What are you most proud of writing? It can be prose, poetry,

>>9076524
>We were all aboard a weathered ship that night, looking for a great white whale, with me as captain.

this is a pretty good sentence right here. this is a novel or short story i'm guessing? what's it about?

this is probably mine, and it comes from a novel. the context is that it's a memorial plaque for a dead junkie

“Don’t panic – the world is still mostly empty space. No matter how much we’ve cluttered this ground, there’s always a sky to be found. And the heavens are beyond that, too. And who-knows-what is beyond that, if you know where to look.”

>>9076563
is still a*

I'm not even close to done with it, but these first two parts of an assembly that I've got in progress are probably my favorite thing I've written:

I. GRAUHESCH
Grauhesch leers from his chamber, unbidden,
as we slink the shade of his view, unseen.
Grey king abed in his prison, unchained—
as our fear far stricter bids us silent.
That courtly mock: a wrinkled brow in thought,
repeated in bulbous and reaching flesh,
scornful wet facsimile of our own.
What hubris took hold and drove us here—
to cower before the insensate?
Long severed and silenced and bound but still,
the echo remains and shackles in turn.
Foul prophet those mouthless lines to lay,
not in mist and shadow but statute and stone.
What fault is this but ours, and ours alone?

II. What Befell
The Faceless rose, spoke, and so came forth this:
"There lies a land, near, past reach nonetheless,
where mournful peaks glance to ley below,
and roads no feet have tread nor builders kept,
to memory of page or scribe. Yet said,
’tis no empty land, though stirs naught within.
Scribes, it has, and carpenters, fathers and sons.
A King, it had, and courtiers, pipers and drums.
Tables, there are, set beneath still faces,
and no food, though untouched by wand’ring beast,
but mouldered and rotted to stain.
Those scribes, they hunch, over parchment gone to dust,
their hands stayed, in monument unwilling,
of those deepest crimes for greatest cause
wrought in vain, and none left to lament."

>>9076524
are you joking? you've plagiarized several phrases there from hunter thompson as well as his general style. write your own thing

>>9076524
a poem i wrote when i was getting cucked by a pregnant meth junkie.

unrequited

She looked at me for a moment locked in time
eyes, emerald gilded sunspots through shattered glass,
this ore a boon, alloyed spirit held at length,
winds of change spewed from Eden's maw,
eyes now further than the stars littering the empty sky,
those eyes, now sultry soil.

>>9076711
Damn, you were very cucked.

>>9076711
Holy shit this is fantastic. Also, I'm sorry about your experience. Go out and get some less stupid pussy. It will do you good.

>>9076995
t-thanks anon.. it means a lot, actually.

yeah, i've moved on from that time of my life, to be sure. got a loyal and loving wife and she makes me very happy. can't write for shit anymore though. (except with sleep deprivation)

>>9076563
It's a short story written as a kind of fiction-memoir of a real person that is in my life. He is a father of my friends, and he has no fucking idea I wrote this.
He worked for ARPA in the early sixties and helped engineer ARPAnet, which was a kind of proto-internet used for college campuses, but was super influential and paved the way for the information revolution. He was also a terrible coke addict in the early eighties, and gambled extensively. Basically, I wrote this to show how human creation can be perfect, but humans never can I.e. we can make perfect extensions of ourselves, but can never be, at our core, perfect. It sounds serious but it is actually very funny, I made myself laugh many times while writing it.

>>9076695
Lyrical. I really enjoy it. I would love to read more.

I wrote this after not writing really anything since the age of twelve and wanting to ape Yeats:

They say of Theodora that her father tamed the bears,
And, bottled there inside your father, rained that royal will.
Rending autumn's monarchs from their thrones to sleep, his trill
Called out their names 'til winter's winds left them their waters bare.
They say of Theodora that men understood despair,
When words left your pools unrippled, without a dip in depth,
When no aural machinery could steal breezes from your breath,
When sons of kings found themselves drowned, dethroned, ensnared.

They say of Theodora when she called the royal name,
Rivers wore down pillars until the palace washed to shore,
And with the palace gates now bowed five feet from your front door,
You split your skin to show Justinian your noble claim.
They say of Theodora when her king was overcame,
By oceans new clad green and blue, storming in the square below,
Shining from a silver column, you told the tide to flow
From writhing crowds to Justinian, setting him aflame.

They said of Theodora that, despite all those who swooned,
Her greatness was too human, her beauty too diseased,
But yours knows not the soft erosions stolen by the sea:
You make ponds of absconding oceans, and puddles of monsoons.
What they say of Theodora, from lovers lips maroon,
Will drain away with every tongue that finds her royal name,
And ousting it from where it perched, your own will there remain
As future lovers try to tame the subtleties of its tune,
As fishermen try to net reflections of the moon.

>tfw a literary genius

The cuck one had some cool metaphor... That's about it, really.
The rest of you suck.

God, I want these /pol/ mouth-breathers off my board.
Why do I even visit this site anymore?