Critique thread.
Critique and get critiques.
Don't be a faggot.
Critique thread
Carter Turner
Other urls found in this thread:
docs.google.com
twitter.com
Grayson Thomas
Your an faggoot.
3/10
Tyler Perry
Hey guys I know a lot of people say there can be too much alliteration but I'm honestly addicted to it and I really like putting it heavily in my shit. Am I coming off as tryhard?
(Probably, but should I care?)
Dominic Rogers
Dear Katie
Please tell me
You don't hate to read.
Please tell me
If you have a selfie
With the Eiffel Tower
You don't think you know everything
About France.
Please tell me
You know Hungary
Isn't a town in Poland.
Please tell me
You know there are differences
Between boys and boys
And there are differences between fun and fun
Just as much as there are differences
Between being funny or ridiculous.
Please tell me
You have more ambitions
Than to find an idiot
Who buys you drinks
And in exchange
You let him have sex with you
From time to time.
And please tell me
What can cure
My brutal hangover.
Ryder Wright
Her booty buckled when I was bucking her,
Breaking another bitch's heart,
Drunk sex with warm pussy with a hot dick,
Isn't dick when your sick of being an asshole,
And assholes are cunts, who act like dicks because their pussies who don't have balls to be a man, so they bitch-out on consequences of keeping promises and live with lies, but it's worth because I came.
Rough draft.
Chase Collins
“Closed?” she whispered sheepishly, “what about all the food?” After being dismissed from rehearsal, Eve had set off to satisfy the heavy growling in her stomach with something other than spiced nuts and chocolates. Grave's End she found – as well as the surrounding neighborhoods of Coney and Brighton – had very little but beaches, warehouses and railways. What few restaurants she came across (mostly russian diners and delis) seemed to operate at bizarre hours catered mostly towards nightlife. It seemed few people came here save for the circus and beach, and at noon on a late autumn weekday there was little reason to stay open. If Eve was going to eat anything satisfying, she would have to take a train into the city proper.
Grave's End was one of the more remote neighborhoods in the city of Nieuw Amsterdam, separated from metropolis by sedimentary layers of immigrant enclaves, ripe with colorful imports and befuddling accents. Even given the city's density and state-of-the-art subway systems (a term which stuck despite much of it being located above street level), Eve knew it would be most of an hour before she again found herself in a place where she could read menus in legible Dutch. She wanted sorely for a book to keep her occupied for the haul: maybe pulp novels or star charts, even a dentistry pamphlet would do. It was while she rifled through her coat pockets, hoping for a paperclip to uncurl, that she came across the booklet that she had found on her face that morning.
It was a small, yellowed number wrapped in a soft, supple leather of the kind she had often seen used to polish boot knives and switchblades. There were no markings or labels, not even a strap, but it smelled faintly of ozone and coppery tastes.
Eveline opened the book to the sole dog-ear, and was greeted with a bizarre illustration that seemed burned into the paper. It was clearly insectile, though of an unfamiliar shape, toroidal and dripping with some unknowable fluid. What she though was its head was neither beginning nor end, joined to its long sender abdomen by both thorax and mandibles. Six membranous wings covered eyes, legs and air, granting the chitinous creature a seraphic visage. The end result of this amalgamation was unsettling and confusing to behold, but it reminded Eve vaguely of a dragonfly attempting to eat itself whole. The title in bold labeled it “The Basilisk Fly” and below that, in careful handwriting and fresh ink was a message left only for her.
Dear Eveline,
A wise man once said the only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them. If you want to know what you are capable of, you must first do something you know you can't.
There are a thousand paths before you, but only one will lead you home. If you wish to return there, you must be prepared to traverse all of them.
You are being tested, and the first question is “What could be?”
– R.
it's original but lacks rhythm
William Cook
wow man this is awesome you should totally show this to her the metric and lyrical qualities of this poem have blew me away
incredible
post her reply ITT
Wyatt Nelson
AND IF THE DOG CONSENTS
WHAT'S SO WRONG ABOUT FUCKING IT?
IS THE POSSIBILITY OF DISEASE THE ONLY THING SEPARATING YOU
FROM COMPLETE SPIRITUAL OBLIVION?
AND WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE
IF THE BABY'S ONE WEEK IN
OR ONE WEEK OUT
KILL IT
IS THAT SUCH A MORAL LEAP
KILL IT
YOU FUCKERS NEED YOUR OPIUM
IT'S A BRAVE NEW FUCKING WORLD
[SCREAMING]
James Roberts
will fucking a dog rescue me from complete spiritual oblivion? is that what this is about?
Nicholas Price
>>> /r9k/