Can we get some separate CRITIQUE THREADS; this one is poetry, another can be a short story one...

Can we get some separate CRITIQUE THREADS; this one is poetry, another can be a short story one. It'll make things easier for people to help with things they specialise in.


0000

Unsown golden seed of hunger while she
Does listen upon the verse and else
Upon the happy thirst of war
Does consume the broad and and praise the lord
While riding to face the breadth of the law
Yet amidst the smoke and fog that hounds
The times of youth that linger in spit
The trifling breed do bread with louts
Sharing tears shed but rarely a-fit
The consecrated sod does trifle the earth
And dense are the lads that foot the shadows
While war is poetry penned by rifle’s girth
The land of the living will hardly remiss
And insolence of times ahead keep the line
And law of the land will prosper
In consecrated tears the seed demands
Excavation for another lover fallen
Death be to one as life be to many
Yet the passing fade will lift atop
And humanity perhaps moves to infinite glory
In the minds of those shot
Now is the time for congregation to pause
And congress will rise and fall by our hand
And the sad satan that roams the dark halls
Will rise of the land to answer our call
And evil is subject to those unafraid
Yet objective words will keep us in line
The heaven will hear the call of man
If the scream does lift above the pain but
Else does the words of pain and joy
The spoils of war left to the spoilt
And the living will forget the lesson living
That what each generation finally figured out
Be free to be who you are
Be free my children of art
Be free for the life is tainted

That's my poem Sacha

I know! I Did you not get the email? I was just so moved that I had to write my own version because how moved I was haha! Yours is better desu, I just had a little raw emotion to give to the world :D

EXPOSEDThis poem is fucking convoluted man. Is it about war or love or life??? I guess lack of punctuation is intentional uh?

Anyway, I'll give my critique for you a bit more in depth here. The convolution like the other user mention could be a problem, I feel like you expanded on mine a clearer version to make it in depth (which I really think is a great thing) but lost a bit of clarity

I completely understand what you are getting at, but someone without the basics might find someone of it going over there head very easily

Yours was much clearer, yeah; thank you for the critique

Here is mine for anyone
Unsowed a seed of thirst remains
Upon the joys and spoils of war.
As blood consumes the broadly doomed
It sprouts and thrives, the lads in Gore

They ponder amidst a shrouded fog.
In times of youth, but now a rifle
To linger dense in fog, prompt and trifle
To phase them? A mix of spit and sod
To brake the breed, indolence stiffled.
A tear shed and a poet created.
His scraggly verse comiserated

I'll go more in depth later. I'm about to go to bed, I'll email it to you

Hm, this poem is much better. I likey. Soz about that sacha stealing ur poem dude but you're a better writer anyway

Need to concentrate things, too disparate.

I like this. Particularly the rhyming of 'war' to 'gore' -- the rifle / trifle part seemed stilted to me but this may have been your intention.

Posting for an acquaintance.
>inb4 pussy posting
Critique your heart out

Show thy cracks O' porcelain mask,
Show the thread beneath your plume,

Which thread seams the tapestry of despair,
For which did the needle of life gone through,

Look back O' porcelain mask,
To the dancing feathers around you,

One third tangoed to fame,
But the blinding light burns their core,

One third waltz like the Viennese to love,
But the dove is a caramel that turns bitter in flame,

One third waltz ever so slowly,
Lullingly, weepingly, try to make itself known.

Don't cry O' porcelain mask,
Don't let the cracks stream further.

Look, look O' porcelain mask,
To the feathers that bonds together,

As they stitched themselves with faux leaves,
That only a fool would wave as normal.

Rejoice O' porcelain mask,
For even if the others cast these feathers,

For their stitched leaves they bond together,
As they indulge in the wine of joy,

Giggling forever, parting never,
Always there for another.


Title: the Porcelain Mask

A brute
swaggering grinning preening
sword shining
teeth pearls
With a wandering eye for the local town girls.

Flesh torn
Sweet promises, a blood paid
Deep lakes made shallow
His pointed smile a far greater weapon.

Watching at the window
Noble steed now breying donkey
Once clean waters dyed red
Tears find the sun,
Watering the weed made fat from wilted rose.

Beauty will find the Beast.

All I can tell you is I don't like this and the words don't carry any real weight. It reads fanciful but with no real emotional effect.

Fuck me, I hate cunts who write like that. You know, just because it is 'le poesy' doesn't mean that you can safely ignore the very basic rules of grammar and forgo the subject-predicate relation. To make matters worse, all the fucking enjambements make my head hurt, I'm guessing this is your idea of 'flowing verse', but it really just made the whole thing unreadable. Some lines are literal garbage nonsense, what in the fuck is
>The trifling breed do bread with louts
>The spoils of war left to the spoilt
1/10 consider killing yourself to up the global average in poetic skill

Following the lolloping flow of the water, the daughter of the night porter sat with a quarter of port and a light order of quartz about her shoulders. She shrunk by the trunk of a willow with a slump as the bubbling pillows of cloud billowed about the plowed fields by the town.

Gazing into the brazen din of the river, with a slither she thought to drown and quiver within the hazy mirror of teal that held the heel of the thinning reel, that bayed bend the bay and begged the sea to dim its waves and wave the passing day away, as night gave in and unfurled its coy coils and cool curls, and whirled above the cobalt crease below, and shimmered with the glimmers of faint worlds, that rumbled with great oceans of their own.

Had there been a breeze to tease the stillness with its ease and wheeze along the hill and kiss the crest and dismiss the dismal trees that filled the mist valleys like spectres, expectantly vectored towards the reflective freezing embers that persistently rested upon the majestic crescent, the present temperate inflection may have given way to an affliction of
dense tension and unsettled the daughter in her thought, the sort of thought that fettled the mantle of her head and recessed into the cess, and digressed through every channel, and possessed her with caressing depth, the smoky cloak of death directly on her neck, curling at the ends and curving round in bends to wrap with inky waft upon her gleaming flesh, seeming less a separateness and more a oneness teaming from the wholeness of her soul.

The full moon of her heart swooned as an infinite lull loomed in the depths, and moving she let it consume her and wondered, as she wandered, how she may be exhumed from the running tomb of the riverbed once under.

it was meant to mirror the length of war and the toll it takes on the mind after time lol

>the trifling breed do bread with louts
obviously means the lower classes are mixing, those that dont usually know each other are forced together
>the spoils of war left to the spoilt
the spoilt are left to enjoy life after war
jeez, not that difficult boyo

Please tell me in 20 words or less what this is actually about.

A woman deciding whether or not to drown herself

pretty evident senpai

You did not accomplish this at all in what you wrote, user. I couldn't make the fuck out what was going on.

big fucking splattering pile of goddamn pigshit.

I hope you die in an aids fire. Fuck you.

sounds you're a little jelly of my writing honey

>honey

take it to a poetry slam, homo

Oh yeah, that's totally it. I wish I could produce overworded, rambling, incoherence like that.

woah, are you hitting on me, shit nigga, chill out

Dk who that other person is answering about this but the poem is meant to be arduous and difficult and convoluted and the lack of any punctuation is meant to make you feel like everything is the same

if that came across, great, if not then ah well, not my normal writing style anyway

Now the girl sat beside the trunk of a willow tree not too far away from town. The tree cast a shadow which in the near dark made the river water seem like liquid stone: she could see herself breaking through it -- would the surface break like brittle ice? Would she sink or would she have to force herself down to the dark soiled depths?

The rustle of the tree leaves brought her back to the present: trees which in the growing dark loomed like spectres: or like the scarecrows which filled her nightmares when she believed such straw-men could burst to life if she paid them too much attention.

Now the moon was out, and she had waited the day away.

I KNOW FOUR THINGS (DEATH IS MY DESTINATION)

My mind is blank most of the time (except when i'm dreaming).

I hace at least one .

I want to more than i want to .

Death is my destination.

Penis,fu k

Cum.

this is not a poem you FUCKING PSEUD