Critique thread

I tend not to like uplifting verse, however this isn't bad.

i agree with other user, I'd edit the "Joy! Breathless, newness!" part.

My rule of thumb for poetry is cut dead wood. Go over every single word you've written and determine if you need that word at all or if there is a better, more specific word you can use instead of two or three words.

>airy and amorous

alliteration makes me moist ;^)

I guess I'll just post this again, since all I got in the previous thread were odd posts.

pastebin.com/ZSuKFriL

Here, my first ever prose paragraph. Intended to be the first of a full length novel.

A man walking in the woods is like a king amongst beggars or a star sat in the center of a galaxy. But when two men (or in this case a boy and a girl) walk in the woods, the woods themselves cease to be anything but a backdrop, a piece of painted canvas before which the gods perform their play. Now that's just what we were , a man and his lover in media res. The second act of our existences but the third act of our love.

>A man walking in the woods is like a king amongst beggars
False. Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes user, I live in the woods. there's bobcats out there.

- pretentious, meandering
- sets neither tone nor gives any idea about things to come
- bad phrasing. two men (or in this case a boy and a girl) - ????

>media res
easy there lit

If I recall correctly, it was raining.

In fact, it was raining so hard, I’ll go out on a limb here and say it was pouring. Because of this, you wouldn’t be able to tell that some of the water on my face came from my eyes instead of the sky, and that some of the sniffles and shivers I was making weren’t just because I was cold.

The blood of the man on the ground behind me mixed in with the water falling from the sky, trailing down the sidewalk and into the sewage grate. On this night, it was so dark that if it weren’t for the streetlights, you would seldom be able to see anything. But that holds true for any night, doesn’t it? It’s hard to describe, but because of the pure bleakness and density of my situation, I felt as if it was darker tonight than other nights in recent memory. Croquet mallet gripped tightly in my left hand, one of my victim’s arms in my right hand. I forget which arm I was dragging him by, but it doesn’t matter.

When the man on the ground suddenly let out a quiet groan and started to mumble, I became startled, screamed, retracted my right hand, and put my left to action. I remember that part clearly; that’s exactly how it happened. If you look closely and rewind the tape, maybe play it frame by frame, you can see the exactly moment his skull gets smashed in from the momentum of my wooden tool. But on the bright side, a split second put him out of the misery all of his other injuries were causing him.

This part is kind of hazy, but I faintly recall letting out a scream as his lifeless body rested on the ground, and I ran.

I ran as fast as my legs could carry me. My heart was racing. The first time I had ever killed a man. I admit it’s a first that not everyone gets to experience. It’s a first that not everyone wants to experience. I know I didn’t want to at the time. Despite that, the exact moment I first took a life, and the moments leading up to it played in my head twelve hundred times before morning came.

Reflecting on the man’s body, and how I just ran away, leaving it in the middle of the sidewalk, my mind was now riddled with questions.

Rose Petals

I can imagine at least two
things I could be doing right
now and neither of them involve
wearing an apron or
drinking wine from a jar.

I can’t even drink half a bottle
in one sitting anymore.

What I can do
is lie awake until six in the
morning and let the circles under
my eyes get darker (like it’s a
point of pride).

I can also neglect doing laundry
for a pretty long time if
I set my mind to it.

I can admit when I’m wrong
(sometimes). Life probably
has a lot of meaning. Maybe
I just fail to see it. It
definitely lacks direction
(although maybe that’s just me).

***

How many cigarettes did I
not smoke on her balcony?

How many times did I make
her bed?

How many times was I
angry when I didn’t have to be?

And if a fish was sea sick,
how would it know until it
swam onto the sand to die?

intro to my lovecraftian short story

I

The surface of the Atlantic split and gave birth to the surfacing lighthouse keeper. He pulled down the fly-like goggles and spat. Salted spit flying through his moustache.

The water was bruised purple and shifted in the rough winds knocking him to and fro. He focused ahead on the metal spire of his island. Without him, the lighthouse was dark and the house silent. The keeper started kicking.

Tired and sore he stumbled onto the speckled sand. It stuck to his face and seal like suit and it took a few moments before he could steadily stand on the battered muscles. But tied to a green rope around his waist was the prize that made diving out into the freezing waters worth it. Two whole green baskets of lobster, a hook full of screeching red squid and a beeping red sphere left by researchers for him.

The keeper pulled the catch in after him. Dismayed that something had taken a bite out of the squid, but glad that it hadn't gone for him.The lobsters clicked angrily in the baskets but that was the only sound on the entire island. The wind screamed, spraying the sand into a storm and making the metal of the lighthouse moan. But his ears were so used to the sounds that they didn't even register.

At the door to the lighthouse, he had to stop. The keeper focused. Had he closed the door? Had he kept the door open? It was such a repeated action he hadn't paid attention. But it was open.

Casting a dim streak of light into the dark hallway, his eyes were drawn to a sprinkling of sand on the floorboards. A blast of wind hit his wetsuit and he shivered. With a long breath he took his first unsteady steps inside. Slamming the door on the black troubled sky. The clouds were verging on a full storm

>wooden tool

call a spade a spade son

i'll call it a spade, just for you my dear

i always knew my true love would blossom in a lit crit thread

>The surface of the Atlantic split and gave birth to the surfacing lighthouse keeper.
Terrible. Either you were going for a spoopy disturbing imagery and didn't follow it through, or you just couldn't help but open with a purple stupidity like 'the surface of the ocean gave birth'
Other than that, I'm confused by some grammar and narrative cohesion
>he stumbled onto the speckled sand. It stuck to his face
??? sand ???
>Dismayed that something had taken a bite out of the squid, but glad that it hadn't gone for him
subject?
>that was the only sound on the entire island. The wind screamed
that wasn't, maybe?

nigga calm down, that prose wasn't even that jarring.

here is something I wrote instead of doing my CS assignment...

pastebin.com/HEXytWnC

>star sat in the center of a galaxy

It's a black hole, not a star. Unless you can see gamma rays, but then you'd be blind.

whatever, i started to write another story

pastebin.com/S3khWxnb

Your prose is (for the most part) readable enough if uninspired.

But by far, the problem here imo is the pacing, the tone, and the plot.

First of all, the beginning is fine: there's a strong hook and sense of mystery.

But there are no real stakes or consequences when the man catches the guy sneaking there for the xth time

And then there's nothing to make us care more about these two characters - they're just a landlord and a tenant.

Also, the plot moves too conveniently. Everything just falls into place for the 'mystery' to be solved.

And the pace/tone becomes so scattered: horror/mystery at the beginning, then some weird romance/modern tone, and it finally finishes with an anecdotal last line.

So yeah, I think this is very unfocused and requires a lot more work. But the general readability (emphasis on general) is there so you're already ahead of most of the other posters

>purple stupidity

I don't think I've ever heard that phrase, what do you mean ?

Pic related is my attempt at starting something I'd like to write. The entire piece will be in the format of an interview with a director, in which not only details of the director's film become apparent to the reader, but his mindset and mentality are also exposed.

>Upon seeing him, my mind would always conjure up the image...
This whole paragraph comes across as too verbose. I feel like what you're trying to put across could be done with less writing.

>His seemingly perpetual discomfort was funny in a way...
I can't quite express why, but I feel like this paragraph just isn't needed. The text leading up to it and the text following it both portray the two characters well (and through different methods, introspection and observation, which is good) but this paragraph feels a bit obsolete.

Overall I'd say I would be interested in reading this so long as this kind of passage – not to say it isn't well-written – isn't too common, or else I feel it could be quite hard to carry along a narrative.

Brutus is totally inconsistent imo. Either you have him discuss things like a total Veeky Forums fag or you dumb him down with things like

>um

>well yeah

I read this story months ago. You need new material.

Branches & Leaves

you gave me seeds
and I took them.
tiny little seeds.
I took them all, thought
I had them all.

I buried them
in me. I dug and dug
and buried them under the
blanket of wet leaves
into the soil.

no vines came,
and there was no warmth,
for no sun came.

all that’s left
is thick green moss
that covers this
damp forest floor.

>purple
>1: regal, imperial
>2: of the color purple
>3 a: highly rhetorical : ornate
>b: marked by profanity
>Examples of purple in a sentence
>The book contains a few purple passages.
>Her writing was full of purple prose.

To Bird

For you, I have everything
To say
And nothing at all.

Clasped at the throat.
Choked,
With thoughts that falter

They slip through as
Broken wispers,
And half-formed words.

Damned walls break.
Alone,
I turn to you.

You with your
Erudite eyes
Soulful and sweet.

To feel the joy that pours
From you
Like Euphrosyne's spirit.

These hollowed words
I write
Will never truly suffice.

Though to say nothing,
Is not
What we've worked towards

These passing months.
Longing,
To feel something more

Than the just the numb.
I know,
Things will not change.

But damnit I want
To live!
And cry and laugh

And love all there is
To love!
Yet I'm still silent

Now more a stranger
To myself,
Than I to you.

All I wanted
To say
Is that I'll be okay,

And so will you.

>DUDE LINEBREAKS AND ENJAMBMENTS LMAO
Fuck off

Only my English teacher and a friend have read it so far. Here's the first chapter of my on again and off again novel
pastebin.com/wuMLee6p

Cheers, fella. I didn't really know where I was going with this when I wrote it and it shows. Good notes, they'll help me straighten it out and get some focus.

I posted it the best part of a year ago shortly after writing it, but I have a terrible work ethic and just left it (along with some other shorts) for ages. Decided to go back to these old pieces and spend some time getting into a habit of redrafting to a bit of a schedule.

more you know.

i like it/10

The format is pretty silly, which is probably why most people aren't responding. But if you really dig it, maybe you can get some graphics person to do something with it.

No you shut the fuck up. Now you let me tell you something. When I was about 14 I played an mmo called mystic worlds that was made in RPG maker 2000. It was the project of some guys on this forum full of sprite comic makers. There was like 10 users at most on at any one time, and several of the users were friends with the admin and had the strongest weapons. One kid we played with named Brandon wanted really badly to be given the same rights and weapons as these other guys and they would always kill him for fun and make him cry. He finally had enough and stopped playing for a long time. One day I logged in and the world was all messed up with the wrong sprites and someone kept killing everyone and kicking them out of the game. one of the users, helix7392, private messaged me on the forums and said to me: someone hacked the game. I kept trying to join the game until I was finally allowed to stay. the hacker teleported me to him and his sprite was pacing back and forth as he told me the story of how he was once weak and now he was the strongest in all of mystic worlds. That was when he revealed it was him, Brandon, all along. He then proceeded to gank me and steal all of my weapons and ban me permanently from the server. So yeah, actually, I DO have a pretty fucking good idea of what it’s like to be in a school shooter situation.

Gold

>and the landlord was a DJ all along!

The only stanza of interest is the last one

You all niggas need to run your story through this before posting your drafts.

writersdiet.com/?page_id=4

>and the perfect object of representation for the moment,
Nix this. Have some more faith in your audience (and yourself).

>unquestionably the shittiest thing a person could ever do
Telling us way too hard how to feel instead of showing it.

>This said with a look toward the three uncomfortable, balding, Adult-Men-Dressed-In-Children’s-Sailor-Uniforms, who had congregated in the dwelling beneath the stairwell mere hours earlier to discuss plans to send their father to The Home where he had sent their grandfather, and their grandfather’s father before him, to continue the family tradition of locking up the unquestionably insane members in the mini mansion up on Dwine’s hill, known only as The Home, much less sad that way
I wrote sentences this way too during my studies of Infinite Jest and Faulkner.

>Riley Ignatius Toole!”
And this is where I stopped reading.

tl;dr user's story suffers from pretentious nitwiticism. Your prose is clear for the most part, but you're letting your inner-intellectual ruin good storytelling. Please rewrite and cut out the homages/references, the not-so-conventional-use-of-hyphens, etc (the long sentences aren't awful if they don't meander too far from telling the story)

I'm sorry, buckaroo :^(

How do I save myself from this?

>responded the incredibly confused and possibly equally angry driver whose once crisp $5 Dollar bill was now a crumbled jumble and the perfect object of representation for the moment
I hope your english teacher slapped you across the face for writing shit like that

Keep reading and writing. Just don't be a cheeky cunt. You'll be fine though.

not OP crit but I think if you stood away from that story for a week or so. And tried to read with a fresh set of eyes you'd notice the pretentiousness radiating through the lines

With a slurp, he stripped of the black suit and let the water flow down him and into the boards. His body although old was still taut and bristled with bull like muscles. The skin was pale from living on the island without a glimpse of sun for months. And a red and blue railway of veins pumped visibly from beneath.

He changed into a fresh covering of white wool and strode through his house. Setting to the kitchen he bent over the small stove and scratched a spark from the flint. After a few belches of black smoke, the fire crackled a spread an orange light across the tall ceiling. The light pushed the shadows into the corner and with a rumble, his pipes started spreading the warmth across the entire house.

Now with his cheeks flushed red, the keeper gave a grunt of satisfaction and lit his pipe.The spark burned an orange circle into the tobacco. When the grey smoke started trickling away he allowed himself a long drag that should his body. The fire grinned, the pipes clanked and with the cosy pitter patter of rain lashing on the window panes. The lighthouse seemed like a home. But now it was time. To go upstairs , from where he'd been hearing the creaking of wood against footsteps. He lived alone, he lived hundred of miles out of shores way. He knew that there was no possible way for something to be in the lighthouse. But , the keeper was also a pragmatic man. And he'd realized that something was waiting for him up the stairs.

You hit the nail on the head with the infinite jest thing. I took way too much from that and A Confederacy of Dunces.
I've taken breaks from it and gone back only to still think that it's complete genius. I worry that I'm just hopelessly awful...

>I've taken breaks from it and gone back only to still think that it's complete genius. I worry that I'm just hopelessly awful...

said literally every writer ever. don't let it get to you just keep grinding away.

And remember to take all criticism with a grain of salt.

Infinite Jest is cancerous for fiction writers because it makes you think bad writing is good. It took me a few years of reading outside of Veeky Forumscore to actually get past that.

By no means are you awful (as a writer). If you really think it's genius, then there must be something in it that you just haven't been able to convey to us, and I would encourage you to keep working on it.

Ask yourself: Is it the ideas in the story that you think is genius? Or are you proud of yourself for writing a lot of clever sentences? You can probably find a balance between these two.

I think it's just the cleverness of the sentences...there's definitely some interesting bits to the story, but nothing really that original or groundbreaking

I saw the best minds of my generation
destroyed by call centres,
Data entry and misappropriated dreams;
Starving hysterical, souls naked
in the six seconds swing
Between cold-calls that link Monday through
Friday in a loop around the throat
Where screams die, anguish quenched by
pill-popping weekends chopped
Into white powder dawns that defy time with
the stretching of inhibitions and wages.
Dragging themselves through the suburban
streets at dawn
Never wanting for an angry fix, always
available to mainline
If not prescription or addiction,
Then mere cavalcades of enhanced, superseded
glory and infinite division.
Angleheaded hipsters in our minds, burning
for the ancient heavenly connection
To the starry dynamo
in the machinery of night,
But unavoidably severed from its motion,
Blind to the deus ex machina,
Who belly-fat and dream thin
Watch unimagined repetitious attempts
To mount the steaming cunt of destiny
And take her for a ride worth living in;
A life like the one they repeat endlessly
on nostalgia TV channels,
Yet more drugs for the eyes
and for the ambitions.
Medicated until the world is no longer
worth sinning in,
Forgetting all the pent-up energies
of our half-religious parents
In the bare carefree moments of beginning
we call 'week's ending'.
And oh, they end endless,
Always finished just before
the dawn of Monday
Calls us to the factories
in which our minds are chained.
Up chain-smoking in the supernatural darkness
of multiple occupancy flats
Contemplating techno and
electronic abstractions,
Who bared their brains to Michael Moore and
Tony Blair, only to be colonised
By Thatcher from beyond the grave,
forced by guilt
To believe in a passive aggressive liberalism
that hates its own existence,
Those who see Mohammedan angels
Staggering on tenement roofs illuminated
Call the terrorist orange alert hotline,
inspiring dawn raids
(1/3)

And the bloodied, sundered chests
of those innocent, bearded idolators
Who perversely cling to the sacred,
even though we have
Profaned it with our politics,
Our need to stay afloat above extinction:
It does not matter who got there first...
Who passed through universities
with radiant cool eyes
Hallucinating Barthes,
dying to be as cool as Kerouac
Among the scholars of war;
which became everybody's discipline
The moment the need for tragedy
in our own existence
Polarised the blind from the indifferent.
Who were never expelled from the academies
for publishing
Obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
too nervous even to graffiti
All but meaningless phrases,
scrawled importunings and failed seekings,
Who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear,
Worshipping their money in wastebaskets
As debts mounted like
a terror through the wall:
Perhaps another dawn raid,
Who will they come seeking
at six tomorrow morning
Armed with ASBOs and deportation orders?
Who got busted in their pubic beards
returning from Bristol with a pinch
Of marijuana for friends, and perceived
the steel reinforcement behind
The self-reflexive culture,
the facism behind its borders
For us, no Paradise Alley, death!
We purgatoried our torsos night after night
With dreams, with drugs,
with waking nightmares,
Alcohol and cock and endless balls,
Incomparable blind;
streets if shuddering cloud and
Lightning in the mind
Leaping towards poles of London, and beyond,
Illuminating all the motionless world of
Time between
Pointless solidities of halls,
backyard grey life
Turpentine dawns, wine drunkenness
among the degraded vegetation
Peeping between the urban cracks like vomit
fresh from Saturday's carousing,
Storefront displays vandal-crashed
by joyride neon Neds in luminous Pumas
Blinking traffic light, sun and moon,
grey, featureless concrete
Simulated vibrations in the roaring winter,
compact disks
Of Brooklyn hip-hop ashcan rantings
kind verses
Perverted by the fact of isolation
on this island,
Who chained themselves to bus seats
for the endless commute
From one nameless suburb to another,
drained and weary, no longer high
Until the noise of wheels and children
brought them down shuddering,
Mouth-wracked,
Battered bleak of brain
all drained of brilliance
In the drear light of Monday morning,
and another shift
In the mine of information.
(2/3)

literally not a grain of original thought in that it's the same

OH WOW SOCIETY IS SHIT

line we've been fed by ever "woke" artist

Who sank all night in the submarine light
of a million style bars
Pumped with soulless house music,
peopled with cocaine hairdressers
Floated out and sat through
the stale beer afternoon,
Despolate, to Fugazi born, but instead
listening to the crack of doom
On the hydrogen jukebox,
which only displays the manufactured
Inverse images and sounds
of faked perfection.
Lost battalion of platonic conversationalists
without the urge to speak
So dulled, that they cannot see the chains
ever being un-shackled
Un-coupled, and themselves let free to roam.
As though Ginsberg never happened,
and no sixties existed
Perhaps they never did,
Just a collective unconscious hippie dream
Or the reverse mysticism
of misty-eyed parents.
I have a dream where we wake up
electrified out of the coma
By our own souls' airplanes
roaring over the roof
They've come to drop angelic bombs
on the decomposing cities
The night illuminates itself,
imaginary walls collapse,
Oh, skinny legions run outside!
Shock of mercy, the eternal war is here
Oh victory forget your underwear, we're free,
Free to die as the promised nuclear flash
brings oblivion.
In other dreams, a fish walks
dripping from the sea
Upright on un-evolved legs,
and with a glimpse of prescience
Sighting the sightless, deaf dumb,
shut-in existence of his descendants
He flops fish-like back into the liquid
And dares not trouble
to seek the shore again,
His legs diminishing back into protein
And empty seawater, only amoebic thoughts
of cell-bonding ever to occur.
And perhaps we would never become,
for want of ambition,
Slaves to our desires,
yet never bold enough
To take what we really want.
I salute my failed generation,
We are too timid to ever deserve freedom
Our masters know this: it keeps us cowed,
as some imagined apocalypse
Festers in our masturbatory musings.
We await death with breath baited,
always hungry never sated
Our howl is empty, merely sound,
an expression of agony
addressed to an unfeeling moon
That one day shall serve as a prison
for our children,
Moon-bound in lunar offices,
trapped in the six-seconds swing
Between cold-calls that link Monday through
Friday in a loop around the throat
Where screams die, anguish quenched by
pill-popping weekends chopped
Into white powder dawns that defy time with
the stretching of inhibitions and wages.
(3/3)

very helpful, thank you!

>bull like muscles

you keep doing this, you need more confident descriptors. "Oxen muscles"

>fly-like goggles
No clue but I'm sure you can research the piece of equipment you're visualizing here and put in a more suitable descriptor

>seal like
You can describe this for the audience in a more meaningful way.

Also, as a whole you need to structure your writing better. Group descriptions together. You flit back and forth between describing different objects, actions or ambience. The opening sentence of a paragraph is most important and all that follow are auxiliary that support the "subject" you've introduced. Your paragraphs seem to be chosen fairly arbitrarily.

I like the subject and the scene you've set.

Curious if anyone here wants to make a writing group for both fun and constructive purposes. I have some ideas for a weekly fiction contest with fun win/loss scenarios and turn based judging/prompt making. I've done this kind of thing before with non Veeky Forums people and it's fucking awful the kind of trash they produce, but it would be cool with fellow Anons. I don't want to create a thread for this kind of request, so I figure I'd post in this thread. Email me if interested [email protected] or you just wanna swap writings in general.

As if I'd sucker myself into getting my work plagiarized.

HAHA YOU GOT IT CHAD

R8 my rap lyricism.

Listen along

soundcloud.com/kolstinguyen/the-identity-theory-pt-2

Uh, the buildup is long but the payoff is medium
Full version coming soon, when? Don't be greedy dude
I'll never run out of money as long as my mother loves me
I should probably be a better son or something
Ah, fuck me; feel like Gordon Ramsay
Grown child with pubes don't shave but eat candy

Well-meaning white devils acting like they're Macklemore
Fratting with some actors getting wasted like an apple core
Fuck you think I'm rapping for? To crash the fucking SAG Awards? Uh
Is that what you think all the bragging's for? Uh
Like there's a million hapas tryna smash down the back door?
Dad said work smart, not hard like a ten speed
Took a few shots I'm fading, Nowitzki
Damn I feel like David Lipsky, that was in that movie with Jason Segel
You know I've fucked your girl if you catch her doing kegels
Hegel. Hi-gel. Hegel. Bagel?
I'm the Big Dipper you're a fucking ladle, bitch
Know your niche, at best I'm a 6 and I talk with a lisp but hey
I feel like Marco Rubio, the closet is the studio
Now here we go

And I know what I need and what I want
And I know what I am and what I'm not

Uh, semi-pro meme lord bitch call me Igor Stravinsky
Flowing nimbly as if I'm footspeed of Frank Kaminsky
It just hit me, I feel like Jo Embiid, TRUST THE PROCESS
Strawberry skim milk TRUST THE PROCESS
Lai See money bought some carbon offsets,
Le becomes se that's the indirect object, uh
So is he novelty or Socrates, the hapa on the Flocka beats?
White girls on their knees like Aca-please
And it ain't sexist if I only hate white bitches
Yellow light, intersections bitch know the white difference, uh
Is he Pachelbel or Taco Bell, the hapa jock Bianca Del? Uh
Rap game Ricky Rubio, go under on the pick and roll
I need to know what I can't do just turned 19 I'm getting old

And (I, I-I, I I, I I I)
Know what I need and what I want
And (I, I-I, I I, I I I)
Know what I am and what I'm not

I've been uninspired since Big Chen retired
If you're looking for the one now you're done kickin up tires
In the closet studio kicking back with some me time
But who am I kidding, shit it's always me time?
I fuck with cheap wine but not with weak rhymes
When I first heard the beat I said to P, "bruh, that beat's mine"
My raps were coming flat as asses on Boston girls
Closer to Common than Earl I needed to get higher
To tap into the part of the mind that breathes fire
I managed four bowls from one round in my grinder
When I found her on Tinder I was home for the winter
It was 15th of December, damn right I remember
Getting lit with K and cough and her and her tall dude and
Almost ended in lawsuits, she was all over my girl
Next thing you know she's all over me
Next thing you know man they're saying shit about me

No flow, Jo.

Is this what you've been doing in your absence? I don't know anything about rap but it sounded cool. The board misses you.

I feel clammy sharing a piece of writing, but I'd really like to know how this piece fairs.

No technique

kek

What I'm wondering is how the man managed to avoid sun on an island

I liked the first part

Would people be interested in a writing criticism discord?

Yeah but I think we should use Slack or Skype.

Depends on moderation of server.

I was a tulpa

when I was little
at night I used to be scared of ghosts
blankets pulled faced the wall sleeping
now I wander the dark not see anything
listening to Radiohead and losing myself in the eyes in the cupboard
I is another whispered a familiar apparition
play Dedalus in Ulysses
unfitting
astral cars in Mahabharata sparkle in the eyes

his eyes are my friends
on the Sagittarius' wavelength
I don't want to be alone
when I was little

ya but only if the good are allowed

i.e: NOT this guy:
SLACK? SKYPE? foh

>In fact, it was raining so hard, I’ll go out on a limb here and say it was pouring. Because of this, you wouldn’t be able to tell that some of the water on my face came from my eyes instead of the sky, and that some of the sniffles and shivers I was making weren’t just because I was cold.

dis is too reddit, too cute, and too coy
be a man; be a man; be a man; be a boy!

stopped after 2 paragraphs, none of that stuff seems to have a connection with reality

sublime sparkle at the sprite pacing back and forth!

Get back into that mood man

the poetry meme isn't enough

if you examine the book of Ezekiel, Chapter six sub-section six word number five (i'm off my lithium) you can clearly discern a reverse mucnhausen acrostic that reveals a secret spell of Chaos Magick attempting to enter this world. I know the demon's are close. but I right to bear arms till the end. the kabbalah still has so much to teach us. Look friends, if you dare, to chapter 41 of psalms (legacy burn edition), if you examine the codex gygax under a close light, microfilaments will reveal LORD ILLUMINATI WARNINGS for the Georgia Guidestones, 98% of world population must die !!! Georgia guidestones real new earth government? I was in the denver airport the other day and I must admit government... schmovernment. But imagine my surprise when a hellion out of bosch himself reared up to face me, bearing a blood soaked sword and waving the banner of nations'.. my first thought, of course, was that the aroma of aunty annes pretzels could not help but to override all over intimations of that moment, arch-eschatonic as that may have been. but thought number two, my friends (followers of David Garcia Awakened Thoughts DeFOO freedom Greyschat webring, click to read more) was simpley this: would it be so hard to imagine, my friends, that the craven globalists, flitting from perch to perch like bats in an attic, these very same (hold on, currently eating the pretzel) might not have included a masonic network of hyper dense symbology across the world to signal to their friends (chinese rolex discount 90% off comments disabled) that here would be a great place to wait out the ensuing biopocalypse? As a sovereign citizen, such thoughts as these are always in my mind. to say nothing of that fuckin sclerotic horse out near the entrace. or that huge black box (a shard of the lance of longinus). just watch this 2hr youtube video to find out more. video codecs DO NOT look like that I am a VLC junior developer and I ahve seen every video codec from m.264 to microfiche! and that right there is NOT a compression problem (thanks dave), not a mere artifact of the youtube encoding process, but an actual reptilian's eye 'cloaking' over the regular human eye. at certain moments their powers of confusions fail, especially in crowded areas, and it takes an especially sharp mind like my own to suss it out when it happens. thanks dave. THANKS DAAAAVE (Tower 7 fell on its own. ya sure. and big agricorp didn't buy 2500 acres of the brazillian rainforest to develop a chinese cloan army for a hostile takover of the US. Greys are real. ok nieces and nephews are here, gotta log off for now. fingers crossed i can get a word in edgewise before the bluepill kicks in -- Dave (freeminds.org)

bump

What could I do to make him seem unsure of himself, possibly insecure, without having to make him sound dumb?

I never realized how much more poetry than prose there was on this board

Yuletide bump

i would really appreciate if ANYONE would read and rate my works

bump

Excellent work

Discord is literally for fucking autistic weaboo erotic voice listening faggots.

"Ahhhhhh fuck!" I exclaim, leaping out bed. It's five in the morning and I'm ready to kill myself. I look down at the gently breathing form of my wife, and stifle the current of anger that runs through me. Dumb bitch deleted four seasons of Dirty Jobs just to make room for her cooking bullshit.
I stumble outside of my bedroom, tripping on the match-box car my son left lying on the ground like a fucking animal. I clench it in my hand, glaring at his closed door. I choose not to burst into the room as I so often to, flashing the lights and pounding the inside of a trash-can. Child Protective Services had shown up, and I had barely been able to throw them off. I blame my daughter for calling them.
My daughter. My rage pulsates even harder, thinking about another day of her complaining about her new boyfriend or girlfriend or shit-licking animalfriend she's paired up with now. Why can't she just smoke pot like a normal kid.
The shattering of glass breaks me from my thoughts. Snatching my old tire-iron that I always have nearby for such occurrences, I head downstairs, praying it's another Negro.

Circuit spike and senses expire
We are all but black boxes in sunken planes
A gear set to notch and ticking away
What can we be but sleepwalkers
Trying to keep warm in the bleak December
One time looking into mother's eyes I remember
Is there something else on the other side?
A receiving node like I, Myself
Just as warped as father
Who extinguished his inner flame on a spring day
in a field of wheat; shot himself in the chest and expired
retired to the blackness of death
I wonder if he feels as sublime as he did before birth

My first poem; this definitely isn't the final draft.

Unrequited Love
This is as when a swine is caught
in its proper hunter’s trap,
by god it knows there’s left for it
nor mercy nor the unjust,
but still it bleats, and screeches, squeals,
its heart runs free of filth blood.
~laus musæ dei

>proper hunter’s
what does this mean, what makes the hunter proper?

TRYST:

I remember holding hands
And [blank space]
You said, "I'm sorry I put you in that position."

I remember [blank space]
Then I woke up with awful skin
And a body like cement.

I remember three bodies
And you leaning over
To ask Tom if you could fuck me.

I remember your silhouette
In the morning and always behind his back,
Looking over your shoulder like they do in perfume ads.

I love your smile; I love you.
I love you and I don't want to lose a friend
To awkwardness or unfaithfulness.

But at the same time I don't want to forget how much fun we had.

I remember, I said:
"Swept under the rug?"

You said:
"Water under the bridge."

thingsbyvanherk.tumblr.com

Black comedy/murder mysteries

The hunter that is 'proper' to the swine- that is, the hunter laid the trap for boar, not for deer or anything else.
The point is that there's no mistake here- the hunter knows what he's doing, and he has every right to do it. Just as the beloved knows that the lover loves her, and rejects him, as is her right, knowing how he'll suffer.

I dig this. I feel like there is a spoken word vibe to it. Do you slam?