Write a post in your best prose

Write a post in your best prose

you first

"No."

What I consider good is anathema to the vast majority of Veeky Forums.

I write on a dare for anonymous praise, how sad my life has become. I am anxiously lingering on every word I type, "Meowth, that's right."

oh my god, the prose... the heavenly prose!!

the splendor, the bliss...

holy...I want more

He set to the keyboard and typed, 'fag'.

shaky shaky shaky shaky shaky shaky

I like books.

im gay

Bruh, stooo.

Searching for warmth, the headcrab found its flame in Gordon Freeman's moist anus.

Sam Harris is an übermensch.

The challenge given & accepted, the post written, having prepared & proofread my words, I hereby post.

I haven't got a clue what people mean by "good prose". I've always just written how I think things are good to say and judged texts I've read by how it made me feel, that is to say more by the subject and theme rather than the fancy use of perfect words in special orders, I don't see the point of any of that. I don't know how poetry works either, I know poetry when I hear it, but I really can't be bothered to distinguish the reasons behind things sounding particularly "poetic" or "prosaic", I'd rather save time and concentrate on things I like to hear and say.
But nonetheless, as the future literary genius that I am (that we all are, aren't we?) I'd like to hear your thoughts and some wise words from dead men; what is good prose?

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
I wish I was special
You're so fuckin' special
But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here.
I don't care if it hurts
I wanna have control
I wanna a perfect body
I wanna a perfect soul
I want you to notice
When I'm not around
You're so fuckin' special
I wish I was special
But I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here.

I can't believe I'm still on this faggatious site but literally everything indicates it.

that was pretty fuckin good lol

that fucking sucked. You're asking us to quantify beauty, as if you could reverse engineer it. If you could do that, art wouldn't be special, everyone would be a Rembrandt or Picasso.

But it's the humid dazzle of city lights, the cherry-painted sky, those amber snatches of memory that stand out most of all. Four years old and already I yearned for the nocturnal romances of the metropolis; the naive mirage of stone cathedrals, purple mosaics and Persian rugs. At the utmost core of every city there hides the impalpable idyll of limpid love. It takes more than a simple sentimentalist to find it. You have to be a yearner, a liar, a charmer, and a thief, you have to be as human as it is humanly possible; a complex interweaving of contradictions; a pristine scoundrel, a filthy man-of-the-world, that's it, fellatio at the Schumann concerto! You know, the ascetic sensualist. The impotent colonialist. The sexually charged Tibetan mantras. The nun's sweaty hand when she shakes yours. If chastity is a sin, an incapacity for aesthetic recognition is one as well. Be a good Baudelaire, dammit all, "les sons et les parfums tournent dans l'air du soir, Valse mélancolique et langoureux vertige!". O, to shy away from days of indolence!

Now only one enemy remains; two if you counted god.

that's literally what they did in workshops and academies for like half a millennium

This thread, in my board it is the worst.

I respond to the shit thread, not because of an interest in the topic, but because of an overwhelming desire to delay my duties, and a less overwhelming desire for validation.
I don't know if that was particularly good, but it's the truth, homie.

Cringe.

Looking into his eyes I saw him, an elderly fellow of around 70. He was a short man, with a large nose and defined cheekbones, his eyes flitted from side to side, and his back was hunched. I could tell the man was fidgety, nervous, and thus sought to comfort him. Upon handing the escorting guard a brief case, I introduced myself.

"Dr. Pavel, I'm CIA"

A Slavic looking man, strode behind him, his eyes blue as ice, and his voice was cold like it too

"he wasn't alone"

Peering behind the doctor, I noticed three masked men. Fit, broad and able bodied. Ironically, a contrasting image to the man I was about to take on board, while Pavel seemed meek under protection, the three masked men were calm. Two of them almost acted as body guards themselves, standing to the sides of the largest of the three. Confusion overtook me. Who were these men? Accomplices of the good doctor?

"Uh, you don't get to bring friends" I chuckled, somewhat nervously

The doctor started at me with sunken eyes with black rings beneath them.

"They are not my friends" he growled

Taking a step forward the Slavic man sought to cease the tension.

"Don't worry no charge for them" he said cooly

"And why I would I want them" I asked.

"They were trying to grab your prize..." The Slavic man whispered.

I shrugged and shook my head in confusion, what would a bunch of rag tag looking thugs who got bagged and tagged like a cow to the slaughter be of importance to me?

"They work for the mercenary... The masked man"

Skipping a beat, my heart jumped. Was this the fabled warrior I had heard of? The man from the pit?

"Bane?"

stale meme, vomit-inducing prose

I began seeing things in another light as I started posting on the anonymous sheep herding site. It was strange how I felt almost a kind of ironic euphoria. It was not as if I could have known this utmost pleasant feeling, rather I had to do with the acknowledgement that being at this moment in this time was nothing more than a life laid to waste.

Yet here I was, shitposting, time and time again, and witnessing the flow of pure ideology going from my brain to the fingers typing on the keyboard. I knew there was going to be another John Green thread because in my diary I wrote I was going to make yet another John Green thread. There was little more satisfying as that.

Yes my dear diary, there is no endgame. All there is, and will be, is the endless and eternal shitposting. Of course, sometimes one wonders whatever making another philosophy bashing thread is worth it, once you already made a thousand or so of them.

At moments like these, I reasure myself: you will have your kek and there is nothing wrong with wanting to have some (You)s. So let it be this way my dear diary. One way or another, there is nothing stopping me from making that John Green thread - yet again.

Interesting phrases, is english your second language?

Prose is only relevant to poetry. Forcing it into a regular novel will automatically make that novel meme tier

''Screw you guys, I'm going home.''

"Whats that behind your ear," my grandfather asked.
Giggling I said, "Is it a coin?"
He pulled back his hand to reveal it was empty.
"Stupid child, haven't I taught you enough in the ways of the skeptic? Magic isn't real and you evolved from fish, you stupid fucking kid. Is your whore mom reading you fairy tales again? God damn I wish I had aborted that loon."

2edgy4me

OP's posted another faggy post again to start the thread, but Jesus Christ, I can't blame the mizzable sonuvabitch. Sonuvabitch never had a father and grew overly attached to his mother figure, causing to become a faggot. He didn't have a strong enough father figure in his early life to bond to. Maybe the sonuvabitch (OP's father) was a drunk or something or smacked OP around, maybe he just wasn't there. A son is supposed to identify with his father and learn from him how to become a man. But that didn't happen to OP. No. OP identified with his mother, and became a faggot.

Did OP get exposed to too much estrogen in the womb? Maybe his mother had too much contact with plastics, drank too much bottled water with estrogen in it? But everyone calls OP a faggot without considering what MADE him this way, and it makes me wanna weep for the sonuvabitch. We're all poor sons of bitches in this world, every last mother's son and father's daughter of us, Jesus Christ. Lord help us.

And so I sit here, typing up a post in response to OP's request, borne back ceaselessly into Freudian psychoanalysis. I need a drink.