Post random shit you wrote and we'll judge it

There you are
On your computer while
Im out here
Fighting invisible demons
In the yard

te las dai de poeta y no sabís ni leer

When no one gives a shit about what you’re doing
you think you've hit hit rock bottom
but actually
not giving a shit about what you’re doing
like escribiendo en inglés un sábado en la noche
es la verdadera muestra de que estás a años luz
de estar en fondo de bikini

Poemas malos

...

The Fedora Trilogy

You okay bro?

It takes its time, I often don't see signs of it for what I believe are days. I say such because I haven't seen any external indication of the passage of time. There is no sun, moon or stars visible from where I am. Above me is a consistently orange and brown sky, a darker tinge of that which colors the thick fog enveloping my environment. At first, I assumed the frequent streetside lamps responsible, but as events move forward they seem to extinguish one after another, the bright orange fog remaining much the same. Only between twenty and thirty yards away are visible at any given time, what's passed that quickly fades into nothing. While it makes navigation nigh impossible, it's sufficiently obfuscated me from my grim reaper's view before. I've woken from dreamless sleep to find gouges and scratches in the pavement indicative of where the creature narrowly missed me during its ceaseless hunt.

Jet fuel memories
The best conversations are the ones
Where no one waits for their turns
To speak

Yeah. This was from awhile ago. Thanks for the concern user. I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner.

Time is a mere construct of man. Imagine not always feeling like you have to be somewhere else or doing something else. Imagine being happy with what you were doing with your "time". Im not here. This isn't happening. None of this matters. Nothing matters.

Bonfires were everywhere to celebrate the sun. The night started with sirens and ended with a gun.
Luckily they weren't for us.
Distant memories far and wide seeing a black panther with cubs at her side. Jet fueld memories both young and sweet is a person I try so hard not to be.
This I know for sure as long as I live
I will never see that black panther again.

Everyone has their own place in history. We're all just trying to buy more time. Society is a false sense of reality. It was an endurance challenge at this point. Nothing more. Wrong! It was about friends having a great time. Just being together. Enjoying life. That was the only thing keeping them from going. Once one person leaves it starts a chain reaction and everyone starts leaving, succumbing to center of the earth.

The musicians loved it when their audience was high. It allowed them to drown everything else out and truly enjoy their work.
The outside light acted as a safety beacon. Keeping the beasts at bay. Our very existence could cease if it ever were to go out. Our departure was grim but hopes were high. Lizards are actually garden dragons.
A child wakes with a.message from.the other side. If you give a cause you can manipulate people and extort. 20% tax hike on sugary.drinks in name of fighting obesity. Fuck the world.

Sorry about the hand writing

...

...

As the crew boarded the Sagittarius, the docking clamps let go. Slowly, ever so slowly, with the sharp, precise movements of the impulse engines. Then, there was a rumble, at least in the ship.
"Safety procedures activated, sir. Warp drive spooling", The ensign said in a monotone, sterile voice.

"Engage.", as one simple reply from the Captain began the warp process. Slowly, a small hum, emanating from the power drainage of most systems, shook the ship. Then, there was nothing. Earth was no more to be seen in sight. The Saggitarius had managed to penetrate the thin veneer that humanity had managed to cross so long ago, now, setting off to face the unknown horrors of the universe.

If one could take a look outside, it was just simply a dark surface, no stars, no light. Just a inky, black void. Practically devoid of anything, as the Sagittarius set course for the Alpha Gammoris system.

Hoping there are Portuguese speakers around here. Summing up: my protagonist find himself in a leftist speech at his old university. He went there to meet a friend. After a while people lose it, they scream, smoke weed, dance and sing, and the more they do it, the more they feel like they're doing the best thing in the world, feeling original, authentic for some unknown reason. Then the scene bellow takes place:

Um duo de gurias começou a trocar obscenidades. Ele observava, dividido se se tratava de uma briga ou de um fetiche mal resolvido. Tudo fez sentido — se é que isso era possível — quando as duas encetaram um beijo longo cujas bocas envolvidas pareciam não encontrar o caminho que deviam fazer, pedaços de pele, bochechas, línguas e lábios que se abalroavam numa convoluta dança de pelancas insensíveis sobre a saliva que escoava pelos lados como uma represa prestes a romper. Diferente do que ele imaginava que seria na vida real, ainda que sua experiência de visualização de cenas altamente eróticas e estimulantes se baseasse na interface homem-computador-vaselina-com-gostinho-de-morango, a cena lhe remetia algo repulsivo. Não que as gurias fossem monstruosas, até que eram bonitinhas, ele conferiu: uma morena alta e magra de cabelos frisados azul furtivo, repleto de dreads e cortes irregulares que pareciam ter sido feitos por uma tesoura de jardinagem cujo manipulador estava algo tresloucado; e a outra era uma negra de menor estatura, a pele de uma escuridão cintilante, cabelo crespo cortado baixo como se ela fosse cabo do exército, pernas e braços roliços que comprimiam a parceira com ímpeto. O problema era a estimulação sexual advir do consumo desenfreado de erva e como isso alterava o sistema nervoso central que produzia aquilo — a cena, as sensações, os toques ávidos etc. Parecia-lhe sintético demais, desmedido. Ele as fitava e quase fez um sinal para ninguém em particular como se dissesse: “é impressão minha ou elas estão tipo, tirando as roupas pra valer?”, mas deteve-se quando um mascarado veio num passo qualquer coisa sapateado irlandês, o baseado pela metade à boca fumegando, braços abertos que se esticavam e recuavam como que presos por uma mola, como se ele estivesse imitando uma pintura egípcia, mas sem aquela frontalidade toda — aproximação esta que nada tinha de sorrateira. Ele pôs os braços ao redor do casal como se estendesse uma barreira de proteção ao movimento coital que se sucedia. Continuou sua dança até que, como se ninguém lhe fosse dar atenção, diminuiu aos poucos o arco com que as abarcava até encontrar o limite dos ombros já desnudados das duas. Abriu as mãos e as deslizou por sobre a topografia das costas suarentas enquanto resfolegava tal qual um cão que encontra uma fêmea no cio e, incerto sobre como proceder, prossegue da única maneira que conhece: a torto e a direito.

Browsing this thread over a Wendy's burger, I peel back the bun and sigh.

Soggy. Translucent. Tattered at the edges.

A drowned fucking pirate ghost of a tomato.

Beginning of a random idea I came up with to work on while I'm stuck where I am:

The breeze whistles through the sleepy little mountain village, less a village and more a collection of huts scattered in the hills and forested patches, people that just happen to live within stone's throw, rather than people consciously forming a town, an unconscious human desire for community despite the conscious effort to live outside the main society.

Before them, there was a more solid foundation, a more concrete town, though still itself desirous of being outside the society at large.

MEMORIES CAN'T MELT STEEL HEARTS

awful. really bad. sci fi fans are truly brain dead

Okay. Any tips to improve?

I wrote this in the shower when I was 15, Lol. I spent like 10 minutes on it, thinking I would come up with a full poem, but alas my laziness overcame me. Idk if it's shit or not, It probably is.

"To the sonnets in my head, forgive me when I'm dead;
For my words cannot bring you to life,
I say,
With life in my lungs.
Forever shall you lay on the tip of my tongue."

What do u say bros, do I have a chance to be the next literary great?

Feels good man.

Since we have a lot more posting than judging I'll give it a shot. Bad writer and worse judge.
I think you should split it into two or three sentences. I'd stop at forested patches.
It feels kinda awkward, is english your native language? I think you'd be better off combining the first 2 sentences into something like: the docking clamps let go ever so slowly...
I dont think you need "at least in the ship", just a rumble would do. "just simply" feels redundant to me, and it should be it would, not was, simply a dark surface. I'm not a native speaker so i might have just fed you bullshit, but thats the best i've got

I encourage new and old posters to give their best uneducated judgements on other texts, so we could get this moving

Not only Fedora as fuck, but the two parts of the discussion should probably have some short of disagreement.

I do speak english, just feeling a bit lazy. This is my rough draft btw.

Frankly, sound cannot be heard in a vacuum, so that is why I kept it like that, but, yeah. I'll take your advice.

Here the red mountains rise like broken teeth, eroded from years of grinding against the sun. I see small caves (or large caves, at this distance it’s impossible to judge) and crevices, and wonder idly how each of them got there, and if the mountain keeps them like memories or battle scars. There must be bear out there, in this strikingly untouched land. There must be dozens – hundreds—of creatures that still do not bow to man, creatures that rebel like fallen angels against the natural order. We go anywhere and do anything, but staring into these wilds leaves me with the stark impression that these are not ours. Not anymore. Our birthright is shaped for spirits more free than ours—spirits sheltered by the ancient, by rock and forest and stream.

We shelter ourselves, now.

I feel as though I could wander into that great, dappled expanse and become painted by it—over days or weeks my steps would become light, my eyes quick, my mind clean. I could melt into that great rock. I could find mystery and purpose there.

A little black iron fence separates me from the drop off, and though I could jump it, I don’t. I don’t think anyone does. Is that all it takes?

Write a House of Leaves style short story, user. I'd read it.

I snickered.

All around the opera house, the Phantom throws a tantrum!
The song won't die, he doesn't know why!
"STOP", goes the phantom!

>Did you ju..? Ah well. You know, I probably shouldn't be poking you with this, but you've annoyed me long enough today.
>Do you happen to know where we live?
...
>It's not what you think it is. Certainly, there is life around. But it is dead! Don't you see!? We live after the apocalypse. It's already gone, long gone. Ha.. ha. Look around. Dead architecture, mellow people. Barely any children.
Yeah, but we just need to get rid of the rats poisoni-
>But there you are wrong. They touch this carcass and they rot with it! Same thing with those restaurants you so love. They can barely hold onto their culture. What would make anybody think they could save ours?
Well, Mr. Genious, how did you find out?

The Ghastly Liar-

I find myself standing within
walls of halls where none'd been,
condensed from air by winter wind
upon the subtle breath of spring.

Singing hymns of sins in making
with silver tongue for golden mind
I'm suddenly drawn into a womb-
a tomb who's realm is all's but mine.

The Devil stands before my path,
his question hums in harmony,
my silver tongue freezes still
as exorcising words remind me.

Silver tongue racing for gold,
I lick from off my snowball mind
an answer which the fiend did seek-
a ghost to haunt this hall of walls.

The fiend erupts into a flurry.
To the walls the flakes do scurry.
Where once not I nor fiend did spy,
nothing remains to honest eyes.

Half a pound of tuppenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle.
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop! goes the weasel.

My skin is dried leather
For which to brace bone against wind
I smile at you through burlap
While we sit tot take in the weather

My nails have begun to splinter
They pull at the seams of my body
I leave stains when I touch you
You assure me it's only the winter

My mouth has filled with rot
You turn your head when I lean to kiss you
My words now only make you retch
You fan me, for the sun is shining down hot

My eyes, yellow, roll and boil
I'm blind to your ways
You caress my cracking skin
Savage my flesh, your delicate digits around my heart toil.

The man was a director of sales at a local company which sold men’s grooming products. He was a man of knowing winks and ignorant smirks, of saying ‘come, we’re all grown-ups here’, an epithet only seeming to apply to those interested in his products. He believed heartily in the inferiority of women and children, in the conspicuous consumption of cigars and whiskey over private chats with other men, of speaking with an authority he had never had and would never have. He would give a smile and put an arm round your shoulder as if to say I know how things really go, appealing to some higher standard of masculinity which weak men would believe and they would buy into both his products and his philosophy simply because he was loud and rude and they thought if they were more like that they would not be so unhappy any more. He dominated the boy’s mother, who had once upon a time been Sally Herbert, hotel receptionist with very few strong beliefs or convictions and now was Sally Melville with even fewer strong beliefs or convictions; and where the mother idolized the son and saw him as her better, shrinking from his capricious moods and excusing his selfish impulses, the father saw it as only natural that his offspring should be such a conqueror and boasted of his own accomplishments both real and fabricated in relation to the successes of his son. And because of the mother who loved him too much, and the father who loved himself so much, the boy had started down the path which had led him here.

i really like it

Hey, thanks!

...

How come in order to be in a relatiosnship with samantha you have to get into fist fights with her?
Like lizards squaring off
A dimension where peole can't leave their doors unlocked without reptilians invading your home.
The powers to be have successfully erased and have control of all of our history.
We don't write or keep loga anymore.
We all had that crazy lady in our childhoods that was always outside and had a bunch of cats. Probably wearing a crayzy hat and talking nonsensically to herself.
Getting a tattoo.by a cocaine addict tweaking out on our flesh. A snow mobile hangs from an oak tree somewhere in Florida. Cut a hole in.the wall.to pull a car in and seal it off forever.
A is for asshole. The coach that hated you in middle school and used.to embarrass you any chance he got. A is for anthrax. A is for ammonium nitrate.
The smell of fresh coffee brewing. Country ham and eggs.
The idea that working hard for a company will get you far and appreciated. More like a delusion.
B is for benzodiazipine.
Modern day society. Taught that we are nothing like the slaves of the days gone by. C is for cancer.
If governments truley cared about its people tv would be illegal.
A little girl tells the class "come one now guys, we can't all be veterenarians...."
D is for dumpster slut.
"I fucking hate you david..." after discovering an empty container of fudgr brownies left in the fridge.
Washin them dishes so heroically.
Music video of a dogs triumph of catching that squirrell. M is for monsonto. A trex sits quietly in suffering somewhere in the living room. Tweakers playing window nintendo. They should have it in the olympics. Why do perfectly manicured laans feel so foreign? A van full of swinging body parts hanging from meat hooks does one more victory lap.
The only time you can.commune with the dead is.when.you.write the past.
Our reality is being determined by our current thoughts. Constantly.changing.
Everyone.standing around a table but not actually.being there.
You know what david? Fuck you! Probably in there shedding your reptilian skin as we speak.
M is for killer who.always quotes doctor suess while killing.
Ive dug up some information about the suspect at hand.
The flow of ink. Endless possibilities.
You hand me this bong like I know how to play it. I dont know the notes to a bong.
He understood that he had to put cold colors to balance the painting, but you could tell that was the only reason he put them in there at all....

Kek

Actually that's just two posts from threads several years apart in the archives I spliced together and gave names to.

Then why didn't you say so.

You are too young to be posting here i guess. Not your fault. Read more, lad. You have potential to be good. Good Luck. Start with the Freaks.

Bathed in the sun.

My first thought arriving: I’ll take every little thing you have. With nothing I have arrived except my facade of essential harmlessness and even the few luggage I took with me out of pure courtesy, I forgot at the bus station. So give me all that you’ve got: antiseptic strokes and ritalinist epiphanies. The muses of the evening. Wine shall flow, and the famous good conversation, like my voice, will sound again throughout the room and halls, this time intensified by the silent applause with all the glances, gestures, smiles, the praise of mediocrity, which I am so infinitely longing as I call your tenderness my hunger. So this is how this one-time attempt to truly know myself will find its end: I will nod and say „It’s not that bad everywhere.“, I will assemble my telescope the right way (I wasn’t able to read the plan as of now) and then I can pierce through the haze of this city and seduce all of those young students, of course only when everyone else is gone, that is, when it is sun-drenched and light, but it is never sun-drenched and light when they are gone, my protectors, only quantified and quarantined emptiness. Only the dull madness of non-articulation. I will write about the despicable structures here and about abuse in the streets and the loud change and it will finally sound appropriate and the beautiful, few will rejoice over a new one that represents the collapse of youth once again, aesthetics are now available as Study subject, thank you. Anyone of the time will then certify "Dickinson's breathing“ being stuck in my verse and this arrogance will then finally be the beginning of the end. I love her so much (Emily's verse, I mean) and if I could just hold on to this beginning for the time being, I would be able to feel that way forever - all that and more, the quiet hours in the light, the high quality of discourse could be mine, my property. But I'm stuck in my process down there. The first days under strange skies were as blissful as almost nothing else in my life. My contempt was nourished by every Hermann-Hesse quotation I could think of far away from home , I came every day but never to my sense, and my cheap word games and trunk and death seemed to me as charming as at the time when I had not yet realized that I loved books and played with quiet indifference in the summer hours with the neighbors. In a word, I was happy, again.

I'll be going through here shortly and give out some advice.

The Forge-

Drumsticks matched with matchsticks
drum erupting snares of embers.
Alternating and pulsating
orbs of rhythmic fires
conjure bursting storms of sparks
becoming twisters dancing spirals.

Summon me my will to be,
You frantic beating meter!
Tell me now, Hephaestus, how
Dionysus helps me neither!
This blazing pounding scares me not
of burning bloody ether.
Chaos born was Eros,
surely so could we together.

Twisting body-coals ablaze,
my thoughts can see no other.
Exhausted, forging hammers stay
and fires start to smother.
Cooling off, though not all froze,
my mind returns to me.
I strike a match and light a bone as
ash falls to a glowing screen.

His sculptures were simple. I am certain I participated in a large amount of them. We, be it the Uncles of mine and my Siblings, would dip our arms into a liquid mold, in a large bucket. We would intertwine our hands, and wait for the mold to set. We then removed our hands, and concrete was poured into the mold. It would set, and once it was done, we would all examine it. I remember being amazed at the detail of the concrete in the mold, with the small hairs and pores of the skin being visible. I am sure that now time has eroded them, but the sight of the intertwined hands is still exceptional.

Now for critique because fuck leeching:

Nice shitpost...?

Imo, the "invisible demons" part might be a little abstract(?). Maybe change it to "subtle ghosts"? I guess it depends on the context of the narrative.

Keep the end of the paragraph less literal. Takes me out of the scene, maybe insert a metaphor to show the relationship of the previous conflict.

>Any given fri(day) night,
>blank pages everywhere,
>with no end in sight.

What theme are you trying to get across? Is it anxiety/running out of time? It is fine, but try to mold it moreso to the theme, maybe change second line to fit the theme more.

It's hard to feel a overall message you are trying to portray. Initially, it seems to be dominance over nature, but then changes into naturalism, and then escapism. To jarring of a change over such a short period of time, IMO.

What rhyming structure are you going for? BC "been" and "wind" work more sonorously than "within" and "wind". It may be a partial rhyme, but within and wind are more distant in sound.
I guess try to work on making a more "pretty" rhyming poem, BC this doesn't exactly roll of the tongue. I do enjoy the related symbols of late winter, but "snowball mind" seems a bit misplaced. Perhaps "frozen mind" or "frosted mind"?

Cool. Change digits to tendrils, IMO.
That is, if the other person is a plant, and this is a metaphor for farming.

cringe

name dropping deities without any depth or signification is the true mark of psudeomania. read hölderlin more

does posting stuff in threads like these disqualify me from trying to get the same work published?

I imagine they can google the submission and find it leads to here and accuse me of plagiarism.

pls respond

Not sure, but I think everything posted here is under creative commons, so you could steal someone else's work here. Not completely sure, so take my opinion with a grain of salt.

is this y'all's first day or something?

bottom of the page. every page. every board. since forever.

>All trademarks and copyrights on this page are owned by their respective parties. Images uploaded are the responsibility of the Poster. Comments are owned by the Poster.

I've got twenty-eight reasons to think of fifty more before I choose to see you.
And as arbitrary as it might seem, I can speak for the majority when I say you're looking out the wrong window.
Not that you'd see me coming through glass; I'm coming through the roof.
And once you hear my boot hit the hardwood floor, I'll already be gone.
So don't say I didn't warn you, and don't say I ever tried to play blackjack without a complete deck of cards.
There's too much invested and we're too far along now for second thoughts.
Those second thoughts are common anyway, and we're special, yes we are.
Just know that when the sun goes down and the sky turns pink, I'm laying down in a nearby mountain.
Just taking my time. Just making little trees out of blades of grass.

I dont know how to greentext but mine was.about the demons. Thank.you for your response. It feels good knowing someone read it

I pretty much bullshitted my way through middle/high school. Luckily all the intentionally pretentious essays, stories, and poems I wrote were destroyed when my parents through out our old computer. I haven't written anything since because there's no point in writing anything I have down.

A Poet Apostate

I write as from a dreamy haze.
I've been away for many days,
in realms of empty science sated,
in boring things I said I hated.
Lead me back to where I started,
and show me sights that I've departed.
The way was dear and quickly lost
but I would rather pay the cost
because the word, it draws me ever,
and if not now I fear I'll never.

rip me mb

so?

how would you prove to the magazine that accused your submission of plagiarism that youre really that user?

Ghost Light

1 AM, A Friday night.

The rain made him nervous. He always felt that when it fell… something was about to happen, as if it was an omen for disaster. This fear, however, did not stop him from walking down the street in the wet thunderstorm on this particular night. His destination was set, however, it was in the back of his mind, like a memory he didn’t want to accept, a warm glow he didn’t want to go towards. The destination was but a mere couple yards in front of him. It was a medium sized red brick building with broken windows and crumbling walls. It was a theatre.
He stood in the middle of the road with rain trickling down his face staring at the building. The sound of a train engine in the distance droned through the night. The sound of rain falling to the ground added a melancholy symphony to his gaze of the abandoned playhouse.
“What am I doing? I haven’t been here in five years and now I’m feeling sorry for a place I barely knew. “ he thought to himself.
“Why do my thoughts always carry me out of my bed and into the night?”
He had pondered this question numerous times before, as it had become a custom of his to take long strolls at midnight or later. In the darkest hours of the night his mind would shout thoughts at him keeping him from sleep. Walking in the blackness with only streetlights and the moon and stars to guide the way soothed his aching insomnia ridden head. Tonight seemed…different.
He looked into the window which was horribly boarded up. Peering in, he could see only blackness and what looked like shapes. He assumed they were furniture. Something drew him in, something beyond curiosity and logic made him open the door. It was as if he was always meant to walk this way and he just didn’t realize it till now, as if had been sleepwalking every day of his life and had just now woken to a strange reality. As he stepped into what appeared to be the lobby of this theater, he heard the sound of rain pattering against the tin roof. This mixed with the sounds of rumbling thunder from the sky above created a natural orchestra. He felt as if the world around him was trying to communicate with him. What was it trying to say?

>Any given fri(day) night,
>blank pages everywhere,
>with no end in sight.

I'm not sure what this has to do with what I wrote.

Oooh, bars.

The wording seems a bit awkward.
>I see small caves (or large caves, at this distance it’s impossible to judge) and crevices,
>There must be bear out there, in this strikingly untouched land.
>We shelter ourselves, now.
Also "Not anymore." isn't a sentence. Try reading back what you write out loud and see if it sounds correct.

What's there is well written, but holy run on sentences Batman.

I was named Sicero with an ‘s’ after the Roman philosopher of the same name, who, though well-known for purposeful oration and rhetoric, did not pass down to me his oral regards in any regard: I cannot taste.
I was born this way, it’s been said by my mother and by my father who both are no more of this world. And yet, I can remember a time when I could taste. When the pleasantness of temperature and texture once graced my tongue as it’s always graced all of you. It is a worn memory that I cannot recall; like a distant gunshot whose sound remains ingrained in the mind as something cold and evil despite, without having seen or witnessed any flying bullets or burned powder or dropped casings, I cannot know if perhaps I’d stepped on a rather sharp branch of tree enough to create a deafening crack in my ear, or maybe even imagined the scenario entirely or dreamed it beneath agony.
I am told that I pity myself too much. There are people in this world with malefic deformities; cursed physicals, morose brain impairments, unbalanced chemical permutations; and yet here I am, writing the story of my tasteless taste and how I was cured while others yet suffer worse afflictions than I could ever know in the deepest grief of my deepest imaginations.
I found my panacea in a strawberry kiss in the Corridor of Time, from Dorothy who was from her own Time.

here's the latest entry from my diary desu

2/20/2017
Today a woman looked like she keeled over in the store today. By the looks of things she was probably in her 90s. Her face went all grey, eyes vacant, and she was gasping for air like a goldfish. They had to call an ambulance and the EMTs, and everything, bring in a stretcher and carry her out. Imagine that, the last thing you see in you pathetic life before oblivion is the fucking grocery store. Proof that God is either not real, or indifferent to our suffering.
I don’t imagine I will stay much longer. I calculated that after taxes and union dues, I only make $40 a day, and after food and gas, probably only about $30 goes into my account. This kind of money isn’t even worth my time, let alone my effort. And lo, what effort! Sometimes I feel so empty at work that my thoughts turn violent. Today while serving a customer, I looked at the dividers for the conveyer belt and wondered if it could be used to bludgeon someone to death. Terrible, but I think it is important to confront and vent these thoughts.
Each day is much like another just as each minute is similar to the last. It’s all the same. Withered old folks who shuffle like the undead, babies that scream as if they’re being dissected, bitter old women who do anything to avoid their families. Endless. The music is always on loop. Stay only enough and you find that your pace matches the tempo of the songs. Children push tiny carts that say “customer in training” I imagine only in half jest. All mind control. Every morning I pass the library on my way to work and imagine how much richer I would be if I spent my time there instead. I remember how Tao Chen said that his government job had made him a slave to his mouth and belly, and how Enkidu longed for his days in the wild while on his deathbed. And yet I am trapped. Why?
Last night I had a dream that I was a hermaphrodite, and that I impregnated myself with my own semen. I then gave birth to a child who was my perfect genetic copy, as I was its father and its mother. I held the baby in my arm and vowed to raise myself better then my father raised me.

I love the style. It feels like i'm reading a diary but not completely.

Substance is pretty prosaic but style made me read it once. Get better ideas and you'll get laid with this.

And fix the typos, you lazy ass.

The last slope-headed nigger on earth fell to the ground as I unloaded my gun and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Well," I said wiping my brow, "what shitskin race is next?"
As I sighed to myself, lost in contemplation, I saw a a family of zipper-head, slit-eyed gooks shuffle on by on their abominable bow-legs.
"Heh, here we go again..." I sighed as I loaded my gun.

edgy

Two, tiny wheels pushed against the concrete sidewalk, connected to a miniature frame and a miniature deck and two miniature handlebars, propelled by a boy who looked a little to big to be riding such a miniature thing. His body towered over the handlebars. His feet looked awkwardly stuffed onto the deck, with one foot edging up where the frame and deck connect, and the other in a tip-toe position when it wasn't pushing. His weight alone could drive this scooter into motion.
He didn't do this, this being riding such a tiny scooter, because he was too poor to buy a bigger one, nor was it because he did it as some kind of joke, certainly not that. No, instead, he rode such a minuscule scooter to seek solace, to escape the pressures of life and live as a recluse while the sun still shined.
Normally, people seek solace in hobbies. Maybe it's playing basketball by yourself on an empty court. For others, it's locking themselves in their rooms, listening to punk rock and playing the latest FPS shooter. But this didn't look as if it were a hobby to the boy -- no -- he looked too stern for that to be the case. People who get to experience have a smile on their face, or at the very least, they don't hold a clenched jaw and intense stare into nothingness.

This is an introductory poem to a philosophical book I'm working on. It's kind of rough but I'm still proud of it:

Many of you say,
'Oh, but I am not blind. I have never been blind'
But when you truly see you will understand
Just how truly blind you once were
To even think it right to say were not blind.
What does a blind man see?
Blackness, darkness, blankness,
Black darkness, dark blankness,
The absence of things.
Quite literally
No thing, no things,
Nothing, nothings.
So, you see nothing,
You've been blind, do you understand this?
You can't fully immerse yourself.
You don't have the light.
You don't have the radiance,
The radical light,
The radically radiant light of truth
And truth's belonging love
And nature of light
And loving truthful radiance.
And I bring you into the light...

why the fuck do half the posts in this thread sound like they're trying to write the next house of leaves

gonna use this as typing practice

Lol

Thanks user. It is a collection of ideas thay I wrote while high. Then I just read them later after forgetting I ever write them. Sorry for the misprints. My phone sucks. I literally have hundreds of little crazy writings. Mostly dark and negative. But like the last line of the (poem?) I only out good in there to balance it. Writing helps me share my darkness and this thread is the first time ive ever shared any of it. Im sick of life but could never kill myself. Not all at once anyway. I prefer to do it slowly. I know that in all reality noone may ever read any of my work. Maybe in some distant yesterday I may be famous. But I will be dead. But I feel that if I dont write anything down that my life will be forgotten. It's the only thing that helps with my lonliness but then it makes it even worse because I want to reach out to people and tell them how I feel but I have noone to show it to.Except you.Its like a drug tha makes you feel good for a moment but coming down is even worse than before. Thank you for reading it. You have made me feel like I had simw kind of meaning.

Drop some truth bombs on me fampai

But he stopped, and smiled silently, because the thing he spoke of now occurred. From the bases of the ice the darkness banished, as a slow and gentle glow both warm and yellow started swelling from the darkened sheets of cold. Both women watched on in awe, as like the shooting stars that sometimes cross the sky great streaks of warmest, softest light arose and crept along upon the icy walls, rising, ever rising, silently illuminating all their way for untold leagues. The lights would reach the summit of the icy walls and die there, but no sooner had they dimmed than new lights started rising from the bottom of the walls to take their place and ply their fellows' course. So there was cascading, a waterfall of light that flowed in opposite of gravity and stretched forever without ceasing, bathing snow and cold and dark in washing waves of kindest, fairest light.

An excerpt from Part II / Chapter 4:

>"It is therefore clear that masochism and its associated psychological corollaries (self-loathing, submissiveness) are in fact evolutionary advantageous traits in the female gender. As I have demonstrated, the very act of inter-personal penetration is an intensely and necessarily humiliating for the penetratee. In order to encourage reproduction and thus the survival and indeed proliferation of the Will, the human female is thus genetically inflicted with the self-loathing mechanism which compels her to act in a submissive and self-destructive manner, if only for the sake of finding the notion of being penetrated by a man (or, indeed, by several men simultaneously) not only necessary but desirable."

HAHA dude i get the feeling you love being sad. Cheer Up! Life's too long. It hangs on tender threads as Dumas would have said. Things change. Be patient.

Get some discipline. I got it a few weeks back by forcing myself into a small room, turning off the wi-fi and writing and reading. Now i feel better about myself.

Good Luck. You have potential. Use it. Write more. And get a haircut.

Henry was a man in which the world and its many objectionable and commendable agencies had not pressed upon his life in any appreciable fashion, and he championed this by his seemingly unsuspended and well-humoured journey through it.