed, but he is still last,

He had once found what he been searching for, but alas it was but an utter pollution, a lie!
His decision that had been advised against had led him to his own demise,
Leaving him with only straws that he could just barely grab a hold of.

The fool now roams the streets daily,
He cuts himself off from the world when he only wants to be embraced by it,
He wishes to find what he has been seeking, but has not actively sought it out!
Alas, what a fool he truly is...

Sheets of glass
pass in waves
like heavy rain[?],
clipping through
each other.
Light through light—
like through glass
refracting a Picasso
in tesserae.

Wrapped in a Splint-
ered I find myself with
broken planes, my face
sharp angles. I am
the aviator dragging
their plain colors
across the sky.
I scry daily,
fearing for my son,
who will never feel
the sting of
colored glass
staining him
Immortal

could anyone tell me what you think this is about (I need to see if I make any sense at all)

Whiskey makes my writing longer,
especially if I take it stronger.
The taste leaves a burn lasting-
unless I mix it to ease its passing.
I can drink you on the rocks,
until I'm Shanghai'd by the cops.
Stay with me forevermore,
and fill up my empty core.

You need to work on your transitions and build up, have it so that each element ties in at the very end.

I thought it was someone who survived a plane crash but all this talk of colored glass and tesserae makes me think more specifically they may have crashed into a cathedral or something.

I read + critiqued your poem in the other topic though.

someone who survived a plain crash into a cathedral or something? I critiqued your poem in the other topic though, so I seen it before.

yea, Imma work on that, but thanks for confirming it was too messed up
not quite, but that may be working itself into it
is the first part of it

pastebin.com/uQxhNtKG

Not bad, not bad, though your sentence construction could use a little more work. Keep working at it--you have potential.

It was fucking good user, that's what I'll tell you. 9.8/10

This is like a shittier version of Meshuggah - Straws Pulled At Random, 6/10.

Good, 8/10

it was good user. just need to work on your sentence structure

ty, I've only posted a few of my poems on Veeky Forums. I wrote that one today.

Cheers m8

After we were done, we walked around again one last time just before she got home. I decided to take her through the park. The pavement was shiny from last nights rain. She looked wonderingly again, and she did it with such style. I sat on one of the benches, and watched her. She went over to the fountain, and motioned me to come to her.
"Do you have a coin? Please do" she begged.
"No need to beg, I have one for ya" and then I handed her the coin. She closed her eyes and wished, which she did not to tell me. But I could tell when she smiled, it must've been something good.
I didn't feel as nervous after all the talking and walking we did. But even though, my palms dont sweat like before, and my words dont stumble. My heart beats fast, and my gut turns clockwork. I wouldn't say she infactuates me, I would say she captivates me.

Fifth time this month
I swear to Christ if these assholes don't get their shit together
Hello? I'm lodging a complaint
You know good and goddamn well why I'm calling
It's coming right through my store-
How am I gonna sell anything with all this shit?
Register me into the...
How about you register my boot up your ass?
High volume, yeah I bet it is
For fuck's sake what do you assholes do all day?
I gotta make a living for Christ's sake
Don't you tell me what I have to do
Get your people to come down here and remove it
Fuck you, get this shit out of the air
I don't care why it's here
Don't explain that shit to me
For fuck's sake
Fifth time this month

Fkng lol'd, 8.6/10

>She looked wonderingly again
Get rid of that adverb. Makes that sentence incredible weak. Easy edit for a huge style-issue.

Thanks

this is bad and you should feel bad

ive always sucked at writing coherent pieces because i judge my ideas more than my actual writing, give me some prompts to work off of

Part 2
It's about fucking time you got here
You fuckers got a lot of nerve, you know
Wait, what? What the hell are you on about?
Evaluation? It's in the store, get it out
There's your fucking evaluation
Yeah I'm mad, dipshit
Can't believe I had to close my store for this
Was it somebody else's turn to use the brain today or what?
How does this kind of shit even happen?
Oh no, no, I understand, it's just toxic fucking waste
You complete fucking ignoramus
No, you just tell me something
How is it even possible to fuck this specific shit up five times in three weeks?
Ain't there a checklist?
Isn't there one, single, solitary fucking person up at that plant that can think?
God damn it, I'm sick of this shit
What do you mean service charge?
Are you out of your goddamn mind?

Change Evaluation to Evolution and it's a bit funnier. Prequel was much better, 6.2/10.

My legs are all jam and no jelly. Strange wobbly things, like elongated egg innards. I'm not sure if the wall is approaching me or if I'm actually managing to maneuver my mangled malfeasantry around this space. I hope it doesn't ask me for a cigarette. I'm all out. Where's Mike? He had one. Hey, Mike, the kitchen wants to know if you've got a bone. Mike? I turn to investigate the apparent kidnapping and am struck dead in the doorknob by a clock, a great round beast of a ticker that announces every integer like the second coming of the savior. It bings sharply at me, one, two, three times. 3 o clock? How can that be when it's darker than the morning brew out there? Oh. Of course, how silly of myself, to get to swept inward by the thing that I wandered off time's line. Mike left long ago, a practical lifetime, a proverbial destiny long since realized and put to rest has passed since he dwelled here. His soul still lingers, I can hear it nibbling on about his damn guitar. What a constant source of frustration it seems to be, how could you excavate enjoyment from such a torturous piece of sin? An unending battle of trial and error, everlasting until enough notes have been selected and ordered to vibrate the universe back into place. Poor sod.

Thanks user

can anybody recommend me some good books on writing craft? Anything but stephen king, please.

pastebin.com/7KnFSeEh

I don't think it's poetry, but there are places that look for experimental writing like this. I think you could do well in those categories.

>pastebin.com/uQxhNtKG

I just want to talk about the theme of your writing. Inspirational writing has become a real trite genre, and a lot of it is just more of the same. Your poetry doesn't have any imagery, your main image about catching words is really more wordplay than it is a metaphor or a symbol. You need something more concrete, and something less obtuse as a theme than a play on words.

There's not enough here to really criticize what you're trying to do narratively. It's all non-sequiturs and strange imagery. I'm not really a fan because even if someone were to argue the prose is pretty, which I think it's debatable because the scene and imagery is too disjointed, there is no narrative direction and overall it's all undeveloped to really criticize well.

It's probably because I spend so much time on Veeky Forums and watching porn that I don't really think this is anything new or provocative here. It's just a lot of truisms and banal musings. Protagonist is a mopey pushover. Make your main character more interesting would be my advice, because right now his only hobby is feeling bad for himself.

someone glance at my work pls ty

pastebin.com/P28afVMY

In response to the mopey main character, this was actually me looking back on one of my failed relationships after I ended up breaking up with my girlfriend at my best friend's suggestion, and so it's really glum.

Here's one of my other stories, unfinished like most of mine usually are, but hope you find it to be somewhat of an improvement compared to the previous one.

pastebin.com/edsBb5xb

It's alright, I kind of skimmed through it, but from what I saw the choice of words could be improved, and more meaningful characters. I assume that this is based on the Solomon within the religious text of Christianity and Judaism?

Driving through the mountain highway the vastness of it and the sky above and the smallness of them scared them. As a child Jim had been afraid of the sky. He dreamed about losing gravity and falling into that eternal nothingness and falling deeper there, alone. He dreamed about the world turning upside down and falling. He wondered what types of dreams the girl had, and whether she had dreamed about him before they took to the road. Pondering this he smoked a cigarette and sipped from his beer, the first of the afternoon. When facing things of such vastness and such rootedness in nature and history, he thought, we are confronted by the sense of our own minuteness and finitude; the fleetingness of our lives and of these moments in which we find ourselves contemplating these things. The thought itself will be forgotten. How many people have passed this mountain over its many ancient years? The mountain itself, surely, never forgets. The girl ignored the landscape and read a book. They had brought a lot of books. It was going to be a long journey. And they were never going to go back.
Never going back again.
We’re following the mountain highway. Said Juan. The longer we go, you can look down and there’s a crevice between two mountains that we pass through and a massive drop that ends in water. There’s a waterfall too. It’s very beautiful.
That sounds ---- favorable adjective
Yes, very beautiful, we’ll pass that in a few hours. By the way, he broached the subject, when people go on certain trips like this, and don’t tell anybody about it---
Yes?
People at home will start to maybe get worried and ask certain questions, is all I’m saying. It doesn’t really

bump

The Prince and The Pauper,

The prince, born into a life of luxury,

He never has to work a day in his life, for has everything he would ever need at his finger tips,

He never has to worry about where his next meal will come from,

He has nothing but a care in the world,

Then there's the pauper, born into poverty

Every day he has to work from sun up to sun down, just so he can make ends meet

His life style causes him so much stress, always having to worry about where his next meal will

come from,

No matter how hard he tries, he's always struggling to get by,

The pauper often envies the prince and his life of luxury,

He often wonders about what it would be like to have nothing but a care in the world,

It would be nice to not have to worry about where his next meal would come from,

Wouldn't have to stess about having the finances to take care of his family,

How does the prince feel about his life?

He tries to fill in the void in his life,

He's always wondering what is missing in his life,

He has everything he's ever wanted, but nothing ever seems right,

He wishes that he wasn't so lonely,

Even though he money to burn, he doesn't have any friends

He doesn't have any friend who would stick by him through thick and thin,

He doesn't have a single person in his life to support him when times are tough,

The Prince often envies the Pauper,

He thinks that it would have been better off he hadn't been born into wealth,

He wishes he could have a chance at a normal life,

To make friends,

To find love,

Instead, he just spends his days wasting his time on things that don't even matter, trying to find

something that is truly worthwhile,

Wealth isn't everything this world has to offer,

Money can't buy you happiness, no matter how much you try,

It can't help you find true relationships that last a lifetime,

The only thing it can do is worsen your troubles,

And ultimately change a man into something that he wished he hadn't become....

He Who Wears The Mask,

The mask that sighs, the mask that weeps, but what is truly concealed beneath? Could it be a sense of yearning for a love that has yet to blossom? A single tear shed for every hardship that he has been forced to endure on his own? The mask conceals all that he feels deep within his heart, the subconscious mind’s vain attempt at self-preservation. His visage often feigns a sense of neutrality, and an utter disdain for the world around him; it is consistent, never failing, rarely does this facade seem to fall, the only hint that it even exists is apparent with his words and actions. Only those who truly know him can easily single out these subtle hints of instability.

Within this abyssal pit of conformity, I find myself constantly questioning my own sense of self. Who am I,truly, who? Am I one who often finds himself being caught up in the flow, ceaselessly regretting each and every decision? Do I set myself apart from the crowd and tread my own path? If only the answer could be so simple.

Wonderful, wonderful. This truly speaks to me.

Is this good enough, or is anyone interested enough for me to keep posting.?

Keep posting, this is some pretty good stuff.

Sure. Some people have told me it's a bit slow, so tell me if you get that.

...

...

...

This is some pretty good stuff, I found that it was a bit meticulous, which could be viewed as slow to some people. Overall, a great story, do you have anymore pieces like this or anything else you wish to share?

I've got a paper due tonight and I'll probably end up writing something alongside it that I'll post if the thread's still up.

What made it to meticulous? The wording, lack of actions, etc? I need to be roasted when I write.

Writing down the bones by n. Goldberg for poetry.

On Writing is good if you're Interested in nonfiction writing.

Not too sure about fiction but have heard mixed but mostly good things about bird by bird

The wording is what I particularly found to be meticulous, which isn't necessarily harmful. I found that this story was particularly immersive.

Where I'm From,

In many ways, life is like a book
You can never judge a book by its cover until you delve right into it
Each chapter elaborating on the ups and downs of our Archeus
With each new day becoming a new chapter of the infinite journey we know as life
The only thing that you can't do is return to the past
Leaving only our own memories and impressions as we continue on our journey

My book would be an epic tale
Which entails all of the sorrows and woes I've gone through
With each new chapter elaborating on the struggles
Whether they be as insignificant as an insect or as massive as a mountain.
With each struggle comes a new challenge

These challenges may not always be a conflict,
They may be a conflict within myself
These challenges always bring about different afflictions
More often than not, these wounds have been self-inflicted
With the only medicine being time itself
Ignoring them completely until they have healed on their own

This too presents another challenge, another struggle
Each moment spent being indecisive only causes the wounds to cut deeper into your skin
For all those moments wasted, life moves on, leaving you unable to react
Whether it be from fear, shock, or nerves

Time is merciless, cold and unforgiving
It can rob you of everything you hold dear in just an instant
Your friends, your family, your loved ones
And eventually, it will also rob you of your own life

Is this what life truly is? An amber glass with dew drops of success taunting us on the outside? if so, im not thirsty.

Haiku written moments ago:
bright colourful skies
great statues from antiquity
surrounded by blooming flowers

Not a haiku, mate. You've got 5/8/8 instead of 5/7/5 like this :

Big man sits, face clenched
He pushes but nothing comes
He's constipated

Still, the juxtaposition between man-made monuments aging and nature remaining young is pretty good. Maybe replace surrounded and don't use a verb there so that it can simply be three interrelated images instead of image-image-action.

The use of You, Our, and My is a little jarring and makes me unsure of who the poem is really about. There's nothing wrong with talking about yourself, but don't attempt inclusiveness in that way if you are. Someone's bound to associate with your feelings if you state them, you don't have to tell us what we feel.

Don't speak uncertainly with stuff like those "mays" or "It can" in the final stanza. Teenage girls write that way, vacillating between possibilities because they don't have a concrete image or emotion behind their thought. Try elaborating on the conflict rather than just stating there's a conflict. A poem is a story, an image, and a dialogue in one, and you're making statements.

Again, why such heavy use of rhetoricals? Introspection is for the self. Others will be made uncomfortable and offended when approached directly with introspective inquiry. Take time to lead a reader to an overwhelming question, whether it's intended for them or yourself, that we can build our own ideas of what the answer to that question is. e.g.

What's wrong with me?

or

The world has lost its colour
Words are born abortive from my unwilling mouth
They should not stain a grey world black
What's wrong with me?

Or something like that.

I tend to write my poetry and stories, not for an audience, but for myself, it allows me to release my thoughts and feelings. Whatever the emotions or thought may pertain to is of little to no significance.

Here are a few of the other pieces I posted.

>he thinks haikus have a 5/7/5 syllabic structure
confirmed for not knowing jack about haikus

Writing for oneself is entirely different from writing for an audience, excuse me, in that case.

Before me sit 4 poisons. I intend on taking each of them, and allowing the affects of such horrible brews to addle my mind and senses.
The first poison is of the earth, water and fire metamorphosing one of natures constructs to enter my body. The poison lies withing me now, and it trickles out bit by bit, a poison so dangerous to keep it within would be to die. This is a poison of judgement, something I know will only hurt my future, falling short of making the present bearable. This poison is the least dangerous of all before me.
The second poison burns, and any creature no matter how vile would have second thoughts considering its consumption, and yet I, the most vile and dangerous creature of them all drinks the poison down and accepts the pain it brings. This is a poison of body, eating away the insides and causing distress to the brain. This poison is the one that would likely kill me, though it is nothing compared to the third.
The third posion is the only one recognized as a poison by others, making its consumption all the more necessary for me. The poison causes me to sleep, fall over backwards thunderstruck, contemplating my existence. This poison makes the world a place of wonder, a place of peace, though peace is an illusion, as well as the rest of the world this poison creates around me. This is a poison of the mind, a killer of dreams, a waster of time and days, a destroyer of life itself. A poison of the mind, and as the body cannot live without the mind, this is the most dangerous poison yet.
The fourth and final poison is the most dangerous poison to ever exist. To use it on myself would mean death, and considerable suffering beforehand. The poison is made from the thoughts of dead men, inlaid upon the bodies of dead creatures. The poison leaves the body to its own work, and may even enhance the mind -- though it destroys the soul instead. The mind and body cannot live without the soul, and the soul is the essence of existence. Unfortunately, the fourth poison is my favorite, and I do and always will use and abuse it. My day of death is coming soon. I hear the call of the reaper, and I do not fear him.
I will die far from my home. In a place I have never been, killed by a person I never got to meet, for reasons I dont believe in. All four poisons will be flowing through me at my time of death. And as the bullet enters the skull, the first three poisons will no longer matter, and the fourth will cease to exist.

drive.google.com/open?id=0BzZzSemy73ZDV1IxUm9zQ2s2ams

its a script...

Here's a poem I wrote.

Your bricks crack like broken teeth-
shards of glass become your wreath.

Streetlights are snapped like broken bones,
A city-block now a heap of stones.

In your tunnels thousands cower,
from death's fast approaching hour.

Millions of people in an instant dust,
and all man made no more than rust.

>a poison so dangerous to keep it within would be to die.

a redundancy so obvious to write it down would be superfluous.

I'm gay, I'm straight then I'm gay again, ooh oh oh my! I think maybe, perhaps, probably, I'm just, just, just - gay, straight, gay, straight? Ahhh!

Dust to dust, ashes to cashes,
Why Lord? must I pass these gases,
Ground to dirt and spat back out,
That's the multiverse all about.

The mon, son $$$$$$$$$$$1

Reminded me of those NEET vs. wagecuck images posted on /pol/

gay

>pastebin.com/qUB7dYRu

Because I'm feedback hungry.