In your best prose, write what's on your mind

23 here noob

Is there any way to escape this cycle of overwhelming poverty and horrible jobs? I've been doing this for a while now, working on whatever brings me enough money for a few months rent and eventually getting fired or quitting after I've saved up enough money to live for a month or two only to have the same cycle forces upon me by the need to have a place to stay and food to eat, Is this it? Is this all my life will end up being? Just the same horrible experience over and over again?

i am very lonely

yawny ass nigga with a heart full of gold

Oh e oh ah ah, ting tang, nigger nigger bing bang.

Troy sat in the chair. Troy sat in a room of light brown wood and silk background of sad blue flowers on a background of yellow. Repulsive and tacky had short words to describe the chewing gum under the table resided as Troy rubbed his fingers dry on top. Troy worked with a character of beautiful hairline mountainous, blond hair blue eyes that went undetected and often remarkably bright. His small pink rubber nose would glow with pride as he would bend his head down gracefully. His name was Seth. Never would they talk. They just say "Hi" and then shuffled awkwardly in their chairs uncomfortable until their work was completely idiotic and unrecognisable. They collected information apparently useless as a garbage man collects the spoiled food in downpour in the ghettos, said Troy's mother often.

So I was sitting on the couch on the lawn in a haze of pleasantness and there was a married couple next to me, and I though my my, this is a cultured party, and they were talking about car bombs, and about the best method to make them, and I said "no, no, you fill a glass bottle with gasoline and then put a rag in it", and they looked at me confused for a minute or two, maybe an eternity, I couldn't tell, and then it dawned on me that they were talking about cocktails, and I told them, and then the guy said, "you have some stories man"

I hate the way I write, I hate the way I don't have a voice, I hate the way I always end up writing about writing about writing to infinity, I hate the way I always write about myself, I hate the way that I always get into these recursive loops, I hate the way I hate, is there something wrong with me, I hate the way that I think there's something wrong with me, I always wonder what people think of me, whether that nice person sitting over the way on the train is about to get up and mug me, about the hateful words said behind my back, lord knows how guilty I am of that. Of course, now I can't use this at all.

>Should there be a white supremacist Tinder called Hitlr
Yes.

I hate women so much I fap exclusively to trannies now.

fag

That's the point.

Good one

I wish I had a cock to suck.

Unless you are female, you do.

With all my subservient respect, I beg you, Mother nature, just allow my dick to be hugged by a sweet pinkish pussy.

Otro dia mas adaptandome a mi nueva vida. Tumbado en una cama que siento ajena aunque un contrato señale como mia sigo dandole vueltas al hecho de ser gracioso, casi comico, pero en esencia aburrido.

¿Deberia tocar un instrumento? Buscar a la desesperada un entretenimiento me parece demasiado frivolo.

No ha sido un mal dia pero podria haber sido mejor.

A quiet ache gnaws at my head, as if the stalks of my eyes are being gently pulled backwards by some mischievous homunculus.

Someone make this meme

Gay and pretentious, poetic and over-crafted.
Dropped it
Horrible to much troy in short sentences
this doesn't sound like you, it sounds like a 1910 author therefore you just clone how others write
I like this a lot.
Well written

Between the scentless ease of a good job, there was a sense of without in my eyes as I took to my sleek phone that cost too much; perpetrating deals that did me no favor other then inner desires for bravado and comradery. The forbidden manner of such a deal filled me with a false sense of purpose but worse more allowed me to dabble in the dangers of something bigger the consequence always being biting of more then you can chew but all for nothing had me senseless with favors.

I sit in my room, day after day, night after night, putting off the very act that would get me out of this fucking mess. It felt paradoxically freeing that I could barely lift my arms this morning after lifting. I hate black people.

holy self-aware anxiety attack batman!

they certainly are terrible.

There should be a job where you go into people's houses and analyze their feet based off of taste, smell, smoothness, health, callouses and visual appeal. This would be a very nice job and would require many years of intense study in order to be successful.

I lacked the courage and he had a boyfriend and I was gawky and he was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and he was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were sandwiches, I was six-inch and he was footlong.”

I remember that child and I ask myself where he went and why he had to die. It was elusive to me at first the prospect that some unidentifiable presence had been with me for so long that I had almost completely shattered it's memory through vicariously living in fluent impulsive distractions poisoning my brain with hits of dopamine from narcotic substances or mediums of entertainment that ensnared my attention just long enough to whitewash the static filling my ears like tinnitus. This inalienable and horrifying feeling leaving me in a perpetual state of extreme paranoia, where in this reality instead of being truly isolated within the encapsulated confined space where I would frantically try to grasp for a rope in a metaphorical lake where myself and my thoughts would drown me daily in an endearing nightmare of overwhelming emotional propensity that my mind was struggling to process, and would continuously fail for days on end, and weeks on end, months and so forth. A daily ritual of self-righteous, vain, vapid spiritual suicides where instead of confronting this inalienable ethereal entity that had been haunting me since adolescence, had rather took pleasure and enjoyment in the anguish that it had me undergo, knowing that no matter what chess piece I had arranged in a game that I could have rigged without it look; that it would always inevitably win through it's totalitarian omniscient pressure alone, bearing itself as my witness through both traumatic and benign life experiences alike. I've spent an inordinate amount of time crafting a superficial personality in avoidance of this astutely cynical and pervasive entity through mantras of discipline in order to not be 'a certain way' or in a more romantic discourse to be a 'good person', something I have yearned for a decade and have truly tried to convince and reprogram myself that I was only to arrive at the conclusion that in all my efforts I have not even taken a single step away from square zero. My only hope in ending this paradoxical existence of being a slave to manafactured fiction worn like an ivory ballroom masquerade mask and being torn asunder from this inalienable feeling I have only just recently named 'Hell's gravity' is through a bittersweet cartharsis in the embrace of death. There is no exit.

I sit on lit,smelling of shit,all I see are pseuds and prudes.

niggers tongue my anus

tl;dr

word
scrawny ass shorty with an ass thick n bold

I have visions of a better world. It annoys me that I will never realise them. I expect this feeling is common.

I realized academia and Veeky Forums has cucked me into having a false sense of taste for classics I don't even give a fuck about. It's more important to develop your own sense of taste for literature, and you shouldn't even have to fucking justify it. You don't have to prove anything to anybody, we all die in the end and I am sure if heaven is real God doesn't give a shit about how much of the greeks you read or how much tolstoy you've come across. The greatest creators in the world did NOT have what we deem as "patrician" taste, they just liked what they fucking liked and took influence from all of life, not just a small chunk of it. All social games are such bullshit and I am fucking tired of this world we live in where we have to pose as interesting characters to each other.

how many toddlers would it take to overwhelm me? i figure i could probably beat any number as there would be a maximum of children that would be able to surround me at a time, and this number surely would not possess the strength to coerce me. then the limiting factor affecting how many terrible twos i could abuse would be own fatigue and nothing else, as i am unable to see how their frail limbs could do any sort of harm that would reduce my ability to destroy kids

She has not replied to me yet. I thought that maybe she would given she always would but that is not the case now. It has been three days.

I took acid yesterday. I enjoyed it despite a persistent question that has continued to grate at the back of my mind even well after the high has subsided. I sensed at times that the drug was leading me to understand some great truth, and this truth was something I could visualize clearly and even begin to explain aloud. Nonetheless, time and time again I found my train of thought derailed as every moment of "profound introspection" was punctuated by the onset of doubt and self-deprecation for having assumed there was anything remarkable to be gleaned from a drugged out mind. Still, I'm not fully convinced. Was there anything meaningful in what I felt? Was there any sense to my thoughts? I suppose there wasn't.

ITT: try-hard purple prose spewing fucktards

>asian
>ugly panties
what a pleb

Pretend commencement speaks are gay, but I need to graduate. My dad's dead. I am sad.

What pussy blossom blooming awaits for those who, having waited, not longer need anticipating for the blue hue of midnight agitating the restless new day of debauchery because if it ain't dirty it ain't fun and my lord recites prose for his own purposes, you know.

First part genius

Second part Salingers mistake .jpg

Nice

The beginning was solid, and then you trailed off, again... and again.

My dad is also dead and I am also sad, but there is no correlation between the two

Fucking marvellous

White guys with dreads are always pieces of shit.

Bestfriend killed themselves
Not high enough to stop thinking i coulda stopped him

Realizing this makes life so comfy, I just stopped giving a fuck about people's stupid expectations

I want to fuckin die aaaaaaaaaah I hate myself aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh fuckin wanna blow my brainlets own boom boom, red goes the room. Why am I so fuckin dumb?! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH stick a finger up my ass Jimmy, dig around, and out will come the bullshit. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. SHOULD'VE NEVER EXISTED. WHAT A WORTHLESS LIFE I LEAD.

My eyelids feel heavy, as if they were being pulled downwards by some intangible weights, and the only thing that i can think of in my soporific stupor is:
"pee pee poo poo haha"

Some old lady wrote out a list of little nuggets of wisdom she had picked up over the decades, my favorite: "What other people think of you is none of your business".

I'm afforded until midnight Mountain Standard Time to complete my first task, yet my eyes are heavy and my attention divided.
Procrastination may be my demise but I'll commit to this challenge.
If you can't perform perfectly why bother performing at all?

Don't worry you were just thinkin real hard
Acid just lets you think abstractly

My first thought every morning for the past two months has been that I'm one day closer to being forced to give it all up again. I don't know whether to accept the loss and face it boldly or tuck my tail between my legs and hide from it. I feel that I have so much to lose, but it's almost already all gone.

sauce on that?

>So I was sitting on the couch on the lawn in a haze of pleasantness and there was a married couple next to me, and I though my my, this is a cultured party, and they were talking about car bombs, and about the best method to make them, and I said "no, no, you fill a glass bottle with gasoline and then put a rag in it", and they looked at me confused for a minute or two, maybe an eternity, I couldn't tell, and then it dawned on me that they were talking about cocktails, and I told them, and then the guy said, "you have some stories man"
This was great. Let's just quietly ignore the other part and turn this into a copypasta. This is what I still come to Veeky Forums for

...

Grind what? LUCK or INT?