New critique thread? For some reason I couldn't find one in the catalog, please tell me if there is one that I missed.
Remember to please post a critique for someone else as well as your own stuff. Even if it's just a read and a simple rate. I gave in-depth feedback to several people in last thread.
Part of my autistic story, I've been going through and rewriting long drawn-out parts that were shit and cutting them down, because I've been reading through some of the "action sequences" and they just don't matter. It's not a movie and long drawn-out action sequences just don't work unless they are interesting. I also added a bunch of characters in that scene that don't matter and I don't feel like writing about, so I removed them and went back to basics. Like giving the main character a copilot who died in the battle was just stupid, it distracts him from losing his parents (the previous main characters).
For making this good, I want to be able to evoke an image of what is happening, because it's kind of weird and hard to describe this battle, especially out of context.
Longer term I would like this scene to evoke Peter and Emily's inability to escape the war they'd been fighting for so long, and create a sort of "passing the torch" moment (like with the knife) so as the make it clear that the story is moving into a new era, so to speak.
But what I have right now is complete shit, I feel like the old passage was better even though it was long as fuck. I find this happening; it's like my writing was a badly-made Jenga tower, but once it falls over it's so much work to rebuild it I feel like the messy tower was better.
Will return feedback I get as much as I can. Hopefully thread won't die before I have time. I wish Pastebin links had comments so I could reply even after thread died.
nice dialogue
How much does the battle description suck? I've tried to simplify it a lot to fit my memory, rather than a long drawn out description.
in polish, not completed
pastebin.com
atheist ranting child turned me away
I stared blankly at the interior of the shower, letting the water wash over my face. I had that airport kind of feeling; not asleep but not fully awake, where sounds seemed to come from a mile away and nearby objects look like half-filled shapes. What was the name of that painting with the empty diner, where the walls are blank and the street outside is empty, and there’s almost no detail at all except for three people sat discreetly at the bar?
I felt like I was in that painting, but out of shot, maybe in the second floor of the building across the street, where the artist rejected the idea of detail entirely.
Without conscious control of my actions I picked up the shampoo bottle. Its grey coloration and sleek helevetica font did little to alleviate my hollow disposition. The lines of text printed uniformly over its perfectly rounded surface, with great care given to their specific style and spacing, were composed entirely out of focus-grouped phrases and industry-standard adjectives, flowing with a rhythmic precision that, on the surface, sounded pleasing, almost poetic, but upon closer inspection might as well have said nothing at all.
It occurred to me in that moment that there was someone out there whose job it was to write this kind of text. It almost made me shudder, but then I realised that whoever they were, their life was probably not so different from mine. The main difference, perhaps, was that their writing was actually published, in some form, and they were getting paid to do it too.
Just say Nighthawks if you're gonna reference it
Consciousness stirs you out from deep sleep
You feel a slight tickle upon your cheek
But before you have time to come to grips
It quickly scurries between your lips
be mean anons
>—That is because. That is because, I heard a man moan from inside one of theses shrouded houses, that is because, that is because. And the house seemed to sway also with his voice, flickering between myself and what was obscure. I thought of his voice for long after we had passed his house there on the road.If I let my mind wander and gave myself to the swells and ripples beneath the surface of my life; it would seem his voice was linked now to my steps and my footsteps seemed to carve out measures of his voice which would jar against those lines already in the sidewalk and appear as two people dancing and eventually meeting at one accidental and harmonic moment before starting again.
I like this a lot overall. The thing I notice mist that could be worked on is replacing specific wprds that seem to me to be cliche/generic/nonspecific. You can use my suggestions or not, but just to give you an idea of what I mean, coupd the word obscure be clarified to give a more specific feeling by substituting the word veiled/shrouded/clouded or perhaps unkown/unkowable? Could the word harmonic be made to sound more interesting or unique by saying "one accidental and unison moment" instead? This is just what came to my mind
Muertos ya demonios del pasado, muerde pena bajo la tierra.
No más esclavo de la ceguera, dobla roca y pisa piedra.
Lo que una vez fue cielo, ahora no es mas que la alfombra de sus intenciones.
Y aunque existan mejores costumbres, viejas y por conocer, es mejor que mil perdones, siempre y cuando no sean ganados por mérito propio.
¿A quién le va a pedir perdón cuando se muera lo que no importa?
Afortunadamente, logrará quemar su piel en una hoguera y mirará las estrellas con el mismo ansia con el que mira su futuro.
Mejor es saber, dicen muchos. Pero mejor aún es aprender, saben pocos.
Labrando la tierra de sus frágiles huesos podrá mantener su carne limpia.
Sin embargo, a veces es mejor escuchar a los vocablos de los viejos dioses:
"Encontráos en su propio espíritu, haced de la paz una paz propia.
Pero no os olvidéis de la batalla: ahí es donde los hombres sangrarán sus penas."
Another text:
Oscuridad y poco más.
Un profundo y fuerte aullido seguido por otros de menor volumen marcan el inicio del combate.
Sus dedos se aferran a sus piernas, sus fosas nasales se ensanchan y su corazón comienza a nutrir su sed de sangre.
El miedo le hace temblar las rodillas, agita su respiración e intenta destruir su moral, pero no lo logra.
Palmas abiertas y puños cerrados se combinan con golpeteos y aullidos de su propia boca. Y el miedo se da por vencido y desaparece.
La oscuridad lo marea, lo hace ver cosas que no están y le abre unas pequeñas puertas de luz, tentádolo a escaparse con una sonrisa cruel, pero no lo logra.
Se yergue, alza sus brazos y respira hondo; la oscuridad ya no es una barrera.
La horda se acerca a una velocidad demoledora, y lo rodea. El Gran Jefe clava la vista en los ojos de su presa.
"Ésto es sólo una batalla" dice el aprendiz para sus adentros, "la guerra es contra mí mismo. Y no pienso perderla." Sin decirse nada más, se lanza hacia su primera muerte.
Last one:
No hay mas que polvo a la vista. Ni siquiera logra verse un río, un valle, una colina...
Los Vientos del Este lo han borrado todo. Todos los pueblos que habitaron el Yermo Negro han sido azotados sin piedad, y no han tenido otra opción más que perecer, incomunicados y privados de agua y alimento.
Ocasionalmente, pueden verse mercaderes que se ven obligados a cruzar el despiadado desierto con sus caravanas o ejércitos extranjeros, que, aunque acostumbrados a luchar y marchar en zonas áridas, sufren la ira del Viento.
Sin embargo, quien es mayormente reconocido por los viajeros del Yermo es el mercader Namat el Enano.
Su piel curtida y oscura da indicios de cuanto tiempo pasa deambulando el cruel desierto. Nadie sabe que vende realmente, y quienes se atreven a preguntarlo no logran describir la extravagante mercancía del viejo.
Algunos especulan que vende hierbas y frutas usadas para la alquimia y la magia, otros dicen que lo que vende no puede verse, sino oírse: historias, secretos, fábulas y cuentos de los pueblos que habitaron allí. Muchos dicen que es un viejo estafador y bueno para nada, que vende baratijas falsas (y encima a precios ridículamente altos), y que camina a través del páramo sólo para hacerse fama.
La verdad es que nadie sabe la historia de Namat el Enano. Los viajeros más veteranos no recuerdan haberlo visto en sus años jóvenes.
Gente más supersticiosa cree que es un brujo, un ex habitante del Yermo Negro que se rehúsa a abandonar su hogar, o que en realidad es el emperador Bakhán el Grande, que unificó los pueblos bajo su espada, lengua y moneda, todo con implacable gracia y astucia, alcanzando una época dorada en su gestión, sólo para verla derrumbarse en un instante bajo el poder del Este.
Aunque son incapaces de describir los objetos que porta Namat, quienes han hablado con él sostienen que los pueblos del Yermo no han muerto, pero perecerán al mismo tiempo que el viejo mercader.
Si es que la muerte osa enfrentarse a Namat sin compañía.
I walked through the door with you, the air was cold,
But something bout it felt like home somehow and I
Left my scarf there at your sister's house,
And you still got it in your drawer even now.
Oh, your sweet disposition and my wide-eyed gaze.
We're singing in the car, getting lost upstate.
The Autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place,
And I can picture it after all these days.
And I know it's long gone,
And that magic's not here no more,
And I might be okay,
But I'm not fine at all.
'Cause there we are again on that little town street.
You almost ran the red 'cause you were looking over me.
Wind in my hair, I was there, I remember it all too well.
Photo album on the counter, your cheeks were turning red.
You used to be a little kid with glasses in a twin-size bed
And your mother's telling stories about you on a tee ball team
You tell me bout your past, thinking your future was me.
And I know it's long gone
And there was nothing else I could do
And I forget about you long enough
To forget why I needed to
'Cause there we are again in the middle of the night.
Dancing round the kitchen in the refrigerator light
Down the stairs, I was there, I remember it all too well
I've started writing shitty "tumblr girl" poetry that will hopefully become popular with young women. Any tips on how to make it even more self-congratulatory and smug? I'll probably photoshop them in some pics I took like pic related, to make it more digestible.
Wrote this an hour ago:
And now you're here again.
Cafe's still the same old, though.
Same old folks who've seen us kiss,
And made me blush and shy away.
My gaze is there but not as warm.
You're just as cool and just as calm
Yet just as easy to be pleased
By smiles you never knew were false.
So very easy to appease.
Mistook today for weeks ago;
Mistook my pockets for your own;
"Love you" for a "glad we met";
Unseen tears for drops of sweat.
I still burn bright the same old glow,
Although,
Although,
All on my own.
I light and puff and greet the dawn
Although,
Alone,
At last:
Alone.
Here is my flash fiction story. Please comment.
I'll (You) this message with my comments on some of the stuff already posted.
I think you're more advanced and have a lot more talent than most I've seen on this site. As has already been said your dialogue is stellar and along with your descriptions, wonderfully suggestive. With very few words you manage to create the impression of an entirely new science-fiction universe. It's also fast-paced and epic and you seem very enthusiastic and stubborn. You could go places, I think.
With that said, I only read a small part of it. Maybe I'm not taking your story seriously enough to give it the attention it deserves or maybe this is just too technical and "hardcore" for my tastes, but I'm basically unable to follow what is going on. It's easy to overestimate the reader, especially with complex genre fiction, so my suggestion would be to spell things more clearly out. I also feel maybe the human encounters are a bit cold. I miss the little quirks of personality and I can't remember a single description of someone's appearance.
I believe your story is written in 3rd person omnipotent? This is very unusual in modern genre fiction actually. Usually, even sticking to third person, writers will pick a "viewpoint character" whose personality colors the prose, even when describing a battle (for example they could be looking out through a window). I think this would instantly add a lot of emotional color and life to your writing.
I suggest looking up books and guides to writing good genre fiction, if you haven't already. There is a lot of meat and potatoes "craft" involved in doing it well that you just have to know and practice.
This reminds me a little of Murakami, which is a good thing if you ask me. You have some language that sounds kind of awkward though, like "I had that airport kind of feeling" rather than for example, "I had that feeling you sometimes have at airports" or something more fluent and complete like that. You probably just need to write and read more to iron out those. Maybe you're not a native speaker? I also wonder if you're aware of everything your style suggests about the first-person character, for example the technical and alienated way in which they view shampoo bottles. In a more complete, fully satisfying text I think you would need to find some way to make this play into the whole.
This is my story Please comment.
Really effective at creating an uncomfortable feeling, I like it.
Mine:
In a grey mountain land, searching for God,
I happened on a cave, toothy and cold.
Shouting, anguished, within. I turned to my guide,
facing somber dissent. Heedless, I entered.
Where the small den halted, bleak light fell through the rock,
on a thin brackish pool, in which a figure lay.
That tormented wraith writhed, bones in black water,
endless life lamenting— one it could not take.
An ending I offered, a fool's pity.
It shrank from me in fear— by this I left.
Returning to the guide, I bid us continue the search.
Met with my ignorance, their gaze sought the ground in dismay.
Delete "deep", replace "between" with "through"
All over pretty gud. Got me interested in the character & setting.
A couple sentences could be improved, but they're mostly very minor.
The only thing that jumped out at me was a couple times where you changed tense in mid sentence.
>As I passed the bus stop, another suspicious figure waving for me to stop, I heard cracking as the facade of a skyscraper dropped off...
>I had been the one right at the time though, I realized hugging my new girlfriend.
Those continuos verbs can be tricky. In your head they might sound like they can work within the past tense, but really, they don't. Any publisher will tell you this straight away.
how do you tell a personal friend about the flaws in their story?
So this was kind of nice, I like the subtle post-apocalyptic thing, it would be even better if you made it less obvious, but the ruins descriptions along with survivalist stuff will keep people interested. The whole "freed crazy girl" is cool, probably want to be careful it does not get too cringy.
Could effect that with cleaner prose in key sections
>Apparently she had been a patient at a mental hospital. With most of the staff dying from internal bleeding after the first blast, she had simply walked out the front door of the asylum
Try : She had been a patient at a mental hospital. After most of the staff succumbed to injuries after the first blast, she had walked out the front door.
A sci fi excerpt, getting read to zine its first few chapters: pastebin.com
In a kind way. Just think of how you would like to be told.
>pastebin.com
Sorry but it reads like fanfic, your dialogue isn't horrible but don't have characters just be foils against eachother, give them contradictions.
not horrible but lots of awkward parts you need to go into and smooth out. there are parts that seem like you're trying to get or evoke some sort of rhythm so you kind of have to commit to that. so less "it almost made me shudder" just say "I shuddered thinking of it..."
Not very good at all. It's poetry. Don't give each line such indiscrete action.
There are some lines that work but there are a lot that simply dont. The lines that work (for me):
>Cafe's still the same old, though
>Mistook today for weeks ago
>I still burn bright the same old glow.
The rest is garbage.
Please read mine, it's this post :
Too many I not enough why's
You
Stop screaming,
Stop screaming your name in my ears,
Stop repeating those lovely hopeful things you said in my head,
The things you said that obviously didn’t mean a single thing to you.
Just leave,
You’re 3092358992633 km away,
But you’re always hovering,
You’re dead to me but so alive in mind,
Or,
Or at least- in my heart.
I try to move on,
I meet this bloke,
This tall handsome smart but yet humble gentleman,
But the thing is,
He doesn’t scream,
He doesn’t hover,
He doesn’t love,
Or at least he doesn’t love like you do.
I love you,
But you left,
Now I’m just one of those you’ve loved,
But here I am,
Yielding to every single part of you,
Burning my soul,
Just to say this,
I still love you
I will,
Forever.
pastebin.com
Part of a fictional account of my experiences working for a government agency set in the mid 2050s.
I get the exaggeration for the number but at that distance the guy isn't even occupying the same planet as you anymore, cutting away some of the digits would make it flow better. Same with "but yet" - just use one of them here.
Whoops, paragraphs 12-17 don't belong where I pasted them. It goes 10-19 sequentially (the stuff in the middle is just notes), my bad.
Though the writing itself is not too bad I got the feeling that this whole passage will be unnecessary in the big picture and is just there because you think your character has to think or do something only because he is. Just think about it later and if you can't come across with the content in just two sentences. You won't need this bit then to show off your style because there will be more. But maybe this is just your style and art and I don't like it.
pastebin.com
Here's an edgelord story I wrote about a year back. Give me your thoughts, boys
Don't talk about the story. Talk about your experience of it.
Aspiring writers are emotional wrecks. The story is not an object, it's a Rorschach test. People see what they want to see. Your experience, however, is yours, not his.
The key entered the keyhole and soon the doors stood wide open, revealing devouring darkness. It was late at night, but the man didn’t care about being subtle. No, he lost the urge such a long time ago he himself couldn’t recall the last time he actually cared.
He slumped against the corridor and – miraculously – avoided collapsing by perching on the drawer nearby. Take THIS waltz!
The darkness began to fade. The Man decided to take a confident step, and the next thing he heard was glass shatter under his foot. Thank God he never took shoes off after midnight.
Under his foot was a picture he knew too well. She and him – once happy – making silly faces to the camera. Back then, he didn’t mind her lazy eye and poisoning attitude. Now, things have changed. Like crazy.
He didn’t pick the remains of the frame, and shuffled gently towards the kitchen while playing with his slightly-gleaming ring. He still had trouble with walking, but he managed to reach the fridge without additional onslaughts. He felt her lingering, strong smell.
Not in the fridge. In the darkness.
”Ain’t it late?”
She was upset. The Man had such a knack for reading souls that he saw his own reflection in her. The same black, scruffy hair that covered half of his thin face, which once must have been handsome. It’s not that he didn’t care – he just couldn’t, not anymore.
“Still angry?”
She believed in pure love, words that are meant only for her and will never harm her. But how gravely was she mistaken. He shattered her heart more than once... and yet she still believed in them. Swell, he didn’t blame her – it was his fault that he didn’t care anymore. He felt so pompous and cliché he wanted to puke, but managed to hold it.
“Want to tell me about it?”
She didn’t answer. Suddenly, she appeared stoic, unreachable, silent. Something’s changed since the last time, and the Man felt it.
“What’s on your mind?”
For the first time, she was torn between love and loathe, but didn’t say anything.
“I missed you too, you know?”
Maybe he did care, after all? He felt her yielding and grabbed in a clumsy manner. “Just you and me,” he whispered, “till the end.”
It took her breath away for a moment, she felt good. His kisses were passionate, his breath – warm and steady. Like crazy.
The pleasure lasted till she felt life dripping from her like water from a broken tap. She started wondering. What if this is another of his tricks?
Honey, do you love me?
He didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t hear me?
Honey...?
“Shut up.”
She tackled forcefully and freed herself, leaving him gagging and gasping for air. He still held her with one hand, but she couldn’t free herself. She forgot - her life was in his very hand, it depended on him.
“Damn you,” he muttered through clutched teeth, and hurled her across the room. He closed his eyes, and the only thing he heard was the sound of shattered glass.
The End.
Shit, made a mistype - it's "Clenched teeth".
Gonna post some of my shit poetry cause it has nowhere else to go.
sin extrudes through the blinders
broken glass of the ancient
church
water drips in through
the secondary walls
and the moss pops
through the stone like
a virus
now where am I.
collision - the extrusion of the ego
They seem distracted
I am an expression
used as a definition
the right and the left
argumentation into infinitum
now where am I?
I am the extrusion
the fission - I am the extension of the massive retribution that does never come
I am being rent by left - no, the right
wait
A second thought intrudes somewhat rudely upon my perfectly crafted satori and presents itself as "right leg itches" - a sensation like a spider peddling madly on my naked skin. The image of the spider thus transferred from this sensation expanded on the pure feeling of the itch, inflating it with import until it explodes through the apertures of my eyes, flinging the lids open and causing that light which had until then rested upon them to tumble inward and inform thus to my mind that there was no thing upon my leg - my satori thus ruined by mere itching I hurled "Zen or Bust - Enlightenment in 30 Days" through the window in an ecstasy of anger blended with regret and thoughts on who to call for window-repair.
i ask these questions
i get these answers
if i get this answer i ask this question
my question
my answer
my question
their answer
their question
my answer
i ask myself
i answer myself
i ask them
they answer me
they ask me
i ask myself
i answer myself
i answer them
what questions do i ask
what answers do i give
what question do they think is being asked
do they listen to my question
this happens
i ask myself this question
i get this answer
i give this answer
wrong questions?
wrong answers?
i think i'm nearing the end
This reads like song lyrics and in text that's a problem, because there is no voice to bring life to the repetitions. Moreover, it lacks anything that might make it poetic, like an image or wordplay, or even rhythm. So far it is monotonous and tedious as the small variations between lines are not striking enough to be in any way meaningful.
I don't say this to be cruel, but to make you reflect on how a reader might react.
it's supposed to be monotonous and tedious tho
i've just realised that this does look like spoken word poetry when it's supposed to be one of the final pages in my philosophical masterpiece
A question to the writers:
How do you write your story? Do you write with your eyes focused on the screen, and let the story flow from your fingers? Do you close your eyes, and let your thoughts lead the story? Do you conscieoutly (I have no idea how to write the damn word: I meant the active form of conscience) think about what is going to happen next?
It's hard to explain it logically like that. It's just something you do, a mix of planning and just following up each sentence with another (just like you might sometimes know a turn a melody is going to take before you hear it), that you slowly refine over time. The process is also very different from person to person. Basically it's a craft. If you want to be a writer, just start writing.
Every building, item and street was coloured black, head to toe; no sun or moonlight ever penetrated the decaying city.
I found this quite interesting, but I feel the word "thus" was overused.
For example,
>upon them to tumble inward and inform thus to my mind that there was no thing upon my leg - my satori thus ruined by mere itching
Could probably read like this:
>upon them to tumble inward and inform my mind that there was no thing upon my leg - my satori ruined by mere itching
Without losing much.
I might be oversensitive to "thus" though. I know a guy who overuses it in conversation (occasionally in the wrong context) and it bugs me.
Otherwise, I feel like it's a good start to something.
It would be more interesting if in the scene where the father hands his son the knif he is "cutting his son loose", instead of cutting the knife loose.
"wandering among the hurried ground crew and pilots as they ran back and forth."
Isn't hurrying or scurrying more in place here?
As for your 1st action scene: It is not clear what they're traveling in, the type of surroundings they are traveling in.
I like your style, it swept me right up from my feet.
I feel you bro, I got the underlying message. Your writing misses some fluidity, and overstretches at times imo.
That is because, .... , because I heard [etc]
The rest is good. I think you mention his voice too often, but that is a matter of taste.
In general a good read, but at some point you switch from persona? (From him, to her) That's kinda confusing.
>Mine is the picture included.
Pretty painful... like cringe worthy. I don't read a lot of poetry so I'm not sure if this is acceptable but I mean come on what are you even saying here? That break ups are rough and we tend to spend too long thinking on what ifs? Tell me something else.
The exaggerated distance is dreadfully noticeable probably change that line altogether, quantifying distance never seems to work for anyone.
That first paragraph. I understand that you're introducing us to the tedium of Government life but the paragraph is just tedious, it doesn't tell me "I lived something terribly boring and guess what I learned", it says "I lived something terribly boring and it rubbed off on me".
I'll exchange these two posts for a critique of my own with just as much effort as I put in: pastebin.com
Overall, not bad, but I think there are a few places where you throw in some extra words that don’t contribute too much to the story. One thing that kind of confused me was the lack of quotations on the wife’s dialogue and the sort of perspective shift.
>It was late at night, but the man didn’t care
I don’t think “at night” is necessary.
>She and him – once happy – making silly faces to the camera.
I believe that grammatically this should be She and he.
>He felt her lingering, strong smell.
Again might be down to stylistic differences but I think “…her strong, lingering smell.” sounds more natural to me. Or maybe something else could be done with this line, like “He sensed her lingering stench.” Or something. Depends on what exactly you’re trying to say.
>He felt so pompous and cliché he wanted to puke, but managed to hold it.
I don’t think “but managed to hold it” is necessary here.
>Suddenly, she appeared stoic, unreachable, silent.
Maybe you could show us more about how she appeared this way. Was she standing with her arms crossed ready for a fight? Or sitting facing away, not even paying attention to him?
>He didn’t answer. Maybe he didn’t hear me?
This feels a little weird. We seem to be following the husbands perspective but then it switches to the wife’s. I think it could work, but you might want to go over it and rewrite it. Maybe even just adding a “she thought” tag would work.
>She tackled forcefully and freed herself, leaving him gagging and gasping for air. He still held her with one hand, but she couldn’t free herself.
Maybe I’m just an idiot, but these two lines led to some confusion. First it says she freed herself, but then the next line says she couldn’t free herself. It made the action feel strange in my head. Try rewriting it, maybe like this:
She tackled forcefully, leaving him gagging and gasping for air, but he still held her with one hand. She couldn’t free herself.
This is so bad.
Literally one of the worst of these threads i've seen in a while.
Then post your shit and enlighten us nigga
Here's a short story piece:
Also writing a fantasy novel, and somewhat struggling with pacing.
I am happy with the speed of action/adventure stuff, but there are a few chapters where more world building and general time-passing occurs. I struggle with trying to make it flow.
Anyway, here's an excerpt:
The story is about a girl abducted by Gnoll raiders and raised as one of their own - explores a bunch of themes to do with identity and purpose - Chose Gnolls as the monsters because I wanted a matriarchal group so that their world-view will inevitably clash with the physical limitations of the MC. I also wanted to push for a celebration of motherhood and actual femininity as opposed to the usual "Take guy, change gender - woohoo strong woman character" crap you get a lot of these days.
Thank you for your notes. Overally I'm pretty satisfied with what I wrote as I'm not a native and my English usage has been limited to Academic writing.
To answer your doubts concerning the wife - it's not his wofe, but a bottle of alcohol.
Pro tip: this user will never post anything
because he knows if he did it'd be terrible
LOVE, *LOVE*
I thought wrong,
I thought I loved you,
I thought you were all I needed,
I though our memories together, were the little fuel left- for my burning soul,
But God,
I thought wrong,
It wasn’t you
Neither was it your ‘love’,
Nor those - bitter, sweet memories,
But,
Myself.
I was desperate, for love,
I am desperate -to be loved,
I envied the comfort I sensed when she sunk, into your heaving chest,
I yearned that peace I could never win,
That touch which could mend my shattered leftovers,
And mostly those lips which would sit long enough to carve mine.
Now that I’ve outgrew the tiny box your insincere love had locked me in,
I have learnt to love, love and not you.
You really can't write like this, even poetry, unless it's a part of a theatrical/operatic script or an epic.
You sound needy and as if this was written in an attempt to convince yourself of something- but not me.
But with time, I have lost my grasp on the world.
The soil beneath my feet no longer gives me traction,
and my fingers feel wood and stone as through thick gloves.
Where once everlasting days of mirth soon turned to longing,
longing is long lost to me, as I float on aimlessly.
I want not change, and seek not what has been.
Instead, I find myself clutching in the dark, for the faded
memories of feelings. I seem to recall a feeling, of
following a winding woodland path, to emerge into a clearing
and with my whole being possess that moment.
The warmth of the sun, the rays filtering down through the canopy.
The wavering grass and the freedom of the wind in this secluded
solace. A crooked bridge of rotten plank curling away over
soggy mire, upon which white flowers bobbed carelessly.
There was a promise in that emotion.
The promise wasn't broken - Just forgotten.
When the evergreen is glowing
In the dying light of day
When the mellow breeze is blowing
Brine and salt from far away
Then we'll meet, in the dim
Share a mug with night and pine
And savour life's final whim
A wistful, thankful sign
We'll lift our mugs up to the skies
As sun goes down behind a ridge
And we might also down that path
But that'll be tomorrow's bridge
sounds like some poor syphilis ridden sucker coming to terms with the fact that the whore he idealized loved his pocketbook more than him
WOMEN
So, much pain,
So, much pain a woman has to go through,
We give, and give, and give,
But in return,
We bleed, and bleed, and bleed,
Both,
Internally and externally,
Both,
By strangers and loved ones.
We are asked, and asked, and asked,
Asked to give,
Asked to do,
Asked to stop.
Asked to give our dignity,
Ask to do tasks, more than our body can handle,
Asked to stop believing, we,
Have a future,
A future,
That involves euphoria, and tranquility,
But in reality,
It’s just, pain and hurt and abuse and, non-stop, unconsented sex,
Rape.
When,
Will, it end?
When?
When will we be permitted human rights?
When can our daughters, go out during the night, or even the day, without the fear of being robbed their home and dignity,
When can we women not be blamed for others invading parts of our body that we didn’t ask for, that fits manhood,
When will we stop being tools that prove masculinity,
When will we be granted wings to fly so high, without the fear of being ogled at all of us that shakes,
Again something we, never, did ask for,
When can we be human?
When can I be human?
When can I be my dad,
When can I be my brother,
When can I be my husband,
When can I be that stranger,
That male stranger there,
When can I be treated equally as men?
All I ask is that you fuck off, desu
b8/10
Abuse
I say I’m abused,
And someone glares at me like I’m deranged,
I say I’m abused,
And someone tries to look for my scars,
I say I’m abused,
But no one looks me right into my dolor eyes and suppresses the river that’s trying to break through.
They come and go,
But some are rather unique,
Some come -leave hurtful remarks and then go,
But they all have something in common,
They all come,
But, they never stay.
When someone searches for my scars,
With my clothes,
Or without,
With love,
Or without,
I just want those two prying eyes to search deeper,
Search in me,
Not just search places on me that you can fit.
My form of abuse is internal,
My form of abused does involve blood,
But of my spurting veins,
My form of abused does involve tears,
But of my crying heart,
My form of abuse does involve scars,
But of my damaged soul.
So now I tell you,
If there’s anything you’re looking for every night,
The quest you’re never tired of,
It’s not all over me,
It’s hidden deep within me.
go away rupi
IT'S GONE
Loving you was optional,
But falling for you wasn't,
Loving you was within the boundaries of my heart,
But falling for you was a matter of life, and death .
But now it's gone,
Everything,
All the love and care and obsession,
It's all gone,
I gave you my all,
But you parcelled it in a pretty box,
Played with it,
And threw it back at my face,
As if it was a temporary gift.
But now it's gone,
Everything,
All the love and care and obsession,
It's all gone,
But, the pain you inflicted upon my deep sincere vulnerable soul, isn't,
It still aches,
Such pain, that dictates both my bleeding heart, and my demented mind.
I guess,
It isn't all gone,
I guess my feelings just drifted to another route,
The hate route.
Is someone trying to get an AI to write awful poetry?
If so, good job on the bad poetry, but I'm afraid it's a fail on the Turing test.
Veil of sadness is a cliche and regardless you say that he is sad three times in the first 3 sentences (redundancy). Moist doesn't collect, moist is an adjective. The same sentence has a comma splice. The CAPS are edgy.
There's a lot more I could say. Needs a lot of work.
First person present tense is a meme.
Also, sentences 2 and 3 have no verb.
Thanks.
I know it's a meme - did it as a test i guess.
The whole short story is just an exercise in conveying mood.
Any thoughts on the fantasy excerpt?
The average mortal woke mountaintop,
Transported before the last dried drewdrop
Vaporized off the the valley floor below,
Where his sight fell upon his friends' sorrows:
Death and desolation; disease - and does
Any of it flow and drain? No - because
By and by they sank beneath rising waves.
One after another, they were winkled out,
Your mortal on all sides saw the long rout
Safe on the mountain until even high
The waves overcame on the peak the sigh
The clouds breaking in the night sky
Dark piles of rock making here their valley
Where perhaps watchers transported now scry.
mfw every single one of these poems uses "I" "we" "our" or at the very least "you"
Just for you
>Harvest Moon
Peach and pumpkin skies settle
into boysenberry eve
laid top an earthen mantle-
rising ravenous moon's gleam
consuming such sweetly glow-
who's homely stove fades below.
Childish flames lick breathlessly
the empyreal delights,
clacking whispered recipes
about its kindler's guise-
unassertive, aimless descants
filling encrusted lowlands.
Perched, eyeing the savory stars,
just before a peripheral frame,
the faux dome of delight chars.
Copper-wire, concrete blades
conduct bites cut out from peace-
ful treats appetizing dreams and sleep.
>ps, yes I know it's bad
>pastebin.com
I liked it. I feel like you did a great job with your portrayal of that sensory overload. It was surreal enough to make for interesting imagery, but not so surreal that was impossible to tell what was going on.
Out of curiosity, what's your MC's take on her situation? You say she was abducted by these Gnoll raiders, so I would imagine she wouldn't exactly be willing to partake in that hallucinogenic dance unless she trusted them to some extent. Asking because I'm bad at writing female characters and was interested in seeing how you characterize a strong female lead.
It's actually kind of weird. I don't have a huge number of complaints (although I think who's should be whose?). I originally didn't buy the imagery until finally I got the conceit. It's still kinda purple, and I think it's somewhat pointless? But I also admit the conceit finally loses me at "Copper-wire..." from there on I'm lost and don't know how to get back to understanding it.
karaczan na papierze
You hate poems with narrators or those that are written in first-person perspective?
I should be honest in saying this is a throwaway because I never gave it a real ending. The last fragment was hastily thrown together to piece something together to clear my mind of the piece for a while until I can tweak it in the future.
If you really did follow the underlying imagery, copper-wire is used as a conductor in almost all electrical technology. Copper-wire concrete knives are skyscrapers. The imagery here being that 'the man' out in the hills by the fire sees the buildings being fed. But not the people. The people are haven their 'dreams' eaten by the city.
pastebin.com
Avoid using 'then,' its the lazy way out. Wondering if this takes place in the first half or the second, there's a few concepts left unexplained that probably were explained earlier. The story has a decent flow. A few generic lines here and there, nothing too bad for the genre you're aiming for. A few characters act too much alike, try having them have more immediate characterizations, try having them arrange their sentences in a weird way, have them talk in a very simple manner. Easy ways to branch out from a vanilla person. Once you have this down while writing you'll be able to naturally have characters bounce off each other. Overall you're hitting your mark, looks like the rewrites are helping out, wouldn't want to read the first draft of this, though.
Shower existentialist thought is overplayed, try having your character have a breakdown in a different setting. Writing is good.
That's really nice, it's hard to be mean to the paragraph without more to it and how it gels with the other writing, on its own it is excellent but on its own its powerless.
Reads like song lyrics, and would probably be better in a song, on its own it's like reading Billy Corgan's poetry: Bland, pretentious, and awful.
Another user gave you everything I would say about this. To add on, the last stanza ruins the rest of the poem for me. I know you were trying to go for a unique ending, but honestly, the poem itself is better without it. Or just deleting the last stanza and putting alone there instead.
RIP
Word selection is good, the flow is stiff, nothing rolls off the tongue. The meaning itself is a tad pretentious.
Be as honest as possible, courtesy breeds incompetence, and people without egos not only can take it but can tell when you're lying to them. That's why I force strangers to critique my work. I have a higher chance of avoiding false modesty.
Do better.
Use commas. A tad too formal, I suspect that it's all based around the character, and that is interesting but its a little overbearing. The narrative is very jerky, hyper focusing on some details then jerking over to a totally new paragraph, might be due to the prose being a rough draft, I don't know. Overall the writing is nice, but. Unfocused. I see the type of plot you're setting up, but I feel like there needs to be more with AC1 before moving to secret agent janitor.
I was I suppose I could lie and say the stilted lack of grace in the poem was intentional, but in reality it's probably just a result of forcing myself to stick to a structure that I made up beforehand and wanted to cram a poem into.
So, if I were to insist on maintaining the structure, is the piece a lost cause in your opinion?
I wouldn't say so, It has value, and stuffy poetry critics would appreciate it more for sticking to the structure -I'm more of a flow person when it comes to poetry- I wouldn't dwell on poem as you would have to sit and think for hours to think of better wording than what you already have.
Thank you for your input, I really appreciate it.
No problem man. Just keep working at your craft and looking for new ways to change up what you do. Nothing you write is terrible as long as it's another step forward.
I like it. Could definitely be in a solid book, maybe the shampoo part goes on a sentence too long but It's still fine
The morning of a Thursday 'fore the primrose sun rose. I gleaned the clean, plastic sheen of the deep bluegreen lake. The wind left rolling ripples in it's wide, wandering wake. This lake; a gargantuan grocery bag with it's upside's turned down. Emptying its everything into the neverending nothing. The eucalypts leaned in the chilled freezing breeze and shook 'bout their leaves. Each branch a brush. Painting to exist in the wild and lush bush. The reeds near the trees rushed and shook. And the wary ducks watched me reading my book.
When I publish it I'll be sure to acknowledge you
Here's a translation of a Portuguese sonnet I did a few weeks ago.
Sonnet
After Sá de Miranda
No friend to thought, Love wages in my breast
A war on reason. Love that has been here
For many days: he tells - he says it clear -
And does what he desires, without rest.
He has no time for reason, but has paved
His way with spite and strength. He starts and stops
With no sign of respect; sometimes he drops
To make you think you're safe, then all's unmade.
Somewhere beyond, good Reason keeps the time:
She seeks an opportunity in the gyre
Of weeks and days, until it's time to shine.
Then Love, displaced, begins to fill with ire,
And cannot trust himself, and plans the crime.
Oh, what to do when everything's on fire?
Do you think it's decent? Are there any mistakes? English is not my first language and I have something of a pretty hard time if I try to write in it.
I did the translation, not the sonnet. Pardon the ambiguity.
I enjoyed it but I always find it strange to read translated poetry because it often loses the original's form
Any tips on how third person limited is written? I am Confuse on how it works
Is the link at the top yours?
Tell me what you think
I'm sorry but this is terrible and you should not listen to the comments giving you praise.
This is completely unoriginal and your writing is highschool tier, there's nothing unique about it at all it just reads like something written by a precocious sophmore.
There's a lot of fat, you're saying basically that you had a small bout of depression in the morning, the kind we all get. It does not need to be this long to say that.
>Without conscious control of my actions I picked up...
This is probably the best example of what I'm trying to say. There are hundreds of better ways to say this. This piece (I don't know if it's an excerpt from something bigger) is essentially just a moment, you're using sensory description and how it affects your mood. Sense and mood are two things that are instantaneous, the way you're showing them to us in the moment, you should be giving them to us like we're there, let me feel the mood like I do in real life, I should read only 3 or 4 words and feel it almost just as I'm making sense of the words.
If you find that most of your writing is like this then I suggest reading John Fante he will help you a lot.
I liked it. But it definitely needs some work.
Here are some lines i thought were awkward. Just read them again and see if you agree with me.
>I walked through the door with you, the air was cold,
I like the way you're just kinda bringing us into this memory of yours. But following that up with "the air was cold" is comparatively a dry, simple statement compared to the beginning of the line.
>And you still got it in your drawer even now.
I get the impression you were experimenting with word order here. Even if you weren't, it's still clunky and awkward to read, doesn't really flow off the tongue like the last line of a stanza should
>Oh, your sweet disposition
Ryan Adams fan?
>And I might be okay,
>But I'm not fine at all.
It's sort of irritating when a poem states on thing and then states something opposite the next line. It's over dramatic and frankly stupid.
>Wind in my hair, I was there, I remember it all too well
these are three different statements that could work together, but are awkward as hell to read the way you've worded them. There's little flow, and they're so different from the first two lines in the stanza in their basic structure that it disrupts the ending.
Seems like what you need to work on is the phonetic aspect of poetry. Don't be afraid to rip a line or stanza completely apart and then put it back together. Revising my own poetry has taught me a lot.
Calling something bad or garbage, and then offering vague advice on top of that doesn't actually help anything but your ego.
Like the vibe. You mix the intangible with sensory. I like it.
I agree with the other anons in saying the last stanza seems out of place, but you shouldn't necessarily delete it. If at the beginning or end of the other stanzas you add that "alone" or "although" in there somehow, I think the repeating rhythm throughout the poem will tie the whole thing together nicely.
One thing i liked was how the first three stanzas ran together to say something collectively, and then the fourth was detached from the rest while still building upon it.
>"Love you" for a "glad we met";
>Unseen tears for drops of sweat.
If saying you wrote this poem to be famous on tumblr was a serious statement, leave this. But if it was just an insecure ploy to fend off heavy criticism, I'd revise this. Make it less to the point, stick with the vagueness of the others lines.
All i really have to say about this is that I've always felt these type of poems are heavily detached from real life. They don't evoke anything except maybe an admiration for your craftsmanship, which is def above average.
But I'm a moron, so . . .
Yeah, this is pretty bad. Two things i could recommend is to stop treating your poetry like a letter to whoever made you self harm. Poems written in second person can work, but this one doesn't.
The other things is that all your lines seem very detached one another, nothing plays with the next, nothing runs together. Boring to read.
>I am an expression
>used as a definition
I don't know what fuck you're trying to say, but this made me laugh.
A pretty interesting poem. I'm not going to dive in and strip out whatever vague meaning may or may not be there, but I had fun reading it.
Almost reminds me Of EE Cummings the you jump around in pauses to make simple, vague statements. Nice to read.
This reads about as narcissistically as I'd imagine Kanye West's autobiography to be. You don't give anything for the reader to latch onto, relate to, imagine, or picture. How are they supposed to react to this?
I get the distinct impression you only started writing poetry because you were heartbroken. That shit sucks, we've all been through it. But I'd say half of all poetry, especially that written by young people, are about loving someone or losing them. And it's possible to write about that and pull it off, make it good and original. But this isn't.
Each line is very detached from the others. There's no over reaching arc that pulls everything together at the end with an ending that stays with you.
But i think the main thing is that you know what you're talking about, but the reader doesn't. Reading this, as an outsider, is like jumping into a movie that's at the climax. You give us no imagery, no plot, nothing we can imagine or picture or relate to with our own experiences.
Literally nothing happened or caught my interest in that entire thing. You have talent. But you don't constantly need to remind the reader how good you are.
Good fucking ending, lingers with the reader.
>and my fingers feel wood and stone as through thick gloves.
you made this concise and kept it from being awkward or vague. Good line
Maybe you get a little caught up in atmosphere of the poem, and lose your way semantically. You say "seek not what has been" yet you are:
>clutching in the dark, for the faded
>memories of feelings
Furthermore, I don't get what exactly you're trying to back, what was lost your trying find. The closest we get is:
>and with my whole being possess that moment.
>The warmth of the sun, the rays filtering down through the canopy.
which is def interesting to read, but doesn't really give us anything tangible to latch onto. This may be too vague to evoke anything.
Really liked it though.
This is pretty good. I don't usually fall for that classic, rhymed, and organized style of poetry, but you do it well.
>When the evergreen is glowing
>In the dying light of day
Right from the start you gave me an image, time, and setting without sacrificing any of the phonetic aspects of you poem. Impressive.
In the second stanza you go sort of abstract, yet it stays grounded. Maybe it's the use of future tense. You're writing in such a way that a lot of it kind of flows on for the reader to imagine. It's very nonconstrictive and memorable. Does a good job of putting the reader into the scene.
The last stanza is the worst, losing that kindred kind of energy the first two had. I think it's mostly the last line, which is out of place, speaking more prophetically than the rest of the poem.
Have you ever seen death, desolation, or disease? Probably nowhere else but Skyrim. They're just words with definitions to you and me. They don't represent or draw upon memories from anything we've experienced.
The language you use here is hard to picture and follow, doesn't evoke anything. But if you begin by using language to which we attach personal meaning (some smaller form of death or destruction that the average person has likely experienced) and then use that feeling to convey the ideas you want to convey, it'll register much better with the reader.
Gone, gone too far and alone
Walked until your weight brought you
To your knees; did you feel clearly
The cold creep beneath your skin
As you curled your knees and chest together
Burrowed on the grass and let it in?
Dream of home, dream of home
The stars shine no differently
Gone, gone too far and alone
And in the morning the children will find you
Huddled, bundled, frozen, and dead
Your face will be a smooth river stone
Your eyes will be a blue and white echo
As peacefully you sleep in the meadow.
Yet now you must shiver, and moan, and wait
Pilgrims with homes don’t roam this late
They wake early, and so early to bed
And in the morning you will long be dead.
What will she say when she learns?
And who will be the one to tell her?
Will she come to hate you for this
Or herself?
These questions should not unnerve you.
You have gone, gone too far and alone.
Yet you weep, weep and dream of home.
Glissading brusque youth; in autumn’s garland of bay,
Proudly prances and struts, with the lithest of hearts.
But in the fainting of stars, it withers away;
And with one last pirouette: – He gently departs.
My tears will not rain; they shall not fall on the pall,
For all has but vanished in one wasting breath.
I shall strew it with petals of spring’s finest fall –
Let the fragrance of flowers dance twain with thy death.
Idk if the other explanation gave any additional clarity. But you never replied so I felt I should maybe explain also that, if you don't live in rural areas, the night sky is very vivid when out in the country. But certain areas of the night sky in the country can appear to be whited out, missing it's hue and stars because of the light generated by a town or, especially, a city. So that idea, in conjunction with this , maybe helps picture what I'm describing at this point? Because if the imagery is laid out alright, you should be seeing a city on the hills along the horizon where the glow from its populous has whited out the sky right right above it. It's here that whole reflection being made should come together. But being that the end is a patch and everyone who's (which yes, it should be 'whose', btw, typo) read it so far thinks it pointless, I know that the patch isn't good enough. All the advice is really helping me figure out the best way to end it though.
If you do ever respond, I'm curious. You said you followed the conceit, I'm wondering what you took from it before what I had to explain? And if it's on par with what is really buried in there.
should be
He was running fast now, and dragging the blond haired girl by his side. He needed to get to the yacht as soon as possible so they could get away unharmed; make a run for a new life. He held freedom by the tip of his fingers; all he needed now was to get a little closer so he could grab freedoms' entire hand. In his other hand: the girl; in the girls hand: a bag full of money they wheedled off the Russian Mafia.
They ran over the gangway; the ship started departing right away. They had managed to get hold of 10 fucking million dollars, which meant they could live the beach life in Mexico for the rest of their lives.
He saw that the excitement made her horny, as she smiled seductively. They started kissing heavy; he slid his hands under her shirt, and grabbed her by her hips to push her closer to him. She started to unbutton his white shirt, and stroked her long soft fingers through his thick chest hair. He smoothly pulled of her shirt; swiftly unlocked her bra. He saw proud perky breasts jiggling invitingly; he felt his penis swell against the inside of his khaki shorts. She moved down and unzipped his pants; practically teared off his shorts.
Her soft red lips curiously explored the shaft of his cock. She licked the tip of his dick intensively: breathing out "Whuuuueeeeee" in excitement. She started moving back and forth faster, and faster. His dickhead was massaged by the inside of her cheeks; it gave him a strange tingeling sensation on the inside. "Whuuuueeeeee" she wheezed out eagerly, "Whueeeee, whueeeee, whueeeeeeeeee." "Whueeeeeeeeeeeee"; he felt sperm building up in his shaft; he couldn't hold himself back any longer. He grabbed the back of her head, and forcefully pushed his throbbing cock in her mouth. As he came-he opened his eyes.
Reality set in. Pure ecstasy on his face changed in a split second to shock. His large black pupils popped to half their seize; the broad smile contracted, and widened into an O-form. He saw his mom curiously staring at him with the hose of a red vacuum cleaner in her hand. It was too late, he couldn't hold himself back anymore: sperm shot through the room with the power of a thousand burning suns, because his dick had managed to escape out of his boxers. Disappointment dripped her face as she said: "Oh user, what has become of you?"
Anyone want to help me with a Dutch poem I wrote?
Spiegels bevriezen mijn illusie en
de opgegooide bal raakt nooit het plafond
in zijn eindeloze rit door tijd en ruimte,
hetgeen ik ‘een vloek’ en jij ‘zwaartekracht’ noemt.
Ik kan kermen en krijsen als een oud wijf
dat zojuist haar eega verloren is,
maar de realiteit verbuigen
is een zeldzaam talent.
Ik draag mijn broze lichaam als
een bloem die verschrompelt
zonder ooit gebloeid te hebben.
Er ligt geen fenikskuiken
tussen de verlepte blaadjes.