Critique thread

lets go lads

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pastebin.com/UbZHnQMa
pastebin.com/jzUbzCSD
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esperanto.mv.ru/Kolekto/La_vojo.html
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be harsh first time

...

oops

>over which was draped
clumsy
also had to google 'pyriform' - useful word though hehe
The description is a bit discombobulated.
You talk too much about scepticism when the cow is appearing, also
>had continuing
>a terra firma

The second page is way better than the first. Last page loses momentum a bit.

---

Close eyes and drift off. Undulate -
feel the network of waves, the links as limbs.
Ripple and receive the reflection.
Affirmation, information.
Move to be present, excite all eigenstates,
jubilate! Stasis is
not.
Move. You can't help it.
Resonate.
Delight in movement, simplicity of existence,
tendency to being.
The coordinates of nebulous secrets
are encoded in oscillation:
a tsunami through the vacuum.
Is, no reason.
Is.

Definitely clunky writing. I'm not going to read all that shit in a single critique thread but from the first two paragraphs it seems fine. Your style seems a bit all over the place as does your voice. Keep going but just keep in mind this piece will probably need to be put aside once you finish. Then once you've worked a bit more you can revisit and do a very, very heavy edit.

pastebin.com/UbZHnQMa

i didnt see this thread so i made another thread sorry

Feels like an exercise more than an entire piece. Not terribly original or good. Your voice definitely improves towards the latter half of the scene though.

Woops lots of mistakes for some reason, my word processor is shit

read this instead

pastebin.com/jzUbzCSD

Something tells me that you/ve done LSD recently.

Doesn't seem that different iibh

>over which was draped
>clumsy

Nothing wrong with it OP, IMO. Reads fine. Keep at it

Translation of Lorca's "Las Seis Cuerdas"

The guitar can make Ambition snivel. The wailing of dead souls escapes your rounded mouth. And such as the tarantula, you spin a great, starry web to ensnare the sighs that surface from your black, wooden rain-basket.

I've been learning quantum mechanics, which is a large inspiration.

However, I wrote the original version of this after DXM. And I can't deny that subsequent trips have influenced me, a especially 1P-LSD one maybe two weeks ago. Had to clean up cat sick immediately after peaking.. ughhhh. You just don't want empathy with puke or an old cat.

posted this awhile back but converted it to free verse since that's more comfortable for me. pls bully

>eigenstates
oh you. This is exactly my type of poetry. I read it imagining a sexy robotic voice reading it to me. post more

...

What are you trying to do here?

I'm only gonna post a few sentences because I know I'm not a very good writer.

>And as the small craft slowly and delicately descended into the sun pavilion of the great monument, specs of dust danced about the air, glistening in the fog lights of the ship, for the first time in a millennia.

>It was only at this point, when the man looked up that he realised the sheer grandeur of the room he was standing in; A circular, marble floor, leading up eight large, beautifully decorated pillars, which stood like giant stone guardians around the center of the room. The ceiling was an intricate mix of silver and glass, weaving and and snaking through various pipes full of mirrors, which were said to be a able to send the light of the sun to even the deepest rooms of the building.

Scene from something I'm writing, two characters.
>Pic related

needs editing a bit but trying not to get held back

Yeah, that's really bad. Read more.

Lacking in emotion. Very poor. Pacing feels strange.

It's my journal entry.

Porcelain walls too sturdy to break
reflect all of the light in on itself
The stark white teeth of the beast
they gnash and gnaw
Every night they whisper; this is not your home
The largest open space is the dining room
the rest is a series of cramped hallways
Over cream cheese bagels and ginger ale
I discuss how the bright fluorescent lighting
is immeasurably worse than the dark.
In the morning
I ask them to keep my shades closed.

I'll copy a poem I wrote in the back of my copy of Fathers and Sons:

The tunnel: dark, long, damp,
indeterminate,
but you're in a train car,
first class,
first in your class.
And you whine
and whine.
And you may not think it now
but some day, this, too, shall pass
(as all things must)
and you'll look back
and only think of how young you were,
remembering nothing else
but how young you were.

Any advice on why so poor?I had fun writing this.
I'm really going for repression of emotions here, he can't really do anything because she is royalty.

I imagine a mad man in a foamy white room screaming lines from Lolita and various B grade Sci-fi flicks.

I'm unsure whether this is a good or bad thing.

Implying good or bad exist
>amirite

Understated weapon: the male penis
stands ready for action. Its intention
must be domination, its goal is
the losing of control, an erection
loosing cunts rolls but in one direction:
the divine release: a flood, fluid-- jizz.


For what purpose comes this exuberance;
for what purpose cums from this extraction?
There is no reason but this: to commence
the submission, needed domination
of woman, the corrupter, whose action
brought end to man’s Godgiven eminence.


The penis exists but only to ream;
only to right writ’n wrongs-- only to cream.

The cream cheese line awkwardly breaks up the general semantic fields you are going for in my opinion

Also the last line sounds a little edgy, could do with rewording

It's a thing. But I'll add that the poem impresses one slightly as self-indulgent, hermetic: "reflect all of the light in on itself"; "I ask them to keep my shades closed."

Nice. I wish you'd use more punctuation though. Also that semicolon is wrong.
Kind of reads breathless, each line stunted.

I actually read all of this. It's pretty amusing, due mostly to the fact that you use the word "depressing" every other sentence. You don't seem actually depressed though; you enjoy it too much.
I feel ya on the friendship thing.. I met some pretty great people at university but now it's the holiday, fb-communication is rare. At the moment I have an emotionally open friendship but not really an intellectual one (of which I feel the absence) now I'm at home. And the forums I visit are pretty much all shit.

You remind me of me. Or perhaps more of an unsuccessful Martin Shkreli.

A bit limp tb h

I wish I knew what the assailants were trying to achieve.
I think the flow needs to be worked on a bit, and I feel as if the name of the girl is unnecessary information.

As for flow,
"no concern for lack of sight
no concern for prospective passengers"

could be condensed to
"job description takes a backseat to animal instinct" or something of the sort.

It's decent, but is somewhat lacking in flow imo.

>post more
If you want.

pastebin.com/DznP8iyC

would love crit on any of these. #2 got shit on in another thread.

>implying that there aren't varying standards of good and bad within different groups.

whoops
>a poem I wrote in the back of my copy of
People should do this more. I love finding little notes like this (not manic annotations) in used books I buy that pertain to what the book means to that person. It adds briefly a new intimate dimension to reading.

We play this age-old sport that’s kind of like fetch, except instead of a tennis ball, it is our guilt. Also, the goal of the game is that it won’t come back to you.

We aim for what has no defense.

There’s the weather, the moon phase, the messes that were made in the kitchen that no one bothered to clean.

There’s how our parents married on April Fools' Day. How that fact made even the good times seem ironic in retrospect. There’s how they separated on Father’s Day. How our father, when he left, left our gifts unopened behind.

There’s also aging. And how expectations actually shape realities. And how remembering things actually makes you forget.

For a while there was our mother and our father and we were happy and the game hadn’t started yet.

Then, from nowhere, we wanted a dog. We asked for one and kept asking. Then, from nowhere, a dog appeared and everything changed.

In the beginning, there was the dog for us to hate together. We had to feed it. And take it for walks. The dog would find whatever we threw in its direction. It would just come right back and let us throw it again.

In those years we could sleep soundly.

In those years there was a dog we could blame.

Limp! As in a dead limp limb, or a hemo-vacant phallus, or a magic clown's wand handed to a child?

None of that really comes across though. You have bits and fragments of emotion, but nothing of consequence and it feels all outrageous. She just ends up an average teenage girl with no ambition and him an amorphous blob of a teacher. No one wants to read that.

can i post part of a script in here or will people get pissed

That's fine. It might not get as many critiques because most of us deal in prose and poetry.

1/3

bahaha just went on your blog, so you're the guy who wrote that wank about nihilism and billy elliot.
I mean some of your ideas are ok but your writing is poor.

2/3

3/3

>You don't seem actually depressed though; you enjoy it too much.
>you enjoy it too much.
that's interesting. what do you mean specifically by that? also, I'm glad you find it amusing, I find it a little amusing myself, things always become funny to me about stuff I say when someone puts it in a funny perspective.

>your writing is poor.
yeah, your writing is poor. what am I supposed to do with this? my writing is poor? oh, okay, that's about as not helpful - non descriptive as you can get.

If someone gives you a general critique like that it means your writing is generally bad and you need to get better at everything. I agree with him. It's really bad.

Madame feels like an inventory of catchphrases. Give her life, instead of just letting her project.

Hey man, I aint no try hard. My writing is at least decent, I'm sure someone would really "get it", but not snobs like you.

Here are some tips young jedi. try writing without:
-mentioning any other books
-mentioning any other authors
-mentioning wanting to be an author
-mentioning writing
-mentioning reading
-mentioning teaching
-mentioning school
-mentioning art of any kind
-mentioning formal abstract ideas

try that. start with an image, not a concept. let it expand, then contract. expand, then contract. let it anneal until something interesting.

you're right, although this is her only appearance and i want to keep it brief. will see what i can do.

I guess it's mostly the fact that you have a kind of ironic distance from yourself; you see that you are ridiculous and enjoy the ridiculosity of your venting.
The amusing part is that you are caught up with yourself despite that, and I love irony. You're just distant enough to be funny.

It's mostly to do with your vocabulary; you don't have much of one. Maybe try to think of alternative ways to say things; ways other than the first that springs to mind.

>try that. start with an image, not a concept. let it expand, then contract. expand, then contract. let it anneal until something interesting.
lmao what the fuck kind of advice is this? I'll let it expand and contract in your face, if you know what I mean ;)

For the ones who live for obsession,
By the one who there for possession,
With the blind ignorants still wants progression,
There we have this thrash of limitation,
A limitation known as creation.

Gavin watches a young boy navigate the dance floor with a silver spoon clenched in his fist. Head like a compass needle aimed at the raw bar, he leaves a froth of broken couples in his wake. The shoulders of the boy's tuxedo turn into tumored epaulettes as he reaches over the crushed ice on tip-toes for a bowl of black caviar. Retreating to a quiet corner of the room, he slinks to the ground and, with his pudgy knuckles turning white on the spoon's stem, eats the sturgeon roe like morning cereal.

The boy's mother, twisting her neck away from a conversation, sees him and steps away. He knows he's been spotted. Leaving the bowl of evidence, but not the spoon, he staggers through the dancers to the center of the band-stand clearing. He pivots from one happy couple to the next, his eyes dilated in fear, trying to see his mother through their swinging arms and legs.

There she is, stooping, then crouching so not to spill a glass of champagne. "What's on your mouth?" she asks, dabbing the corner of his lips with a cocktail napkin. Something has welled up inside of him. She can see it in his un-blinking eyes as she steps back. "Honey, is everything okay?"

Starting at his stomach, his body shutters, taking his hand to his mouth. An ink-black stain spreads from the boy's mouth over his hand. His eyes close and the hand drops to his knee; a squirt of caviar clears the floor with an "UNGHHHHHH." Splat. Gavin laughs and looks away, "holy shit."

No it's just dumb ramblings.

Too many similes and loose-feeling images. Thought it is somewhat amusing, since it is (intentionally or not) comedic.

It means that it might be bad. There are a lot of people with bad taste on this board, so one person's general comment need not necessarily mean very much. It might, in fact probably will, but it isn't an absolute judgment like you've suggested it is.

Just a reminder.

Counting vertebra
Flying shoulder blades
Snuck out of the skin of corporeal neon

Swept by fumes
From a musky rib
Nails dug into ether, unhinged, unpainful

I am blotched art
On your dreamy palette
In this blue even your vermillion is gone

Paint me tonight
With one color
The others left the door ajar

Holy shit user BTFO.

You need to learn punctuation

this guy tried helping out a retard

definitely supposed to be funny

Honestly, just saying "the writing is poor" is an awful critique. It's not like you have to list everything that is wrong with the writing if you think it's awful, but if you can at least suggest one specific area to work on it can actually be helpful. Just saying "the writing is poor" is the opposite of helpful.

asked my friend's ex-girlfriend for a writing prompt:
"big ferret" sigh
-------
Fatloaf surged around the corner in his rusty truck, spitting up black dust into fog blanketed air. 'Get in', he yelled, 'you think I'd forget you?'

I hastened my pace, running, running, fueled by the impossible waking nightmare of that closing in: The Ferret, a deadly concoction of man's ingenuity of scientific progress and intent to destroy itself. I got in, caught my breath as Fatloaf leaned over moving stray papers.. moments later, all that was left behind on that empty quiet street was the smell of monoxide trailing in the wind.

In the interior of the rumbling truck, I tightened my seatbelt and felt the sweat soaked in my clothes, as the orange streams of streetlights blurred past. I said, 'Fatloaf, who were those guys? What was that... why is that?-'

He looked at me with a sly grin, 'you're thinking of the implications to what we just did? well, they're after you Cables, they picked up your scent, but fuck knows how, or why, these genetically engineered rodents are so interested in you.'

We hit the brakes to take a look, we measured our distance to be a safe margin. We viewed the shadowy wake of the gigantic ferret, a nightmarish form ten stories high, standing upright on hind legs to the backdrop of crumbling city skyscrapers, surrounded by a circle of blistering fire and rubble. The zenith of our awe halted immediate to the sound of an engine roar crawling up behind us, a third-party unidentified vehicle veered into view with blackened windows, projecting straight towards us, greeting us with malicious intent in the universal form of the spraying of bullets. Can the truck take this? I say, as I hear the clunk clunk clunk spattering on the back, and the breaking of glass, and a stray bullet screaming past my ear. Can it? I wonder. I have to take a drink, I say. The walls are closing in. I know it.
Fatloaf ignored this, he was wired with adrenaline to the wheel, using fear as fuel, deftly controlling the levers, I observed the confident silence of an artist at work.
I slunk in my seat, Fatloaf twisting and turning the truck like a rabbit in a maze effortlessly navigating the streets. We seem to lose sight of our third party. It was not over however as we had The Rodent on our tail. Absolute realisation of relenting death spurred on in the form of a massive ferret the size of sixteen buses, had us at the wheel hollow-eyed; but armed with fear and good reflexes, Fatloaf tore onwards. It gained on us with frightening speed.

Burning screeching hot tires, a sudden lunge forward, propulsion around every bend, a heavy turn down a side street, a moonlit bridge, regression to the cold shadows under a distant motorway which made our impossible escape. With every turn, the gigantic beast hopped over every obstacle, thundering our way, ignoring everything in its path, intent of catching and slaughtering us and leaving us in a twisted smoking metal tomb. But why?

You sound like a less cracked out dostoyevsky in notes, but I think there's too much questions in so little text. Maybe try to make more statements and less questions, it can be a bit overwhelming at times.

I would have walked into the house but I was now a shepherd dog, committed to the flock and to the wielder of the staff. I knew my street dog days were done, so I sat on the curb and watched Rothko paint his rust and blue in the sky and felt good and glad that I had not walked into the house for an innocent family of seven could live there now. On the curb with my tail between my legs, I thought. When a man becomes old he goes back to being a child, but never back to being a young man. At seventeen I would walk the streets of Panama in search of women who drank and ate ambrosia. I preferred older women because they had no ideals and only cared about money and I on the other hand had only ideals and little money. Now married with children and forty-two years old, ideals are nonexistent to me, seeing no wonder in even the largest of mirrors
.
“Materialism! Materialism! Renounce materialism!” Says the youth, and even said I in my younger days. But how easy it is to reject the knowledge of the fathers when it has just been discovered? When one is a child he only sees or cares for the material, feeling uneasy whenever he is left with nothing, but as the child grows, he realizes that the material is superficial, and that there must be a deeper meaning to the world. The young man then turns his vision away from the world, and unto himself. Once inside he sees hundreds of thousands of crystals that reflect a simple blue vase. The scattered images show him that there is something, but the location of the vase is unknown to him, and will always be. And how bitterness overtakes the young man when he realizes that mortals only ever get a glimpse and never a taste! Alas, this is how I have come to exist. In my first year of college the mind was the only weapon I had so I sharpened it against anything I could find; Christianity, positivism, I clashed against it all. I devoured texts and studied and made money tutoring the children of the high class. Money was okay, but most of it would be put back into the Panamanian economy, strengthening the nightlife industry and keeping the price of booze down for all. I pondered and pondered, patting my foot against the concrete that stood underneath me, thinking how the street not only resists the pressure of my foot but the pressure of tires and cars and thousands of other things and how resisting in itself is a verb, and thus an active feature. I wandered into what seemed like a past life, coming close to feeling ennui.

...

The 'life pools over' thing never goes anywhere. Considering that it's 'life', it can't just act like window dressing to the scene: it makes the setting and how we're supposed to perceive it. But the paragraph is treated as another tangent, and it doesn't fit that way. More space/ideas should be given the condition, perhaps as a strong introduction. The way it leads into his oldness in the same paragraph seems like something you lazily attached after you were finished with that good image--but it was more potent than you expected.

The second paragraph is telling, and not showing. There's nothing psychological in it, I'm just having a psychological condition bluntly explained to me, as if it were a critic explaining the character. Each of those sentences are their own moments.

Then in the last paragraph even heavier in the essay (even though its never truly committing to it), to a soft end.

That said, you have potential. Rate mine?

I think it's solid. I think it can be explored more. It's 'there', but is there somewhere more personal or unique you can take it?

Dilettantes vacuously exploit lexicons to extract and manipulate vapid, bumptious appellations, desperately assaying to conceal their genuine temperament.

The mere charlatans' compositions bolster dictations which serve solely to create some of the most banal, unaesthetic prose ever witnessed in the postdiluvian epochs of creation, their works congested by proboscidean locutions containing naught but unmeritorious substance.

I not only indict these ignoramuses, but also compel them to excogitate upon the kernels of my contention and thereafter operate in accordance when formulating their proximal oeuvre, lest they come across as pretentious.

It was an exercise I did a while back, really just as a test for atmosphere.

I guess there's something more unique I could do with it, but I'll have to work it out. There wasn't a specific plot I had in mind. Thanks though

Doing time
reading In Search of Lost Time
under a white light at night
that not even a prism can separate.

they allow Veeky Forums in the slammer?

this is boring because it's not true

These posts are irritating. Anything I say and you just reply "bbbbbbut! dass da poin". Sure, nigga, but you're missing my point.

I take painkillers
so that I can pretend to read
comfortably
as I nod off approvingly
to a city of cotton candy clouds
that's really just asbestos.

Rococo cadence, polka dot umbrella and high-heeled staccato; yes I was in love. I knew because when she said un capuccino s'il vous plait I would hang onto her palate at the s, I would hang for this suave Parisian sound. I would lose myself in the silk of her architecture, and when every crease had been straightened and softened, my marble love would unveil her paleness again. I met her on a brooding Sunday afternoon. My nothingness walked in a park and sat down by its favourite oak. I had lived and existed apart for a while, and I had no way of knowing; perhaps I had become invisible to everyone. Dry leaves falling on me, menacing chirps, a couple snuggling three oaks away. That was the petty picture. How can I announce the arrival of a ray of sunshine without repeating what so many men have said before? When I first saw her she bla bla bla, etc... we bla bla bla'd for a bit and she had been a waitress for two years at my ex-favorite café in the 10th. My penchant for pointless nostalgia in full force I now recalled the frigid star who did not look at me when I said thank you. I had fantasized about her between sweaty sheets on several occasions.

I take painkillers
so that I can pretend to read
comfortably
as I nod off approvingly
to a city of cotton candy clouds
aloft the oxycontin blue sky
that's really just made of asbestos
and binding bright white lies.

Hey, let just them practice their sesquipedalianism—bozos gotta practice their brocab use somehow.

>Rococo cadence
>suave Parisian sound
>marbled love
>brooding Sunday
>My nothingness
>menacing chirps
>three oaks away
>petty picture
>bla bla bla'd
>ex-favorite café
>the frigid star
>between sweaty sheets

You didn't.

Renaissance dilettante,
puerile pickpocketer,
a doll made of crumbled clay and expired love:

My dog ate my homework
and I ate my dog
which means the assignment is shit
and my dog's a log.

But I hate to be crass
and love to love the haters
who hate beneath my chassis:
I'm a fucking Ferrari.

Extravaganza: extravagant stanza:
colonic destitution in your area:
forty-two stabbed at Bonnaroo 23-skidoo:
I can't stand without metric feet: 2
girls, one cup, three hands, what the fuck.
If you can extract meaning from a blank wall
then you mean something, or not at all.
50% of lives are lived with 50% compunction:
sandwiched between nonexistence: a somatic junction.

Today I sold my sole
pair of Cowboy boots to
a homeless man for one
billion dollars
in Zimbabwait-a-minute,
guac is how much extra?

There goes your tip.

>The air behind the tent was thick with the smell of smoke, sawdust and animals. The magician had never believed that oxygen could curdle, but between the cloying odors and the oppressive heat he was already beginning to make reconsiderations. It wasn't the first doubt on his mind that night, nor would it be the last.

>Twenty odd years had been gone by at this circus, and in that time he had become extremely proficient at predicting the crowd. The New York show was the exception. This city always seemed like it followed different laws of ontology. This was the city where incidents happened, the ones that saw a good thing going on and said “yeah, but what if?”

I know i'm capable of writing well sometimes, but why the hell can't I do it consistently?

Not enough practice (or editing) perhaps?

Have you tried starting with the Greeks?

Have you masturbated to James Joyce's letters of love to his sweet, sweet Nora?

Have you using bigger words like 'instantaneity' and 'perfunctorily'?

Have you taken photos of the books you own and shown them to strangers on the internet pretending to discuss what you're planning on reading next without ever actually discussing what you read?

Or maybe you could force upon yourself a traumatic life event, like killing your parents or something, and use it as creative fuel and poetic licensing.


Anyway, change 'beginning to make reconsiderations' to 'reconsidering,' because the former form sounds absolutely retarded.

Veeky Forums btfo'd

the grief of the early riser
is bound to his company ,
who wars with the lonely phantoms of his dreams
who braves the hallows of his fears
which, by your mark
fades into the dusk
like a cloud imposed upon a gaze of stars.
Like the rainy blades of green
and the dewy mists of morning,
how they cloud my sight.
As is the fogginess of dawn.

on a morning so gracious
to bring our connection to mind.
Nudging at my shoulder, pointing to you
adorned
and on display.
Painted with a brush so new and fine.
And the wind carries the scent:
what a warm alarm it is to wake to
and be reminded
that I'm embraced and accompanied
day in and day out

for all its humours,
reacquaintance
has found us furnished at the heart,
burning behind the eyes.
On fire with the same force
that lights the sunrise.
Soothing
like the smell after rainfall
before the heat of the day
has a chance to meet my cheek

how warm it is to see
the thawing of the damp,
smoothening the coarseness
of the early hours
as they burn
torrid
with the same fever
that struck the embers
once glowing
shyly
by our toes

Self-entitled

The sepulchre swallowed him,
she swallowed him whole
and chewed on his bones and calcified heart
like a lion cub eating meat for the first time,
turning him to cud, turning him to dust,
before spitting him back out into the earth
where his pains suddenly had meaning
and he thought: hey, I can write about this.
So he did, and—No. No.
This won't do at all: the cliched metaphor,
the sardonic self-reflection, self-reflexion,
prematurely metastasized meta meter.
This won't do at all. Not at all.
And I'm not saying that as some
attempt at reverse-psychology or simultaneously
self-indulgent, self-deprecating humble-braggery,
but I actually mean that this poem is quite bad so far,
which, it must be said, doesn't disqualify it
from criticism, which is a line I stole
from a book I won't tell you about,
which means that this work just became allusive
and therefore of higher literary importance.
Pan isn't dead, Mr. Chesterton. You are.
So here's a toast to deadpan:
may you wrest in peace.

Self-Entitled

The sepulchre swallowed him,
she swallowed him whole,
chewed on his bones and calcified heart
like a lion cub eating meat for the first time,
and turned him to cud, turned him to dust,
before spitting him back out into the earth
where his pains suddenly had meaning
and he thought: hey, I can write about this.
So he did, and—No, no.
This won't do: the clichéd metaphor,
the sardonic self-reflection, self-reflexion,
prematurely metastasized meta meter.
This won't do at all. Not at all.
And I'm not saying that as some
attempt at reverse-psychology or simultaneously
self-indulgent, self-deprecating humble-braggery.
But I actually mean that this poem is quite bad so far,
which, it must be said, doesn't disqualify it
from criticism—which is a line I stole
from a book I won't tell you about,
which means that this work just became allusive
and therefore of higher literary importance.

Pan isn't dead, Mr. Chesterton. You are.
So here's a toast to deadpan:
may you wrest in peace,
not in pieces.

dilettantes detected

Geez. Remove 'ontology'. First sentence is fine.

Just a reminder: only the insecure insult unsolicited.

Where did you get a color photo of bertrand russell? is that digitally colored?

agreed

>drinking the salt breeze
>followed by a goddamn run on sentence

wew

Again, it's not. It's a general review that says that all of the writing is bad and needs a complete rewrite. Therefore, any improvement made by the original writer will be an improvement on the piece. There's no reason to get specific if everything is crap.

fanfiction-tier

Drawings of roses hang carefully from nails stuck in the wall.
You stand adjacent to them,
picking and chewing your nails off,
pulling your hair out.
The songs take place of your words,
for you're oh so afraid of what your small voice might say.
Tell yourself all of the things you've learned.
Let your red eyes question them.
Let the world enclose and swirl.
Let your shaking fist rattle against the counter, and count yourself calm in 4/4.

The night you closed the door on your finger attempting to keep what you're so scared of from getting out.
The afternoon you suffocated your thoughts behind the same locked exit.
The morning after an eternity.

Again

and

Again

and

Again

I tried translating the first two stanzas of La Vojo.
Original:
esperanto.mv.ru/Kolekto/La_vojo.html
My attempt at a translation:
Through the dense darkness, that goal is glimmering
Which we courageously seek
Like a star in the night sky shimmering
To us the direction it speaks
And we shall not be frightened of phantoms ephemeral
Nor fate's slings and arrows or mock'ry condemnal
For bearing no doubt and clear as the day
It is the chosen way

Directly, with courage, and never sheepishly
Let us travel the great chosen way
Even a little drop, striking unceasingly
Will wear a great mountain away
By hope and by patience and constant persistence
These virtues three will be our assistance
'Til one step at a time, after labor unceasing
The distance to our goal is decreasing

Chilled salad forks and anterooms:
the stuff of privilege.
(This is pretty Veeky Forums.)

I find it quite something
how saying a thing is a thing
is now a thing
used to recognize a trend
or the significance of some thing, like

Suicide Squad Will Smith
be gettin' thingamajiggy with it—
nanananananana! Nahnahnahnahnahnahnyah!
Ban all bans. Ban malls and
take all-n-none stands.
Take all-n-none hands.
Make all-n-none plans like

bitch I can't poetically commiserate
or maintain thematic flow,
I just know how to know what I don't know and know
and express what I don't know I know and don't know
like how my skin look like Donald Rumsfeldspar-
rots talk nonsense but mimicry.

>You didn't
What do you mean?

I think it's enough to say "the oxygen curdled" rather than breaking it down like that.

The final sentence doesn't make sense.