New critique thread. Old one is in its stage of death. I'll

>>9481412
Jesus Christ that's fucked up

>>9481412
It was a beautiful evening. Evening sun was shining, and clouds hung over like white velvet. The planes were glistening; some of them moving, and some of them still. Troy and his family were pulling up in the taxi at the park and drop. Troy's eyes were glistening, and he had to restrain himself from becoming pretentious, and rude, as he often got when he was at the airport. Troy was a tall boy, and he was/is 16. He had brown eyes, and very dark blonde hair. Troy was incredibly awkward approaching his one true love, his only love, and he's loved her for as long as he can remember. Troy's family got out, of the taxi, and his mother, Katherine, paced along with her suitcase in her right hand, and her handbag over her left shoulder, bending her back to an awkward position, scoffing to herself when it got too much for her. Troys father, having made sure the whole journey that they hadn't forgotten anything, was trying to find a solution for how to get plug converters when they arrive. Troy was put in a tense mood by all this. He hated the combination of being tense, and trying to control himself. He tried to make up for it by talking to his 21 year old brother. "What beauty." he thought to himself. It made him feel euphoric, nostalgic even. Alfie hadn't felt this way for 10 years. Eventually they all got to the luggage check out. It worked automatically, without the help of an atendee.

I've heard zero negative appraisal of it so far; people have critiqued it, but not insulted it. I don't know if that will suffice as evidence that I'm intelligent. I'm done with it, though, because I'd rather defend my maturity, since it's what you've spent the most time attacking. The following are some examples of my morals and ethical code. I believe firmly that everybody deserves a future. If we were to capture Hitler at the end of WWII, I would be against executing him. In fact, if we had any way of rehabilitating him and knowing that he wasn't just faking it, I'd even support the concept of letting him go free. This is essentially because I think that whoever you are in the present is a separate entity from who you were in the past and who you are in the future, and while your present self should take responsibility for your past self's actions, it shouldn't be punished for them simply for the sake of punishment, especially if the present self regrets the actions of the past self and feels genuine guilt about them. I don't believe in judgement of people based on their personal choices as long as those personal choices aren't harming others.

>>9481438
>Troy

stopped reading there. Change name
first line is also too tacit
"what beauty"
ew
"How euphoric"
okay . . .

You talk very banally. It's almost uncanny and hard to relate to

>>9481412

I don't really know much about poetry but i'm guessing this is a banksy-esque modern society is soulless thing ?

Nonetheless I liked it and I think you could make it longer and get some more interesting stuff in there

Anyway here's something I''ve started work on, it's still pretty rough but i'm messing around with a new type of voice so any feedback's appreciated

https://pastebin.com/pL4rUDMk

https://pastebin.com/90xgyRdt
pls read my poem no one in the last thread saw it :(

>>9481516
I saw it and hated it.
I genuinely could not tell whether or not you were trolling.

>>9481412
I read such tripe here, it makes my skin crawl. But I read it anyway, never commenting, and I wonder what that means. There's no value in a well written paragraph or even a chapter, hell, there's hardly any point even writing a book these days. You write for yourself, that's the only reason to keep on doing it. Have you read Harry Potter? Fifty fucking shades of oh-my-god I can't believe people read this. That's what sells people. Stick a pencil in your ear and stir those brains, you will never be a happy author if you have talent, and you will never be satisfied if you don't.

>>9481627
what work here is bad, anon? What would you recommend the said authors do?

>>9481516
Can you give me some thoughts behind it? I'm too tired to analyze anything but I kind of like it.

>>9481412
is that the famous elephant lynching of alabama?

>>9481637
I can't bring myself to comment negatively on something that somebody has written. Writing is hard, and learning to write is agony. Putting effort into something and have some well-meaning know-all rip it to bits may be good for your writing, but it tears you up and I don't have the heart for it. Do it anyway, but don't expect to enjoy it.

>>9481516
Real fuckin awkward and clunky

>>9481685
it is
>>9481688
well how else will they learn

>>9481714
shame. i know an author who came out of alabama and adopted the san francisco life. he's especially embarrassed of that event and what it implies about his origins.

>>9481412

This excerpt deals with a young profiteer, who, after crossing some powerful persons finds himself under these same person's employ via clandestine communications, and, realizing his position, gleefully relates their failure to his friend.

"I have to admit, it feels pretty damn good. It all makes sense now, of course. I've untangled the web of lies and gotten to the core of the matter, and who did I find there? Not a soul but all my old friends!"

"Ah, friends, do you see me now? Where is your pride? Where is your contempt?"
"I say friends, but these people, they were only acquaintances, ones I had made before I really knew what a friendship was. Now they get to look on as I destroy their entire scheme whose purpose was to destroy me. Now I get to look with a cool contempt for them, knowing my own capacity for mere persistence; to them it is a harrowing, daunting foreshadowing as to what may actually occur: retribution."
"Well, you might ask me, what do I mean, retribution? I'd normally just say 'just desserts' and be done with it. But these ones have earned a special place in my heart. These old acquaintances of mine have wronged me so, and against the laws of our people as well: I could sue them!"
"Here's the real kicker though: these idiots were so caught up in their own hubris that they actually put me in a position where I could WIN a MASSIVE lawsuit."
"Sure, these losers will do whatever they can to slow the trial, if it DOES go to trial, but they know they cannot stop the inevitable. No one entity can hide these felonies for long. There will be a reckoning! And I'll share it with you, friend, as I know I can truly call you that, when it is all said and done."

>>9481819

Wait, your MC crosses some powerful people, and then subsequently is under their employment? How did this happen? Clandestine communications doesn't really cut it for me.

Nice dialogue though. Even if it is sort of a monologue.

>>9481819
>I destroy their entire scheme whose purpose was to destroy me
As an ESL person, wouldn't it have to be "the purpose of which"?

>>9481846

It is. I can't edit posts. Normally why I write my stuff for critique threads in notepad, lol

>>9481819

Write your shit out in Notepad before posting in a thread like this. I mean, I get your concept, but jesus the formatting errors.

>>9481553
o-oh

>>9481412
She was late, but it did not disturb him. He was flexible today. He had been flexible for a while now, and had no reason to expect that this emotional plasticity would come to an end. Jacob did not give a fuck.
“I don’t even give a fuck,” he chuckled to himself. Let her be late. It wasn’t a date, that much he knew for sure. It wasn’t anything. She wasn’t anything. He wasn’t anything. That much he knew.
“Jacob!”
Shannon approached him for the left and called to him gleefully but with an apologetic air that that told him “The traffic is horrendous! I’m so glad you’re still here, I thought I had screwed everything up!”
“Hey, sorry I’m late, you look good!”
He did look good. He had spent the better part of his afternoon submerged in an avalanche of shampoos and fragrances, conditioners and body lotions, trying to eradicate any remnants of the metaphysical stench that dogged his steps. He had chosen a sharp, black blazer over a blue-and-white striped polo. His blazer was unbuttoned. His left shoe was untied. He had yet to notice.

“I thought maybe one of us had forgotten where we said we’d meet or something.”

“Oh no, I just lost track of time.”

The twinkle in his eye endured. In fact, its luster appeared to wax at the friendly, yet nonetheless lackadaisical tone with which she challenged him.

“Oh, I had no idea I was such a low priority on your list….” He forced his face into the expression he had been rehearsing in the bathroom mirror and it succeeded in drawing out her beauty. Shannon broke into a goofy, authentic smile and the sound of her laughter serenaded his thoughts.
It had struck him that she shared the same name as his sister-in-law. He wondered sadly if Shannon was truthfully cured, or if was was still dying.

“Oh no, no no, you’re not low on my list, Jacob. It’s just an extremely long list,” she explained as he held the door to the restaurant open for her. He smiled and maintained eye contact with her and the faded yellow tinge of his teeth was hidden in the moonlight as he opened his mouth and replied, “I know the feeling.”

>>9481447

yeah but what do you like about it?

>>9482225
I can't say any of it. The other writing is awfully obscured by the other mistake you make. For example, so many f your sentences begin with "Troy" that it made me want to hate and disagree with everything that character would say.

>>9482232

I'm not OP, I just think we need to remember that objective criticism cannot exist without recognition of what works in any piece....you know?

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https://pastebin.com/Ng9sinPs

The death scene for a character in my story. I don't even know what to do with it anymore. I have tried many different styles of writing and they all go to shit. This is only a small sliver of this story, and it's toward the end: I've got 320,000 words, 568 pages but it's fragmented and unfinished and I realized I will probably never finish it so I don't know why I am even posting this.

>>9482246
>https://pastebin.com/Ng9sinPs

Not as bad as I was expecting based on the whiny bitch tone of your post, anon.

I don't have a ton of time to really peer review this, but I will say this: avoid sentences where "the x was y" or "the x verb'd y."

I know that's the most natural way to write a declarative sentence, and I'm not saying writing declaratively is a bad thing, that'd be a stupid thing to say. All I'm trying to get at is a million instances of The X verbing Y and X being Y gets redundant, if only sub conciously, to the reader.

Overall, this shit is headed in the right direction. Keep going!

>>9482265
Thanks anon. I just get frustrated with my writing trying to fix it.

>>9482246
I obviously didn't read all of it but compared to most prose in these threads you're miles ahead. It seems very effortless, there's a natural flow that has me read the next sentence. Usually I want to stop after the first.

It's too long and I'm too unpaid to help you out of your situation though.
Also, a baby bird is a chick or hatchling.
Also also
>Myron Gaines

>>9481412
That happened literally a county over from where I live. I've always wanted to write an essay about the area centered around that event. It definitely says something about the moral universe of this part of Appalachia. Harry Crews mentioned it in an essay once.

>>9482284
>Myron Gaines

I don't get it, Google makes it appear to be a meme but I can't find any easy explanation for it.

>>9482361
wow you've really baited us we've been what the kids called trolled

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His hair is tousled, brown, darker than normal. Perhaps he had colored it but why would he do that? I'm just imagining it. Probably. He shifts very often, in his seat. He always seems so restless. Gazing out, hungry possibly. Starving for something, some thing. Some-thing. Anything, I suppose. Is he dreaming of adventure? Adventure’s become a story, some cheesy thing to say. You can't tell someone you want an adventure. We all need adventure, and he's starving. Look at him. Rumbling, he's shaking, in his seat. Tousled hair and rumbles, tousled hair and rumbles, tousled hair and rumbles. We all need adventure.

>>9482281

been there

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I live in the lighthouse on the bay. For the past twenty-eight years I've lived here alone. People often come down to the beach, tourists I suppose, taking pictures of the sea.

Everyday for the past twenty-eight years I've watched the sun rise and set over the Atlantic, and everyday it's just as beautiful. In the morning I'll look down and sometimes see a shrouded child holding the hand of their camera wielding parent. Those damned things, those damned time machines.

In the past twenty-eight years I've fallen in love countless times, and I'm never sure if it's the same one. It's always the woman earlier and later than others, and leaves when it's too crowded in the hours in between. She would come before dawn in her day clothes and sit on the shore where the foam still ventures, digging her fingers in the sand. The sun peaks and grazes the waves, silently, without hesitation. Even that constant murmur of the sea seems to stop. They're all moments, moments whose beauty can't be fettered to a photograph.

>>9481640
in brief--a struggle for identity. the convoluted clunkiness has a purpose, and i know that doesnt make it any better, but i feel i can justify it to an extent. also, i really like hearing other interpretations. its quite literally verbal vomit that i havent cleaned yet if im being honest because i dont know how.

>>9482485
>I live in the lighthouse on the bay. For the past twenty-eight years I've lived here alone. People often come down to the beach, tourists I suppose, taking pictures of the sea.
>Everyday for the past twenty-eight years I've watched the sun rise and set over the Atlantic, and everyday it's just as beautiful

this part is perfect

>>9481627

ehh. I see what you're going for, but you lose everything in execution. The whole paragraph really just fell flat for me, you motherfucking loser

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There is beauty in sporadic love; bursts of affection for its own sake. To be carnivorous, devouring the flesh that separates you from them. To trace the journey of hips and thighs with wanting fingers, clasping hands embracing shared vulnerability, entangled breaths within sheets, and witnessing the crawling of light upon their rising chest when the night has exhausted itself. To live so amorphous in abandonment of identity and ego solely for the sake of pleasure; to surrender constructed values and indulge for a moment, just a moment, a single moment of death.

>>9481438
It's really bad.

>>9481412
I like this, the ending's great because you cut it short and don't describe like in the other lines.

>>9482515

I agree with both of these critiques

I think I'm still alive. I felt frisson when I woke up to the alarm. I don't remember if I have a family. There is a large red gash right below my knee and a bandage half-peeled, with caked blood painting it's white surface.
Whether this light is Gods or Suns I'll never know.

>>9482509

YES YES A THOUSAND TIMES YES

>>9481412
Hey, I actually referenced this event in something I wrote recently. It happened in Erwin, Tennessee in 1916. Erwin gets all the blame for this even though it was authorities in Kingsport, a much larger nearby town, who decided that an elephant should not only be put on trial but sentenced to death. Erwin just happened to have the strongest crane in Northeast Tennessee. Otherwise, they would have had to go to Knoxville, where the city council had already denounced the decision. Today, Erwin still only has about 7,000 inhabitants and have a festival every year commemorating the incident (where all proceeds go to elephant sanctuaries).

>>9482534
I could've sworn this picture was the one from Alabama. It's very interesting stuff. I'd like to read what you wrote about it in if you don't mind
>>9482509
Nice

>>9482488
It was the only part that saved, I had to rewrite the rest. I'm glad you liked it.

>>9482527
>>9482536
Oh gee I've been holding off on posting it because I thought it was shit.

>>9481438
I think the biggest problem is that you are in want of editing. It's not all bad, really, there is some good writing there, but some of it awkward and eye-roll inducing.
>very dark blonde hair
Just say dirty blonde, or light brown. "Dark blonde" doesn't make a lot of sense.
>His one true love
Sentences like these can be altered so that they are both more tolerable and better flowing.
Overall, just edit more. Write some, and then return later and see what sounds good and what makes you cringe. Pare your writing down; it's better to write good Hemingway prose than to write turgid romantic prose.

>>9481819
Maybe a bit cliche and melodramatic, but I still wouldn't change much. I like it. >>9482221
>Metaphysical stench
Within the context of your writing, this doesn't mean anything. I don't know that it would mean anything in any context.
>Jacob did not give a fuck
Don't do this. Third person narration doesn't have to be completely impersonal, but the use of colloquialisms and swear words in it is just bad.
I would start completely over, but keep writing about what you wrote about this time. Your diction and syntax should be thought out and deliberate, and you should edit.

I will respond to this post with my writing, because I'm not going to try and fit it in on this one.

>>9481412
contrived topic desu (even if its true) but good enough execution

>>9482423
you can cut out a good bit here. too repetitive adding nothing.
>>9482485
love it :)


heres 2 of mine:

Feet slide softly over grass
Towards silver moon breaking dead night;

Deaf howls stop them scared
As the moon tears into stars

////

Time scatters keratin straw as the solstice nears
Like Autumn-curled leaves, lost in daylights wake
Frail, fragmented splinters of me mark
The damp-matte pillowcases of beds I've slept

>>9482558
sorry, maybe I should elucidate:
the poem is written about looking at a skyscraper. The title would have been helpful in that sense. Looking back on it, does it still seem contrived?

>>9482564
hm not as much i suppose, i thought you were talking about the city in general desu.

>>9482558
The tousled one is stream of thought, or at least my attempt at it. I'm not sure that excuses it, though.
I'm glad you liked the lighthouse as well

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It's impossible to write something that's completely true but not a run-on sen
tence unless you write poetically fuck prose

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She danced without rhythm,
And the sea filled her lungs.

Green stairs of leaflets
Climbs dry rot cases
To white Palatines in this sky
Birds climb these steep steps
To cerulean precepts
>>9482579
moving and brief.
>>9482485
its not bad anon, just dont drag
>>9481819
just start anew

>>9482579

Go away George R. R. Martin
You makin' me sad

I'll take a spin a reviews tomorrow. Here's a poem dickweeds.


----
Disquiet

Disquiet is the word he’d use if he had
the occasion to employ it.
But the actual Master of Gratitude has been
too long behind himself looking at himself

Or reviewing the motions, not perfect ripples
as the brain does, or so they say. It’s like this,
science I mean. You know. Like I said, science.

Disquiet belongs in leaders,
and not in innovators, industries.
Because when each house of games becomes decadent,
voters take on the disquiet themselves.

If they’re not worring, I’m fucking worring – and I have no guile!

The characterization
given to him by some guy, and him
being associated with this, whatever thing,
this meme: Master of Gratitude.

And it shows him on tv giving thanks,
communing, and just being gracious-
he thinks is false, is not himself,
like some fake news becoming relevant.

And so he listens, listens like no one listens.
Because he is taking on that role, and he is rational.
No questions are being asked, and a space is made for religion.
Cause god fucking damn does a prayer ever work some magic for him.
He rubs his hands together and claps them wildly.

He is at peace in his success, and stressing over idle time.
He experiences a modern Epoche, tranquility in pragmatism
He has decisions to make and he does not give a fuck.
He just does them, and he feels good doing them.

He gives into a thought that happiness exists
only to make the cruelty of pain and suffering
much, much more worse than it could be.
So worse. So, so much more worse.

A practical style modern mansion without lots,
except it’s on the moon, inside a crater, and
the moon is on the dark side that doesn’t see light.
It’s hard to see there. Really, really hard. So hard.

That’s where he’ll take them to build heaven, the big lights.
After everyone sees that it’s only been lords jousting.
Over how the logos will structure hell after the singularity.
Whether the gods laughed when they fornicated, or cried.
Just a bunch of guys, some nobles just doing whatever,
speaking solemnly about how the war of the gods might end

If ever the emperor should lack the ability to feel disquiet
the bureaucrats, and business class shall then take on that burden
and thus see a need to produce a solution which in turn
will hopefully give the emperor some sense.

Philosophies and religions are evolving, little by little.
Technology will make god more lovable, more chatty.
And the humane parasite will devour the earth, unfortunately.

But just before the beast is born, they’ll be eating a meal somewhere,
drinking a flavoured gin. Dark side of the moon will play,
and he will realize, everything will die, even him and them, too.

He will tell himself he smokes too much weed,
spends too much time in bliss, on his personal development vacation.
It is much too much to be thinking how he
if he were him would act as emperor.

A message Long Overdue
A blade carved two frassy letters;
A bee stared at the runes
And a vine colored the letters
Two letters marked R and P
Of young loves brew,
Now briared and green,
A message long overdue.

>>9482591
too long to even read right now. I'll do it tomorrow.
>>9482509
Good, I would just stop there. Any more and it may look like you're trying too hard

https://pastebin.com/wbjVmMdJ

>>9482591
I really like this even though I'll have to read it a couple more times before my feeble brain completely grasps it

>>9481412
I’ve realized her eyes were mere mirrors of the Flame
trying to escape from my oil-drenched heart

Pungent smog, smothering stench
Encased in ashen ecstasy;

My two shameless lips, again invited, to
Kiss her
so deeply, lovingly,
Suckling like a babe on a tit.

>>9482614
too harsh

To close my eyes while walking.

Tinctures of God; The disassembled pitter-patter
Of sole off brick is no longer
Mere relation, but sings
With one soaring voice.

Chains cast off, eyes now blind,
I peer beyond the veil.

>>9482557
xD

>>9482536
Thanks for the interest, but it's not actually about the hanging, I just reference it in the story. I write about the South a lot so I like to pepper my writing with the bizarre stories and references you can really only pick up by spending your life down here.

>>9482557
Alright well I can't even post my shit without getting slapped with a connection error. Website sucks cock and is riddled with generic porn advertisements anyway.

>>9482645

ok nic pizzolatto

>>9482654

it's too long, then

post it in parts and stop bitching so much, it's not healthy anon

>>9482654
try again, anon. I'll critique. Also make sure ad block is off

They would find food or they would die. That was the only thing certain on this trip. Arthur knew it, the colony knew it, and the queen certainly knew it, for why else would she have reassigned every ant in the colony to foraging? Things were bad. The food they harvested was not fit to eat anymore. The leaves had turn to poison. Many had died from it, and now many more would soon die from starvation if Arthur and those he marched with could not find a new source of nutrition for the Queen.
How long had they been marching? How far were they from the nest? Every step further from the safety of home was a step closer to death by heat, dehydration, predators, or any other deadly force waiting for them in the wilderness. This was far. This was too far. Arthur stumbled as he climbed yet another hill, only to be caught and pushed forward by the ant behind him. No words. No thank you. No acknowledgment that the Ant had just saved Arthur from a grotesque, likely fatal injury. Words were trivial, a commodity of times before the famine. Before the dark times. Words could not be eaten. Words could not feed or comfort. No, the Ant behind Arthur said nothing. They continued on.
Occasionally the call of some wild beast would attract the attention of the group. A strong wind would knock them off course a moment as they needed to regroup, but these were the only interruptions. Amongst the barren landscape of hard brown earth and long green stalks, Arthur could see nothing but the long line of bodies obediently crawling in uniform fashion. The cruel temptation of the vegetation surrounding their path was unbearable…..if he could only have a bite..
But he had seen the bodies; those disfigured shells of what used to be Ants he had known, contorted and screaming. Their last gift to Arthur had been the memory of their tormented deaths. The images burned in his mind would not allow him to forget that the sweet, seductive grass swaying in the wind would surely kill him much faster than the aching hunger that consumed him.

>>9482659
>>9482658
Yeah, sorry. It's been a rough few days, and it's had a bad effect on my mood and mental acuity.

The Sun was beginning to retreat under the horizon. The golden twilight glow made everything—pine trees, dandelions, rooftops—appear softer than they ever did during the day, and the wind blowing over the grass and through the trees created a calm mood in the neighborhood.
Tucker Hertz sat by his bedroom window, watching the natural scene from the second story of his house. He had a tendency for melancholy, and watching the sunset from his window every evening had a mollifying effect on his mood. He would listen to the breeze, and, defying the listlessness in the rest of his body, his eyes would follow the undulating flight paths of birds with alacrity as they moved from rooftop to rooftop.

See the eagle in the tree
See the snake coiled in the grass
See the seagulls on the river
See mailman driving past

Little creatures, little soldiers
Battlefields of the mundane
Just running
Just running

See the lamp up on the pole
Shattered casing on the ground
Waiting for the sun to make its way down

You know everybody wants something
Someone, some place,
some peace of mind
Nobody ever got out of bed for nothing

>>9482679
I'd post more, but there are only one or two more paragraphs that aren't mainly dialogue.

>>9482679
>he Sun was beginning to retreat under the horizon. The golden twilight glow made everything—pine trees, dandelions, rooftops—appear softer than they ever did during the day, and the wind blowing over the grass and through the trees created a calm mood in the neighborhood.

turn this into dialogue somehow

>>9482485
It's not much but it's good

>same ESL question about "moments whose", that never sounds correct to me

I was mainly working on rhyme and rhythm with this one, but I still think it cold use work:


The red-running river makes me shiver
because I know it doesn't differ
running quicker and quicker
the rust ever thicker

It inevitably stains the drains
Who's to blame?
Doesn't the pain outweigh the day?
No, these woes, though cold, know no soul
Coal, but only for a time we hope

But who's to say who's tomb will say
who slew to save or loosed the grave?
It's all news too late
because when the river washes away
and the blood fades
I won't know why I ever cared anyway

>>9482361
'mirin gains

Kill yourself for not knowing memes

>>9482696
May I ask why?
I don't mean that in a rude or defiant way; I'm just curious and want to get all the tips I can for improving my writing.

>>9482697
It was great before it got erased and I had to rewrite it, and yeah I couldn't figure out how to put it

>>9482720

I never like the feeling that I'm being told anything in literature. exposition is horrible. exposition is looking behind the curtain at the magic show.

I like it when the author finds a way to slip in exposition in any way more subtle than telling me what is.

>>9482738
Alright, that's a good point. Think I'll do it.

>>9482754

Exposition wasn't the right word for it, but yeah I was just tryin' to say I like to forget i'm reading when i'm reading, and i feel like changing those lines to some sort of dialogue would make me feel like that. Shit's not bad though!

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>>9482485
Goddamn I love this man
---
Rain drops often out of place in open spaces
Picture a blank based paper weighted empty space eluding wet pavement
Crinkled paper in place of human frailness
A new kind of ailment regarding staying stainless
The constant drip drop contact causes colored pain backed sneak attacks when touch is attached
Soft soggy limbs attempt to attract and receive selfish self indulgent origami constructs
Open air compels my form to blow and tear
Open sky's attract demise to my otherwise unified disguise
Paper cuts through air in a single strut
Speaking of which I'm crumpling in faith
You'll prefer wrinkles and folds
Rear minded esoteric infractions
Imbued In an archaic fashion from irrational distractions to reverse entrapment
Don't tear at the parchment, parted at key points, portioned upon my misanthropic, surface
Paint stained paper thin scars resemble escher like "skin" drawn to life
Painted figures that stand and walk through stained glass to wear the mask and chain their owners mind gave
I'm without a drop to drain
Walk into the sun a rainy summer day
Walk into the sun a rainy spring day
Only make it 3 steps deep before...
Its open season for reason, no reasoning behind the silenced upheaval of skin off bone replacing what's dear for fear and who isn't for who's near

It's been five years since you took everything
Purgatory feels a lot like hell
Lack of purpose is de-evolution
Reverted to fucking carnal

O, Angel of my armageddon
This fire does not cleanse
It doesn't burn away my sins
I can't deny my own truth
If this is sacrifice for her peace of mind,
her peace of mind is not worth this.

Let's see if your blood runs black, you thief in the knight
Now your wounds will run just as deep as mine
The final cut comes too soon it seems
A quick death isn't justice, but I couldn't stand his screams
There is nothing left.
I was dead long before I killed you.

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An exagerated piece of my edgy religious phase. Still religious, but that was quite a roller coaster. Be brutal.

Scotheren stood on the precipes of his final hour. Long, grey hair flowing in the wind. The stain of mud and blood shrivelled up to his nostril. The cries of men yearning for death in his ears like a mantra spoken again and again till it was all he knew. The day was tired, and so was he. The warm of the sun skulked behind the curtains of grey as the ravens descended on the feast of early dead, whining for more, whining for him. It was on a hill of spears that he would reach the peak of his demise, the seeds grown full of their measure to return their fruits; and there, on the hill atop of all he needed to kill, was Jaeger, the last thing he needed to be free of his mortal coil. The apple of his eye, the man who was once called friend, once called brother, and everything that he was not. Golden armour shinning amongst all the black, Scotheren hated him the most. He was wrong, a traitor, and nothing but a puppet who didn’t know any better. He was an enemy of the Lord’s, so he was an enemy of Scotheren’s. At least, that’s what Scotheren wanted to believe. Shaky as he tried. What else could he use to convince himself the questions of his innocence?
How did it come to this? How did all the fortunes of the world turn against just men to meet such ends? Scotheren looked down at his sword and saw the man with hollowed eyes ask the same.
Gouging the heavy air with his blade he led the final charge of horsemen into the fray of spears. Ten men to his every one, the odds could never be clearer. As long as he had the faith, as long as he had the Lord of Mercy.
“The first man to turn gets fed to the dogs!” said he, no more vicious or beaten than the very dogs he threatened to unleash. He was a withered man full of age, bearing scowls of a lost youth so long forgotten in his old, forgotten heart. Paranoia burned deep like a brand on his soul, the ache constantly seeking the story of that boy so long ago in hopes of finding him again. To find that innocence, those simpler days, and the liberation of that wench who had made it all possible: Yellena - the Lady of the White Wolf: his love, his addiction, and the last toxicant he needed to convince himself he hadn’t yet turned mad. She rode beside him, giving him that smile that used to set a fire to his heart and a rustle in his loins, and he, now being wizened in all his ruinations, turned his sword on her without a flinch.
The day was tired, and so was he.

>>9482857

Nah

>>9482485
Oh shit I feel stupid; the sun can't rise and set on the Atlantic from one place. That's another thing that I need to fix but it has a lot of potential.

>>9482868

hey man

>>9482868
You can actually get a lot from this mistake. Tell how the sun rises on the Atlantic and sets on the town on the bay, make the story about the birth in nature and the death in civilization.

>>9482866
Thanks man.

>>9482893
Yeah that's a nice idea but
>I just want it to be about a guy in a lighthouse for now, if it progresses into a story I'll consider it
>I don't view civilization as separate from nature, and that view of 'man destroying nature' is ironic in the sense that it establishes ego and man ≠ nature

>>9482893
>>9482917
And I'm not saying humans aren't a cancer, because we are, it's just that we are another force of nature.

>>9482917

Well then just keep it but highlight it in red or something so you can decide later when the story is more fleshed out

Soaked like a sponge in the last few minutes, his eyes red and wet
And a slug trails down his face from its peak, weighing on heavy cheeks.
Tunnels snort up trains, shoot up rails, and spit them out,
Mind the gap, every station
The left hand leads home, across the borders, bridges,
And steaming woods, the rolling prairies.

Little town, little burrough, pinned to nowhere bound, got
Change in his pocket, home on the outside, a corner store
With the TV on
Crumpled with nerve endings.

White Lightning in bottled in plastic
Poor man’s cider, just a fiver,
returns a pound and 58 p
Viscous like the breeze breathing Marlboros,

Shadows are sitting on the couch, shrinking away
As white light spreads from the twist of a finger.
Here he fits in
He sinks- And feels around in his pocket
For a small bag of ketamine.
He puts the on stove and flicks on the Telly,
The powder sticks in the glass.
He lays it out, like white noise,
Cuts a line straight through the living room,
Crumpling it up,
And leaving it be.
Anybody home?

>>9482917
>>9482921
Ok, I get what you're going for and I like it. Personally, I believe man is separate from nature, but everyone has their own worldviews.

I need some help with something. I'm writing a story about a world where consensual death games have been legalized and people hold brutal as fuck martial arts tournaments, most fights ending in permanent injury or death.

The main character is a great fighter, and a good person with a good sense of morals, but I don't know what motivation to give him to fight and kill people despite him not being an edgemaster.

I don't want him to be obsessed with being the best fighter in the world, and I don't want him to be obligated to fight out of necessity or blackmail or anything like that, those are both dumb cliches I want to avoid. I also don't want it to be like, "fighting's all I know how to do" or anything stupid like that, like he doesn't have anywhere else to go.

Does /lit/ have any suggestions at all?

>>9482977
Parents were killed, he/she's the chosen one.

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>>9482947
Care explaining why you think that? It's a very good topic to discuss. Anyway, I rewrote it and it's probably the best thing I've ever written (I don't write often).

I live in the lighthouse on the bay. For the past twenty-eight years I've lived here alone. People often come down to the beach, tourists I suppose, taking pictures of the sea.


Everyday for the past twenty-eight years I've watched the sun rise over the Atlantic, and everyday it's just as beautiful. Sometimes I'll look down and see a blanketed child in the arms of their father or mother, indifferent to that spectacle.


Over the past twenty-eight years I've fallen in love with some faceless woman. She's always the one earlier and later than others, and leaves when it's too crowded in the hours in between. She would come before dawn in her day clothes and sit on the shore where the foam still ventures, digging her fingers in the sand. The sun peaks and grazes the waves, silently, without hesitation. Even that constant murmur of the sea seems to stop. I sometimes wonder if it's for her.


When it rains she's always there, almost challenging the roar. And for a moment I remember her, so many years ago, in that damned storm. As she fought her way into the chaos, trudging through the shallows. She danced without rhythm, and the sea filled her lungs.

>No I didn't steal the end, I wrote all of the following:
>>9482423
>>9482485
>>9482509
>>9482579

>>9482977
Never make up justifications. Find reasons in real life. If your situation doesn't exist, find parallels in real life. Why do sports stars do what they do? Because they're good at it, and it brings them a lot of fame and money.

Lonesome tones and Aeolian modes,
Where sand replaces the asphalt roads,
Where the sun shines bright and the rain comes in droves,
You played for an audience of one.

Your fingers slip with morning dew,
A light-hearted dance played in 2/2,
But you lift your eyes and see couples too few,
As you played for an audience of one.

Thirty-six black keys and fifty-two white,
Long taught metal coils that drone out of sight,
Housed in an old brown box that has taken character in place of might,
So you could play for an audience of one.

You rest your head on the keys striking one last discordant cry,
It hums in harmony with the gulls that fly by,
Where life survives and thrives but no one asks why,
You played for an audience of none.

>>9481412
I'd like to rebuttal your rhyme with mine.

Glass burgeons crackle under a rising sun,
one melting shards once bloomed in a bolstered burl.
Foundation folds into itself like embers from hell,
though a sweet spark glimmers in a puddle; metallic furl.
Swooping bees crave the smoldering nectar swell
Picturesque pastures peak through concrete crevices.
A tell tale sign of a pale past now a mere blemish.

God, I love how stupid I made this sound trying to keep up a rhythm.

When I was little, my mother told me a story from the land of my ancestors – a place of lapis-bright grasses and wine-colored seas – about a village by an apricot grove that had never seen disaster. It was not that disaster never came for them – it comes to everyone soon enough – but whenever the seas rose up or the earth shook and split like the skin of a ripe summer peach, they were ready for it and had already made their move to avoid it, a fact they owed to a gracious and ancient benefactor.

There are many names for them: Star spirits, coatlus, nagini, seraphim, but for our purposes I think the more familiar the better. You call them dragons, and thus so will I. They were first living things born of the all-knowing stars; plasma breathing serpents who forged the world from stardust, the same mythic metal that makes up their teeth and scales. They are near-ageless, and powerful too, but even they are as mortal as us, and their needs and desires are not so dissimilar.

The people of this village knew all of this and they knew of its worth; the serpent who hung from the apricot trees was no different from them. For a feast and some company, the dragon would tell people their fate, neither lying, omitting nor disguising the truth. The town and the dragon relished in trade, and in time the dragon of the orchard even took a human wife.

Rumor spread quickly, as all such things do, and before long the king learned of the all-seeing serpent. He knew what he wanted, and he knew the wisdom's strength. He coveted such power and knew it had to be his. He would have the dragon brought to him, coiled in chains, with a thousand swords at its belly and thousand torches at his town. It was his kingdom after all, and all that lived within it were his rightly to take.

The dragon knew all of this of course – he would not have been a very good oracle if he didn't – but there was no future he saw in which he did not lose something of greater value. Resigned to his future, the serpent gathered his brood, and prepared to dole out his inheritance as he saw fit.

“You can fight them!” said his eldest son, “With fangs, poison and flame! There isn't a man alive could stand against you!” He was a giant of a young man, though in a more conventional sense. The three boys who stood there, and that girl by their knee may have been the children of a dragon, but in all measurable ways they were so very human. “No man can slay me,” Spoke the dragon, his voice in un-serpentine basso, “but men may well do.”

“Flee with us,” said the second son, a wise, noble boy. “There's no shame in a tactical retreat!” “When the village burns behind us, and the kind pay our due, I would ask you again if our choice was shameful.”

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>>9481412

When a man yearns to grasp beyond his stars, what shall he do? Shall he sit and dryly weep neath the tree under the birds singing so brightly? His fingers out-stretched so far, and yet to only grasp the thin air before him, painfully aware of the limitations of the mind? Perhaps a genius is not the man who thinks far beyond his peers, but is lucid beyond all comprehension in his own thoughts, a deadly sharp focus that can steer the brain to any subject and hone it's chaos into a great form of reality. This was not the case for Mr. Huxley (Of no relation), whos mind possessed potential for modest creative greatness, and deep down might have admitted to feeling it as a young man, but he could not hone the chaos of his brain, millions of fragments of different thoughts and musings that could never be formed unto a unison, a purposeful direction. So he sat on his chair, smoked his cigarette, drank his drank, thought his pointless thought, and waited for the next paycheck. Life was a waiting game between cracking his fingers in the morning and farting in his sheets before bed, ad infinitum.

>>9481412
The worry and
the depression. All the things that made me
want to kill myself everyday, the feeling
of uselessness and the feelings of having
no hope for the future, the feeling of
being controlled and the feeling of having
to deal with the universe that happens to
hate you. Those became to me a beast that
must be defeated, by the time I got the
courage to face it I was much larger, and
actually bigger and stronger than the
beast, but it left behind it's cub and that
cub is my remaining weakness. I don't want
to kill it, I want to still be soft enough
to feel the social constructs and still be
able to appreciate them, if I become truly
alone then what have I become? I have
become unstoppable, I have become greater
than God himself! I don't want that, I want
to be free but I want to feel love,
passion, anger, hatred, I want to feel
human.

>>9481412
It feels frayed. You introduce a lot of images and metaphors without tying them together.

>>9482485
i wish i was as good as you desu

>>9484951
I was going for a "in the station of a metro" sort of feel. I don't want a solid idea. I want the reader to piece together descriptions

>>9482557

jesus fucking christ and actual critique. Thanks man. I don't 100% agree or disagree with either point, but I see both parts/flaws your referencing to as definitely weak, and your considerate reply has really got my mind working on it.

The narration of the whole story is shitty. It's a style I really hate to read but really love tow write, so I don't think I'm gonna change that, I'm just not gonna be expect a ton of people to be like, "oh yeah, you're ripping off the sound & and the fury's non-linear narration while lightly bending the fourth wall, GENIUS GENIUS GENIUS GENIUS GENIUS GENIUS GENIUS"

>>9482557

Oh, and I meant to say, yeah I don't think "meta-physical stench" really means anything even in the context of the story, lol. I just liked the way it sounded, i'll (probably) change that

The Engineer tip-toed around the dry leaves, silently maneuvering through the forest as he stalked his pray, bow in hand. He stopped behind the cover of a thick tree, and nocked an arrow.

"Patience", his coin cautioned. Drew gripped the bow tightly and nervously. He had built it over the course of the past few weeks, using only plant materials, as the Southerners did. Around these lands, Drew could have just as easily created a crossbow out of Artifacts, but creating a weapon wasn't the point. His coin insisted he be prepared for any and all scenarios, including being lost and weaponless in parts of the world where Artifacts weren't so prevalent.

He raised the bow and drew the arrow back, his blue eyes focused on the rabbit. His coin heightened his focus in a way only she could, and his posture corrected itself in a subtle way so that the arrowhead perfectly pointed at the rabbit's fat body. He exhaled and let the arrow loose.

It flew straight and true, but only grazed the rabbit's puffy grey fur. The rabbit broke out into a sprint through the leaves, disappearing into the bushes. Drew frowned and walked to retrieve his spent arrow.

>>9486081
And from later on:


"Can we go back?" He asked. "I'm sure there will be a better time for learning."

"No." Drew groaned. "If you were actually paying attention you'd realize the hunt is still on. Listen."

Suddenly Drew could hear everything: every chirping cricket and singing bird and the rapids on the distant River Lull. This would drive a normal person mad, but Drew had Bluegray, and so long as he could concentrate, her powers let him process vast amounts of information at once. Through the overwhelming number of sounds he focused acutely on one: the beating heart of a rabbit, not ten feet into the bushes.

Drew retreived another arrow, nocked it, and drew. His hands were steady and his breath bated, and he aimed the arrow toward the bushes, a challenging but not incalculabe variable. He let loose, the arrow flew through the bushes, and struck its target dead. Drew relaxed, and Bluegray loosened her influence.

>>9482221
new version.
She was late, but it did not disturb him.
He was flexible today. He had been flexible for a while now, and had no reason to expect that this emotional plasticity would come to an end. He did not care.
“I don’t even give a fuck,” he chuckled to himself. Let her be late. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything. She wasn’t anything, and he wasn’t anything.
“Jacob!”
She approached him from the left, calling gleefully, but with an apologetic air that told him “The traffic is horrendous! I’m so glad you’re still here, I thought I had screwed everything up!”
“Hey, sorry I’m late.”
The green of his eye matched her blouse perfectly. He watched her with a calm smile as she fumbled to secure her phone within a denim purse.
“You look good!”
He did look good. He had spent the better part of his afternoon submerged in an avalanche of shampoos and fragrances, conditioners and body lotions, trying to eradicate any remnants of stench dogging his steps. He had chosen a sharp, black blazer over a blue-and-white striped polo. His blazer was unbuttoned. His left shoe was untied. He had yet to notice.

“I thought maybe one of us had forgotten where we said we’d meet or something.”

“Oh no, I just lost track of time.”

The twinkle in his eye endured. In fact, its luster appeared to wax at the friendly, yet nonetheless lackadaisical tone with which she challenged him.

“Oh, I had no idea I was such a low priority on your list….” He forced his face into the expression he had been rehearsing in the bathroom mirror and it succeeded in drawing out her beauty. Shannon broke into a goofy, authentic smile and the sound of her laughter serenaded his thoughts.
It had struck him that she shared the same name as his sister-in-law. He wondered sadly if Shannon was truthfully cured, or if was was still dying.

“Oh no, no, you’re not low on my list, Jacob. It’s just an extremely long list,” she explained as he held the door to the restaurant open for her. He smiled and maintained eye contact with her and the faded yellow tinge of his teeth was hidden in the moonlight when he replied.
“I know the feeling.”

A fight in my novel.

Wilhelm knew he was at an immediate disadvantage, he had seen Millian in combat many times before.


First time was with a drunken swordsman making an ass of himself slashing up the storefronts sign and around chasing townsfolk only to immediately flying to the outskirts of the wood by a strong gust.


Second was an invasion of goblins. An hundred of small warriors ran through the town hoping to grab valuables or even villagers, all to sell in the diverse black markets within [placeholder]. They met their ends swiftly, as the water of the lake took the form of human hands, appearing throughout every nook and cranny of the city. Pulling and dragging the hordes of goblins into the deeps of the lake.


Third the last time. The day the boy was found within the woods. An demon severely injured, it's one of it's missing, the bones of it's wings dislocated and the muscles cut and thorn from what must of have been a battle.


However what remained was almost virtually impervious to injury from weapons even magic. It took Wilhelm to first distract it and only then was Millian able to capitalize on its injuries on it's back; pulverizing with the explosive force of fireball after fireball from behind, grinding it down into soil of the woods and ultimately sending its soul back to the hell plane.


Form those encounters he applied his Templar training: always count a mage's spell time. Ten seconds was the amount time he was going to have to reach her form this distance, it was at the very least the minimal amount of time she needed to speak her spells into the world; past that time he could not expect to avoid whatever spell she would use to defeat him. He was also able to deduce her melee skills weren't up to par, for she need him to distract the demon at close in order to deal the finishing blow. But ten seconds is enough. Wilhelm felt confident he had enough speed to close the gap. But if he could get in range, what would he do then?

The gong rang. Wilhelm darted towards her. Mustering all his strength he moved faster than her lips could finish a spell. Six seconds was all it took; he was upon her, past her guard. Scenarios ran in his mind. He could remove staff out her hand forcing her to a quick surrender; without a physical conduit for magic one’s dark untold things happens to a mage, something a experienced mage such as Millian would be foolish to commit.


However, what happened if she decides to use magic without it? There's no doubt she would pay the heavy cost for victory; For what she believed was necessary to save her city. He could not take that risk. He had to get even closer, disrupt her words form cast a spell and finish the battle there. As he moved in closer towards her, it was that moment he realized he would lose. She indeed did have a faster spell. Instant Her body became large and reptilian, a form like that salamander, with the exception being wings. She became a dragon.

The glow of the charcoals gave the inkblack, tiny livingspace both gave impression of dred, yet comfort as it's shine spooked the shades away unveiling books of Vonnegut, e e cummings, The Greeks, a pot with a marigold seedbag, and her until now latent curves.

Her skin was bleak, but became a canvas of sorts. Both due to the fact of the dim lit room, and the fireballs earlier at Chappy's.
She teases in a smug expression while sitting on the windowstill, as if she wants the average joe who wasn't lucky tonight to feel even more ashamed, unloved, not wanted, or to gloat.
My hopes was that I could operate this Munch gallery picture, and make it out good, whatever the result.

College chicks like these are far too few of.

>>9486377
is it a comedy?

>>9482487
think hard about it, and remove the blurry parts that have no place. remember all names have more references specific to you than to the audience.

also calm down on the awkward edginess, sounds like a rejected Jerome's Dream song

>>9482996
>man separate from nature
not him, but for many it's our transcendental mode of being; nature can only act in accordance to nature, but mankind need not. (if you then extend the meaning of "nature" to anything that mankind can do, the topic is less interesting)

about your writing, the weird jump between anger and melancholy was jarring, second version is much better. I like her death throe dance. keep working on it.

>>9482597
love it

No?

>>9486499
What makes you think that?

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>tfw just wrote a masterpiece poem
>want to post it
>can't incase one of you cunts steal it

>>9482679
Cliched open. Could have just said sunset. Should begin with the person if your going to talk about their impressions so as to frame potential irony or show character with descriptions.

"Natural" scene or nature scene, both dead images. Then you don't show his melancholy, you just say it, which wouldn't be bad if the second clause were an image of that "mollifying effect". Last sentence should be one short sentence and another long one made into active voice to make the image clearer.

You're putting too many words into a simple image, and this wouldn't be bad if you either used them to add detail or used them to give more an impression of the character's subjective state without just telling us.

Despondency sings in many silent motions. The objects we are drawn to in these states tend only to be romantic when we want to romantise them. He'd probably stare at the glare in the window for twenty minutes while a cop car pulled into his next door neighbour's driveway - and he'd still be thinking about himself and his problems.

>>9482834
for all the Christian imagery, it's worth nothing that once you get to purgatory, you can't go down to hell, you are going to heaven, it's only a question of time.

>>9482857
exaggerated is right, but also has the same beat as all those free-to-download grimdark series on the internet

>>9482931
overall it's alright, but be careful about your punctuation (or lack of) on some lines. some unpunctuated sentences lead onto another line (as they should), but some seem to be left open for no reason. also avoid being too John Cooper Clarke

>>9483035
crafted. like it.

>>9485977
do you think the reader will do that for you?

>>9486607
strange manner of writing. is English your second language?

>>9486627
It's not :(

Did you like the story at least? Is my writing style a bad thing?

What Improvements would you suggest? Sorry if I am asking for you to elaborate.

>>9482931
Do something else with "Crumpled with nerve endings." Cut "Anybody home?" Edit this a bit more and try to add details instead of "here he fits in" Could be tighter. Invoke the crumpling image maybe more.

>>9482977
People with a good sense of morals kill when they've judged something to be wrong. Make him a man of such high morals that he kills when an unjust fight takes place. Especially if he gets to say, "I'll be the judge of that," right before he kills the pleading person.

The sun bleeds Warmth
A gift to be
Mistake to fix
Slap on the wrist
Scared, your work to mix work to grow
A rift like water and oil
Like a castaway adrift
A puzzle piece that does not fit
Leave no stone unturned leave no stone unthrown
Unknown to him talent makes the man not
An idea that turns him and cold and worthless
A track to follow parents purpose

Enter, a character like many others faceless boy.
Frozen to stone he is coy, cannot emote
Out of the cocoon he gloats, with glued on wings to help him float
“Are theirs fake too he wonders, time kin to sisters and brothers
Exit, creature pretty but hollow, it is he who other now follow
A choice free to those who see it but don't sit back, he chose today to seize it
But soon these wings will falter, chasing what hasn't been, a groom left at the alter
And never be happy, that he will. The boy with wings attempts to fly still.

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>>9483283

Yet in the hidden depths of the of the sleeping mind lurks a power unachieved by many. A power Mr. Huxley still unaware of as an ant is unaware of the vast green beyond it's meager hill of pebbles. The power to dream. To dream to the full extent of the human imagination, to bend time and space and energy, to truly live beyond the confines of a dripping cold cell. He slept countless times only to encounter the frenzied raving unrealities that belonged more to a schizophrenic madman than a normal human being, a being with decency and clear lines drawn in the sand. And even these dreams he barely could recall. Yet was not a lunatic, he merely didn't possess the mental discipline that so many others lack. The focus, the concentration, the lucidity. These things were worked out of him, the daily nine to five that is apart of so many peoples lives would have finally defeated his soul, but something happened.

He was sitting in his chair like so many other nights. Tipsy from the scotch, eyes glossing back the reflection of the barrage of a fully automatic commercial segment, and the world folded into formless nothing.

He sat there, drinking scotch and looking through the window from his seat in the corner. His slow drag of a cigarette flashed in a blue haze from the neon ad across the street, and underneath it his dead gaze set on someone.

>>9486746

ignore the typos :^)

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For two decades, she had kept this box of VHS tapes. They'd been played, rewinded and replayed again till they've reached almost a deteriorating state. Margareth still smelled the scent of her Gammy.
It was an unescapable sorts too, like a cocktail of Prince cigarettes and fragrance she loved to soak on with the desire to sweat it. It was as if the smell had become a veil plastered on the wallpaper. Had the uninitiated stepped in they'd collapse before reaching the doorhandle to enter, yet Margareth barely flinched. It was more of a greeting.
She threw the box and player into the back of the truck before anyone had shown up. Illegal she knew, since it's part of the inheretance, but who'd watch tapes of wayback nowadays?

A flash of her and Gammy seven years ago leaped across her mind as the car galloped down the gravel road. Gammy smiled, on the verge of tearing up. It was "the favorite tape". A man cletching in his bulky arms to what could be describe as fragile porcelain wrapped in cloth.
"That is what I miss the most. That smile." she whimpered, drying her eyes with an arm.
"Bless him for leaving that with you."

Whiskering piano chords from the jeep radio played inconviniently through the night sky. It was Sufjan Stevens' "John My Beloved".
Tears were welling up, rolling off the cheeks.
She made for the side of the road, killed the engine, rolling up in the seat. It was too much.

The mountain road with fog slithering downhill across the trees carried the tunes, howls and sulking with further down. Into the dark.

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>>9481499
We hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, & violence during pregnancy, but they've worked 4 yr maman—if she hadn't been blitzed & beaten, while filled w/ye, we'd be bowing—heads 2 th' ground—to yr rhetorical fireworks—yes—we're guilty of being envious of yr potential, yr only crime is getting stupider, is sticking 2 yr guns & reposting the same story w/no changes. In a world of terrible writing, the only sin is harnessing the violent electricity available 2u.

Preposition Ratio: 10.07 %

Zombie Nouns:
'responsibility'

Leeches & Fleas:
'particularly', 'furiously', 'quietly', 'simply', 'early', 'carefully', 'equally'

Lexical Diversity: 42.21 %

Content Carrying Words: 51.17 %

Personal Vocab Diversity: 66.85 %

Longest Word: responsibility

Still writing about goblins... BIG MISTAKE

>>9482931

good little thingadoo about a chav bum with ketamine hookup

>>9486756
I like it
more, please

>>9486812
It's clear you're not a 'natural'. That said, w/a bit of work, you may be able to get it out of your head that you can write poetry.

>>9481438
waaaaaay too much exposition that doesn't hold up as entertaining or immediately relevant. Take a tip from our postmodern forefathers and make a monster sentence rather than making me read another non-pronouned propper name again. Stop defending your maturity or innoconce and let the work speak for itself.

>>9481627
cute sense of humor but please try harder

>>9481819
too much idea-explaining

>>9486823

(it's making me peace these up for some reason)

>>9482221
too many telegraphic sentences, the rhythm doesn't become surprising. Also the little "in fact, its luster appeared..." is kind of horrible. Stop leaning on the quirkiness of specific (big) words.

>>9482558
best so far, a little too deliberately awkward at times? "deaf howls stop them scared" but it isn't horrible nor unforgivable. also you sort of hate articles for some reason

>>9482579
even if this is some joke I'm not getting its leagues above some of the stuff I've found on these threads

>>9486812

I thought it was really good, anon

>>9486844

I've never heard it put as "telegraphic sentences" but I think I get what you mean and I agree. As far as suggesting i try to avoid big words.........

>>9486844

>>9486852

also there was a second version linked to the first, see if its any better?

>PEACE

>>9482591
too long to give my complete opinion, something that is jarring is the use of "actual" in the first stanza, and the "like I said, science." just stop that please

>>9482597
a little heavyhanded but good idea, a little less self-felating then some of the other things in this thread too

>>9486858
>>9482711
this is how you learn how to do poetry ladies and gents. Not the best poem in the world (and hardly a bearable one) but an excersize in style nonetheless. keep churning things like this out but always have them grounded in some specific reason or methodology and you might just learn to write something half-way decent

>>9482485
you're smart, explain less and show more. (i think i've stumbled into an aphorism).

>>9486627

shit, friend. your critique just hit me hard. Thanks.

Tear me a new one anons:

—That is because. That is because, I heard a man moan from inside one of theses shrouded houses, that is because, that is because. And the house seemed to sway also with his voice, flickering between myself and what was obscure. I thought of his voice for long after we had passed his house there on the road.If I let my mind wander and if i gave myself to the swells and ripples beneath the surface of my life it would seem his voice was linked now to my steps and that my footsteps carved out measures of his voice which would jar against those lines already in the sidewalk and appear as two people dancing and eventually meeting at one accidental and harmonic moment before starting again.

Too often I find myself on these sort of walks, not remembering having left or even having made the decision to leave.

>>9486872
this is same dude as >>9486865
>>9486858
>>9486844

>>9486872
>I thought of his voice for long
no you didn't

>swells and ripples
chose one, or tell me why there's both

>surface of my life
I like it. Have you ever read NIGHTWOOD by Djuna Barnes?

>linked now to my steps and that my footsteps
make it either steps and steps or footsteps and footsteps.

>measures of his voice which would jar against
replace "which would" with one word, such as "that" (and then, of course, "jarrd" instead of "jar")

>accidental and harmonic
either simplify, "accidentally harmonic," or expand on this. "a moment both accidental and harmonic," etc etc


Last line rules.

>>9486768
Heyo my guy, I'm that sunset kid from the last thread. Mind doing your thing with my new work?
>>9482996

>>9486925

Lexical diversity: go fuck yourself

Zombie Nouns
Taxation
My sweet, sweet brown eye
Danger zone Danger zone Danger zone v v v vvv Danger zoneDanger zoneDanger zoneDanger zoneDanger zonev v v v

You’re a 7 year-old child adorned with a wrinkled button down tucked into your jeans. Aunt Patty hugged you and drowned you in her lilac perfume. She is plump and rounded, contrasting your lanky body.
People begin to fill the room and your cousins tail off into the corners of the room. You’re surrounded by false smiles and staged greetings of “Happy Birthday” before the room is filled with the droning song. You sit there with a sense of unqueasiness and cusp your knees with two nervous palms. You’re smiling as to not look uncomfortable or odd. There are twelve striped and scorched candle tips that jut from the cake in front of your glowing face that are dancing to the clapping of your family as you blow the candles out.
You miss two and your mother laughs.
John is sleeping.

You are handed 13 cards, 10 of which are heavy to the palm, indiscreetly stuffed with some form of currency. You peel them one by one, wrapping your face in false surprise. Keep smiling, too. Pretend you don’t see the collection of presents in the corner of the room. Frisson is showing now, with your proud pile of money on the table.

>>9486961

>2nd person

OH GEEZ HERE WE GO

>>9486961
>>9486971

I was expecting to say I actually ended up liking it, but no I didnt like it man, sorry

>>9486961
>>9486974

Like, spell the numbers out, broseph

I grew to crawl rather than to walk.
A rusted Ford placed my family, and a small one at that, in the small town of Charlotte.
I had a way of wandering through the small roads and mapping them by my senses--I quite vividly could smell the coal, which was so moving to my mind that it moved my legs to the mine. There was color in this mine, too--picks were singing their steel songs to the sun and the moon; it drove the birds away and tugged me closer. As I was a grown man, I wandered into the mine with hope for work and walked out with an orange visor over my eyes.
The mine was silently tucked away beneath the peak of Mount Moran. Positioned near a lake, there was never a feeling of loneliness. You could see the waves dancing with fish; trout were quite common. The town across the lake was coated with an ever-blue ceiling, white puffs of chimney smoke decorating the sky. What else? Not much. Of course, the occasional fox or bear would trek the outskirts of Charlotte, but they were decorations to a scene; props to our stage of men.

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>>9482996
>>9486925
I live in the lighthouse on the bay. For the past twenty-eight years I've lived here alone. Tourists often come down to the beach, taking pictures of the sea.

Everyday I've watched the sun rise over the Atlantic. I'll look down and see a swaddled child in the arms of his father or his mother, innocent to the spectacle.

I've fallen in love with a woman. She's always the one earlier and later than the others, and she leaves when it's too crowded. She would come before dawn in her day clothes and sit on the shore where the foam washes, digging her fingers in the sand, the sun on the waves. The murmur of the sea seems suspended.

When it rains I remember her, I remember watching her. When it rains she's always there.

>>9487119
Thanks lad, honestly. But I like the original better, and I think I'll extend it even.

Alabaster swam upward
past the wrought path and my suspicions
impaled freshly to dry and crack apart
under a rising wick

The ghost flame called to me as if curses paint purpose
as if blessings hide in the shade hues
urging

I headed the soft tearing
it echoed in my heart
the light was permanent
in our eyes

This Will wax bold
even as it shrinks from the world
scatter from that melting tower
it brings us to anchor just
stems in pale slime

wait for the sky to fall again
into this new ruin
and heat the threads that pull taught
to be upright and rigid

engorged they will bloom
into the soft questions waiting
and call to the soot abound
stand and witness friend

the blind babes feel
as the muck always knew
they rise and cradle
the candles view

>>9487147
Do you know what purple prose is? Do you know what darlings are? That's all that was adjusted. And the suicide thing... A bit silly.

It's hard 2 c yr own darlings/purple, so I get u don't want 2 part w/em—but they're there & they're dragging u down into yr own churning shallows wewlmao.

>>9487203
I know purple but what's darling? Also why is the suicide part silly?

2 virtual coffins

i want to paint
snakebites on yr thighs,
i want the bleed to be
emerald flowers
i met yr guardian
angel—
mostly ribbons.

party like it’s the end
of telephone seagulls,
yr hair exciting seawater
tribulum. u call yrself “queen
internet” sending emails—stock
quotes—
to space aliens.

dreamcatcher one
with filibuster sass:
how will we divide
the chaotic fringe
with the wednesday world,
all full of intentional
giraffes.

i lead you to boulder
tincture. with your dye
lying stupid like the spring.
face me precipicing
like an angry dawn.
adamantium tulip:
bruise her tired
lips with yr
poison.

dream lawyer

did you photograph this florida sunset with your slingshot temperament
did you bury dead flowers under the physicality of your footsteps
you talk to your clients while i water the fake plants
and the sun does circles around you
the diet coke king inaugurates another moody tuesday
and i keep thinking
why do i have a brain
and you practice your putting
like nothing is happening
and nothing is happening
i needed a lawyer to sue my bad dream
and you came
with bagels and coffee
and collateral—a sweat stained callaway hat
you came
with a tornado’s deposition
you came, of course you did
you came into my bad dream
exorcising it in the name of ballgame
your reason was dominant
you took me to where the rain never bleeds
and dream lawyer
you took me to earth’s greenest steam shower
and showed me the emergent airplanes over the concrete fields
dream lawyer, i owe you
for passing the dream down.

>>9486961
Good sense of scenery. A few grammatical errors. Nothing really happening, if at most it's somewhat relateable. Not bad though.

>>9487097
Using moving twice in quick succession when referring to your legs and mind came off a little strange. I feel as though this became stronger as it grew. Like you stopped trying and let the scene flow. It ended well, and overall wasn't bad.

>>9487179
Eh, this is fairly amateur. It's an interesting idea, but the imagery is all very abstract and makes it contrive and more difficult to follow. Which isn't exactly always a better thing, nor is it a bad thing. Not really my thing though, I believe poetry should be concrete and vivid, depending on its type of course.
_____________________________

I've got a start to a short story I've been putting off for far too long that I'd like someone to give an honest look. It's a little character development and world building story I've had in mind where the MC is meant to represent a modern YA (mid twenties) struggling with past/future in the identity of a distressed woman named Vanessa on a walk through her town. It's not complete, I have one more section, the finale left to complete. And this is the first draft of this story. It's mostly edited, but not perfect, and still needs to simmer so I can go back and read it on an empty stomach. I'm looking for any and all advice. As it stands, I believe it's around 5k words. Thanks in advanced. Will critique more as long as I have internet.

https://pastebin.com/FDFHKmmX

>>9487335
I'm: >>9487179

First, thank you for your feedback, I know it can be hard to take the time to read someone elses work and put your thoughts into a message for their benefit. I can understand why you hold the perspective you do on poetry in general but I have to disagree.

Personally, I think the strength of poetry is that it can champion abstraction. Its relatively short form means it will arrive and depart quickly but if it is novel and sufficiently flexible, it can thrive in those that witness it. Abstraction merely allows the piece to adapt to it's host in a wider range of ways, thus making it a more efficient infection vector for the feeling of the artist or for evolving meaning itself, if that's your kick.

Brick cracks and holes in these walls;
Brittle and naked is the stone
Sledge my skin and drill my face.
They no longer climb me.
There will be no more steps.
I’ve become a pile to the gorged ground
Something slithers by.
Round my red edges;
Chalk my plastered concrete heart
You will no longer need to build me for these streets
I quit long ago before your drills
I crumbled my bricks to die with you.

Head east, and clouds surround the peaks
In soft gray mist, laden and low.
They seem to always die in creeks
Before they breach the rainshadow

Which rules beyond, where sky can speak
the stupid blue of only sky,
and summer, lounging, kicks up its feet
with fading pinks in mid-July.

>>9487624
It bothers me that I forgot to capitalize all the line starts:

Head east, and clouds surround the peaks
In soft gray mist, laden and low.
They seem to always die in creeks
Before they breach the rainshadow

Which rules beyond, where sky can speak
The stupid blue of only sky,
And summer, lounging, kicks up its feet
With fading pinks in mid-July.

>>9487179
the tone is at least authoritative enough to prevent this from being a total disaster. but there's really no meaningful form at all to make anyone want to read this closely. abstract poetry works well if you can convince the reader that the depths are worth plumbing by providing an enticing surface.

read hart crane's poem "legend" and look at how in the second section the progression of images, though not ordained by a logical relationship, is ordained by a procession of both phonic and connotative relations:

I am not ready for repentance;
Nor to match regrets. For the moth
Bends no more than the still
Imploring flame. And tremorous
In the white falling flakes
Kisses are,—
The only worth all granting.

the phonic structure moves through ready, repentance, regrets and then gives way to moth, more, implore, tremorous, and then to falling, flakes, and finally brakes apart in the trochaic (and thus sudden) "kisses are". this is enticing.

the connotative structure proceeds from "match" to the flame, to the moths, which turn into the white falling flakes, and whose wings beat somewhat like light kisses. the substrata of connotations is what makes the poem so entrancing despite its enormous difficulty.

you need to be good at this stuff before the abstraction becomes anything but something disguising an inability to represent reality

>>9487654
>brakes
breaks lol

>>9487654
Well, thank you very much for the feedback. I can see the logic in what you are saying. Honestly, I wonder if the piece might sit better with you if it were more compact. It is one of my longer affairs and I think that was it's biggest detractor for me before I posted it. I will look into imploring more through lines with the word choice.

Here's something else from me If you feel like giving some another critique.

The feather blades bend in mirth
their war with wind abating
the spirit collects in cratered earth

You catch me in the truce
the truth is before us
and after this dance

Hair caught in query
weaving tight
the search for simple
for a moment

ridges can't hide
the peace we've horded
now flowing free
in beads

The rioters lift us
a message of love
Our prayers dash away
rambunctious
waiting to reciprocate

>>9487683
*Employing
not Imploring, haha.

>>9487485
you rely too much on these little details you assume we have any reason to pay attention to, also you get kind of heavy handed with the personal pronouns near the end, take a step back, see how the text looks on its own

>>9487310
this is simply not good

>>9487119
better, but now you're getting minimalistic almost for the meme appeal, don't be afraid to bleed at least a little

>>9487689
here's me being a gooooooooof:
—there is no damned middle ground…everything is either given to me or I have to build it…what is this intermediate step…

>>9487696
(con't)

no middle ground, no middle brow for that matter, it either comes from your ass or your throat, And we have at least one rib to stop us from complete copulation…ay there’s the rib…

>>9482221
Wtf? It starts with two people at a fucking bad date saying "fuck"? DELETE THIS RIGHT NOW!!

>>9487683
this has basically the same problems as the other one. there are a few more sound associations but they don't feel like a progression through sounds but instead just like associations for the sake of associations.

and in terms of symbolic associations it feels just as empty, stanza to stanza just feels like non sequitur after non sequitur. here's the hart crane poem in full for a counterexample:

As silent as a mirror is believed
Realities plunge in silence by ...

I am not ready for repentance;
Nor to match regrets. For the moth
Bends no more than the still
Imploring flame. And tremorous
In the white falling flakes
Kisses are,—
The only worth all granting.

It is to be learned—
This cleaving and this burning,
But only by the one who
Spends out himself again.

Twice and twice
(Again the smoking souvenir,
Bleeding eidolon!) and yet again.
Until the bright logic is won
Unwhispering as a mirror
Is believed.

Then, drop by caustic drop, a perfect cry
Shall string some constant harmony,—
Relentless caper for all those who step
The legend of their youth into the noon.

>>9487784
logically speaking the statements will appear, at least on first reading, as non sequiturs in relation to each other. but in terms of deep rooted symbolic associations they are related. the poem opens with a mirror, and then over and over again things are doubled (twice and twice, this cleaving and this burning, the repetitions of "again", drop by caustic drop). this merges the stanzas together into a more coherent whole. and more coherence can be discovered on close reading (repeated images of struggle and pain and burning), as well as a (somewhat tenuous) logical one.

>>9487787
also, the most obviously amateur part of your poetry is a poor syntax and line relationship. you don't punctuate your poetry, so there are no enjambments which provide surprising, sudden twists (like the "kisses are" in crane). to make matters work, you don't really use the line break for emphasis effectively. if you want to learn more about this the chapter in pinksy's "the sounds of poetry" called "syntax and line" would be very useful. he goes over some amateur mistakes poets make in dividing free verse lines. the whole book would be useful to you and is only about 120 pages iirc

>>9487784
>>9487787
>>9487789

It could be that due to the hour and my state of sleep deprivation but I am having trouble seeing the problem with my line breaks. I find they serve my purposes just fine. I primarily use them to set a staccatto pace.

The poetry you have linked is great, I'll agree but It's also not really something I'd want to emulate closely. It's pretty but I don't feel like it's impactful enough, ironically. I've always prefered each of my lines to be able to stand independent as well as with the others and I feel that is a strong element in my writing. As i have said, you make some decent points and I will definitely take them into consideration.

>>9487803
there wouldn't necessarily be a problem with the line breaks if there was more punctuation to allow enjambment distinct phrases and pauses within the line. it may be staccato, but it's also monotonous.

and you don't have to focus on crane. look at tenenbrae by geoffrey hill, some wallace stevens, and basically anything by ashbery, or richard kenney, even (who i don't really like).

>>9487814
So, this supposed monotony is ostensibly the result of the piece not being "firm" enough? Meaning, because it has little to no punctuation It can't grab or maintain attention? To me, the associations themselves and the potential word and speech play across lines has always been good enough for me in that regard. I mean...maybe I've settled? I do feel like alot of my recent efforts have felt too similar. Maybe i'm just too reliant on habits i've built?

>>9487825
It's hard for me to refrain from posting other pieces that I think might break the pattern you've seen but I honestly don't want to impose on you or the thread and in honesty they probably are more similar than not.

>>9487825
i don't know if i've really been too clear. but punctuation is essentially a way to delineate syntax. by avoiding it you are not delineating syntax, and thus all your lines just read straight through. midline punctuation and enjambment (which is encouraged with punctuation at the end of lines) allows lines to be broken up into the smaller units which gives them a more interesting rhythm. i've been listing abstract poems so far but if you look at classical examples of metered verse you can see this more clearly. take:

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife:
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm’d both hands before the fire of Life;
It sinks; and I am ready to depart.

Every line but the third has some pauses, sub clauses, or something of interest to break up the line. so instead of just four lines of straight iambic pentameter you have running underneath those four lines some smaller grammatical units that break up the monotony of the pentameter, giving it a more sophisticated and clever flow. the same principle applies to free verse. by avoiding punctuation you are basically rewarding creating lines that just run straight through instead of lines that twist and bend in interesting ways.

free verse poets who don't punctuate usually get a similar effect by using line breaks, a la william carlos williams (who i don't love but i recognize as the master of that effect). you don't really use either punctuation or expressive line breaks, your line breaks typically fall in predictable places where the poem is grammatically divided anyway

>>9487836
But god my grammar in these posts has gone away. I've even been repeating my phrases in the same sentence which is a personal cardinal sin. I guess I should sleep, haha.

Thank you critique anon. I'm a tad salty right now but I think I can come back to these notes and these references. Maybe I can make something better than I ever have.

>>9486649
Not the same guy, but some of your sentences just need editing. Like, for example:

>First time was with a drunken swordsman making an ass of himself slashing up the storefronts sign and around chasing townsfolk only to immediately flying to the outskirts of the wood by a strong gust

That's a long run-on sentence lacking a few words here and there. And I'm not sure how the 'strong gust' comes into play, here. There are numerous ways I could cut this and tape it up.
one way:
>The first time was with a drunken swordsman that was making an ass of himself, slashing up the storefront's sign and chasing around townsfolk. Then, immediately flying to the outskirts of the wood like a strong wind. [or "like a strong gust. " Either way, this is what you meant, right? ]

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>>9481819

You could polish up the grammar a little bit, and actually make the narrator's friend do or say something. Seems like a really short passage but I like it otherwise. Go on, imo...

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>>9487270
If you here require a practical rule of me, I will present you with this: ‘Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it—whole-heartedly—and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.

-t Arthur Quiller-Couch

Not Faulkner ...or anyone else

Or as Stephen King puts it: Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.

>>9486768

I..like goblins dude what can I say

>>9488351
Okay but what is a darling

>>9488714

A darling is the only interesting and unique part of your work. Get rid of it so you don't stand out too much and provoke the jealousy of lesser writers.

>>9488716
I don't get the purpose of killing them, when is the time to be great rather than good?

>>9487683
Here, you've been posting your poetry, ill post two of mine and ask of your advice. One is from when I first started writing poetry about a year ago and if full of conciet, and one I wrote about two months ago has much less so, yet still some. This other anon has offered you a great deal of advice; clearly he believes you can do better. I do too, not that I'm saying my poetry is better. But my more recent one, I believe it has slightly better form than yours. I'd be interested in hearing what sort of advice you might give me. Even in inconfidence. Sometimes giving advice helps more than taking it.

Here's the older one:
>Harvest Moon

Peach and pumpkin skies settle
into boysenberry eve
laid top an earthen mantle-
rising ravenous moon's gleam
consuming such sweetly glow-
who's homely stove fades below.

Childish flames lick breathlessly
the empyreal delights,
clacking whispered recipes
about its kindler's guise-
unassertive, aimless descants
filling the encrusted lowlands.

Perched, eyeing the savory stars,
just before a peripheral frame,
a faux dome of delight chars.
Copper-wire, concrete blades
conduct bites cut from the peace-
ful treats appetizing dreams and sleep.


Here's the newer one:
>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 ashes fall to glowing screen.

This is the incipit of a think i'm working on, it is a translation so forgive me for eventual syntax and grammar mistakes. i just want to know if it sounds good to you

"Anna wakes up at eight o'clock and, while she sits on the side of the bed, she feels a strong sense of nausea that leads her to counterbalance and close her eyes for a few seconds, during which purple and yellow spots are branched into her retina and the sincopated blood pressure in her temples becomes clear and perceptible. Only when the head stops hurting she'll be able to get up and go to the kitchen, where as every morning a strong smell of coffee and her mother's back wrapped in a pink Ikea apron will be waiting for her. As every morning her mother will turn and say goodmorning by lengthening one of the "o"s (good mooooorning), she will pour coffee and ask her if she has slept well. Anna will answer no but not to worry, because she will rest in the afternoon and she will feel better. There will be a silence that the both of them live without embarrassment since a long time - is the time Anna holds back her tears and her mother the words, the references, the questions."

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>>9481819

Tell me more

cc

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>>9488714
A darling is ‘a piece of exceptionally fine writing’ (he’s being sarcastic)—so basically, whenever ye think yr being clever (ie when you can’t let go of something) it’s a darling. It may not seem horribly cliché to ye, but yr colleagues will bring it to your attention, like forgetting yr deodorant.

What happens is they sound great and deep and resonant to yrself but like nails on a chalkboard to everyone else. Ye wanna minimize eye rolls. Think Rolls Royce not a custom IROC-Z.

The harder it is to part w/it, the more of a darling it is. I usually make a sep draft w/o it and keep the original. It makes parting easier.

>>9488714
If the words themselves aren’t what’s cheesy, it’ll be the rhetorical structure that’s the cliché—and it will be invisible to yrself—this is why we get feedback.

>>9488714

‘tourists I suppose’ ← How on earth would ye be uncertain about this, this sort of rumination comes off as fake, a waste of the readers time.

‘the past twenty-eight years’ x3 =/= interesting repetition. There is no reason for it.

‘and everyday it's just as beautiful’ ← Of fucking course it is.

>>9489242
>>9489266
>>9489272
Well damn, I have a lot to work on. I definitely want to make the suicide fit somehow, but I see what you mean now and I'll be changing my writing altogether. Thanks

>>9488894
Well, thank you for the considerate words. With so much to wonder about my own writing, I'm not sure of the validity in my critiques at the moment but I will try. Please take these words with due caution.

The first piece opens richly and the slant rhyme gently urges the attention. Of course, the direction of the sound is great too but I think the end of the first stanza stands to be hardened a bit. It all flows so freely but it doesn't have a hard articulation. Maybe a slight detour with an added line. Something small and pointed but thematically relevant?

Similarly the last lines of the other two stanzas might be a tad long? Its probably just a bias on my part but i've always thought a stanzas ending should be contradictory to its greater portion or at least an aside of some sort. To me, this adds intrigue and contrast to the piece, a constant curiousness.


I really like the second piece. The ending of your second stanza is a good example of the concept with the above comment. It pulls the reader in a different but very much integral direction. It is as if you are harnessing the energy of the stanza to rocket off towards a new and ultimate purpose.


I think that's about all i can see for now. in general it all might be alittle too slurred? As in, there isn't quite enough articulation or contrast. I've always favored the punch a bit more than the salve but I have much to improve with my own style so I can't, in good faith, preach to you of those merits, haha.

If i had to say one real criticism I suppose it would be that your greatest strength might be your weakness. I think you need to break your flow sometimes and utilize contradictory imagery and structure. That's just my gut instinct though.

Thank you for sharing.

>>9481516
I like it, downloaded to read later

>>9487864
>>9486627
Thanks guys for the tips.

I really appreciate it a whole bunch.

Here comes the avocadolooking man
with his cunt face bringing bottles of beer
in the middle of the street
son of avocadolooking man
he thinks he's more, he think he's more
because he shits and barks and scrapes and eats
inside his shitloft full of cans and pipes
and he likes to write, the cunt!
he wants to be ALLEN GINSBERG - what a shitface!
and f5 f5 f5 until down and he can't even manage to
<anonimouse son, yor brodderfound a JOB
what are you duin'>
he starts to turn green
like a kekkin frog green
and ignores the desperate sunlight
the sad greenlite in his <I>s
like a frog green <I>s
<I>s, <I>s
staring at the whiteboard
(<whiteboi how can ya even compeeete>
SHUTUPNIGGER
SHUTUP)
Brekkek Kekkek Kekkek Kekkek!!
(he wants to be joyss the cunt)

And he drinks the beer he write his mosterpiece
"Why did u leave me Claire? pt. 1
chapter 1
1.1.1.1.
How I felt that night!"
and this is his life: can you image it?
considerate se questo è un uomo!
He sleeps thinking about Claire
he's a small boy
he build a small world

>>9489486
Thanks for your words. Did you notice my true point though? Notice how you said you enjoyed my second one over my first one. That was the key there, it's more structured form made it more enjoyable over the first one's freer form and steady stream of contradictory imagery. All the first scene was is a scene of a man next to a small fire in the plains of America with a sunset behind him and a city in the darkness. But weaving his thoughts into the image created this overarching god-like scene to form and take sides over the environment in the scene, and more important, distract the hell out of the reader from what was there by the disharmony.
But the constantly changing stream of concrete imagery and thought of the second piece given that steady rhythm by it's form made it easier to follow and therefor see in your mind what it was saying for yourself instead of me implying what you're supposed to see by using conceit.

If you still disagree that is fine. As I said, I appreciate the criticism. I was hoping to give you an example of what I was saying earlier.

>>9489601
Autism/10

>>9489272

I disagree ann, about the 'tourists' thing. At first, I felt like you, how would he not know?

But then I started thinking about how i spilled my tv dinner on the dirty carpet last night, screamed , and put it back in the plastic tray and ate it while watching king of queens, and now it makes sense.

This isn't shitposting. It's just not gonna translate over a fucking message board right now.

>>9487700

Lrn2rdplz

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Percy James Clayton had been “filling in” as the front desk attendant at PowerHouse Recording Studios for going on a year now. PJ had no experience in customer service; half of his life had been spent trying to be an Artist, and the other half been spent frantically attempting to salvage his life from the damage that the former half had dealt. The “front desk” distinction of his job title was entirely useless, however, because no one ever attended the back desk. This was not, however, because the back entrance was unused. The back entrance was used quite often, much more than the front, in fact, and yet Overhead held never felt the need to employ or assign a back desk attendant. This was perhaps because the entering Clients and Artists in the back did not require, or desire, a representative of the studio. The staff and staff assistants of PowerHouse understood that the back entrance was for late night Studio A clientele (celebrities with money), their entourage (thieves and dealers and lovers and managers and friends and strippers) and late night Studio B clientele (celebrities whose labels had grown frustrated, and who were consequently paying for sessions out of their own, surprisingly budgeted pockets).
This evening was an anomaly, however; this evening P.J had been instructed by his uncle to man the back desk.
The Artist who had booked the session (by phone call, not fifteen minutes before) was known for impulsive appearances and erratic work schedules, often pulling up in a charter bus at all hours of the night when the employees were just making it across the McDonald’s parking lot to their cars, or, even worse, when the studio was already fully booked into the morning. This often led to belligerent confrontations that would range from dramatic shouting matches of intimidation to casual manslaughter. Despite this reputation, however, PJ felt like something was off when The Artist had called.
“PowerHouse”
“You got a studio?”
“We do, may I ask who’s callin’?”
For a minute, the only sounds coming through the phone are indicative of heavy breathing through a deviated septum. This was enough to answer PJ’s question, but The Artist provided his stage name anyways.
“Yeah we got you, A is open all night.”
“How much is that one again?”
PJ provided him the official figure. No overhead present, no deals.
“Shit. Alright.”
“When can we expect you?
“I’ll be around after while, PJ”
Click.

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>>9489992


Percy cursed, eyeing the clock in misery. Nightshift at his uncle’s studio was very hit or miss; it was terribly exciting or life-crushingly bland. Either he would spend twelve hours staring at closed doors and expansive ceilings, leaning against the wall to absorb the ticklish vibrations of acoustic assault coming from deep within the building, or, on a good night, he would be suddenly accepted into the lounges and welcome to partake in all manner of lighthearted fraternity and depraved abominations within the silent walls, guardians of the great and the talented and the evil and the manipulative, fortified to cover the shame of raw brilliance, vulnerable only to the lowest of frequencies that would escape their clutches and vibrate against PJ’s skull, giving him a pleasurable, funny sensation, like he’s talking through a desk fan to hear his voice in comedic oscillation, except the oscillating fan is really the resonating wall and the speech is the inner monologue on loop within his now resonant head.
For exactly two and a half hours, PJ rested against the queer massage of the vibrating rear wall and angrily kept time since The Artist had called.
At 5:12 AM and roughly thirty seconds (his scrupulous timekeeping was suffering, despite several large doses of ingested stimulants) PJ’s salvation came in the form of headlights flooding the lofty and very narrow windows, poor substitutes for cut glass but conduits of sweet deliverance nonetheless: The engineer could close, if needed, or the morning crew would take over. PJ could go home, and he didn’t even have to clean up.

Лeвијaтaн

I.
Hoћy би мope пocтaјaлo ливaдa бeз ијeднe тpaвкe –
To би били пaшњaци пpeкpивeни нeвинoшћy.
Cyдap тaлaca, пocлaних oд пepaјa, cтвapao јe дјeвичaнcкe opхидeјe.
Лeш, дeoкcигeнoвaн, и визaнтcкo нeбo; Mјeceц и мope.

Лeвијaтaн јe изpoниo и зapoниo ocтaвшивши pyјнy мpљy,
Bизaнтcкo нeбo и цapcкo мope; opхидeјe, yкpaдeнe oд вјeтpoвa.

and a translation

Leviathan

I.
At night the sea became a field without leaves of grass --
Those would be pastures covered in innocence.
A crash of waves, sent by fins, created tender orchids.
A corpse, deoxygenated, and Byzantine skies; Moon and sea.

The Leviathan emerged and submerged leaving a rouge stain.
A Byzantine sky and imperial sea; orchids, stolen by winds.


It's still incomplete.

>>9490008
The translation works really well. I can't read freaky-deaky-dutch, but The meter is beautiful at first, and thenat "de-oxygenated" it loses it's rhythm, and by the time that sum bitch is emerging it's all chaos.

very impressive, anon

>>9490008
Cool

>>9489601
Shitposting poetry is still shitposting

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>>9490030
>>9490052
thank you so very much anons!

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Ok litbros here's one in good ol' Deutsch:

Schmerz so dumpf das die Seele langsam bricht
Und im Kopf so schwarz das bloß Leere einsam spricht

Und wenn dann die Oase der Zerstreuung schleichend versiegt
Und selbst das Gewissen der Frommen sich unaufhörlich biegt
Die Entfremdung bei Weitem überwiegt
Und sogar der Stoische der Oberflächlichkeit erliegt

Dann fühle dich gebraucht
Wundersame Menschlichkeit

And here we have the translation by S.S. Google, because I myself am too fucking lazy:

Pain so dull that the soul slowly breaks
And in the head as black as the emptiness speaks alone

And then, when the oasis of dissipation dries creepily
And even the conscience of the pious is continually bending
The alienation by far predominated
And even the Stoics of superficiality succumb

Then feel yourself needed
Marvelous Humanity
(sounds much better in Muttersprache though)

>>9490170
I like it.
I don't like the overuse of connectors. Try to use as little as possible connectors when starting a new verse.
I also don't like the AAAA rhyme scheme, but here it works, because you're building tension up.

If you have rhymes in first two stanzas, have rhymes in the third stanza, too.
(this is a bad example probably)

Dann fuehle dich mir zu kommen bereit,
Wundersame Menschlichkeit.

>>9490170
Bin nicht sicher, ob es mir so gefällt. Der zweite Vers klingt großspurig, dabei aber wiederholt er sich durch das Reimschema AAAA, verliert dadurch den Effekt, wenn du mich fragst

>>9490203
Nice proposal, thanks a lot

>>9490170
I like it too, manly bc of the language. Listen to these guys.
Ok and now lets take over this board:

Die Spielkartenfabrik

an einem Hang
auf einem Berg
steht ein alter Moloch
die Schlote karg, die Hallen hoch
die Tore stählern, ein grauser Sarg
braune Galle speit ein Abflussloch
im Bauche der Fabrik gibt es keinen Tag
innen treibt ein Herz
aus Kolben und aus Zahn
eine Hölle aus Ofen, Feuer, Wahn
innen gibt es einen Menschensohn
sein Fleisch ist wund, sein Geist ist roh
er riecht das Öl, hört der Maschinen Geschrei
zieht an Hebel um zu pressen
wilden Baum in klinisch Produkt
und das Band es unablässig spuckt
Karten

>>9490296
i'm in

Vor dem Aufbruch vieler Wagen,
Kunde reisender Betrüger,
vom Leben nicht gehört an vielen lauten Tagen,
schaue ich entrückt hinüber

erst dorthin, wo Platanen mir die Zeit verstellen,
weiter wandern meine Blicke, müde Mittelwellen

hinter Parks und Straßen, bei langsamem Ertauben
bis sie endlich, aufs bloße Schauen nur versessen
wie noch tränenvolle, schon wieder frohe Kinderaugen
das vom Blick Gesuchte ganz vergessen

to lie with you on rainy days
your head resting on my shoulder
convinces me in many ways
of things inside me that are older

>>9490296
Feels a bit aimless, but I'm conservative when it comes to poetry

>Innen gibt es einen Menschensohn
sein Fleisch ist wund, sein Geist ist roh
er riecht das Öl, hört der Maschinen Geschrei

What semblance of rhythm there was seems to get lost here

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>>9490338
ew

>>9490316
nice

i wrote this yesterday poem

i wrote this yesterday poem
its ribs drip cement for
magnolia parkway.
fascination penumbras
double-u cranberry
up with sympathy
conspiracies. my
dingo dimensions
really vault at the sight
of translucent you.
poltergeist turbulence
in chiaroscuro emblems,
lordy on fire:
he’s really coming down
with corn-cob wands
and angel ninny bonnets.
feed the balcony
some screaming ink
and rest your arms
in comic brilliance—
dwarf digestion of
cookies and milk.

>>9490419
thanks

>>9490403
why?

>>9490419
I could post more if you want (viele habe ich nicht, vor allem nicht viele gute, aber mindestens noch eins)

>>9490654
It's full of cliches and trite images.
You don't need to say anything original, but try to say in a original way.

Will post my critiques in another post.

“That guy is shoplifting!”
Marcus Gilligan stumbled through the produce aisle, holding his moist pockets up with his hands. His furtive creep quickly became a cumbersome jog when two (black) security guards began pursuing him. Realizing that he could not escape with his hands stuck to his pants, Marcus released his pockets and flew into a wheezing sprint.
“Wait, look at this fuckin’ guy! He’s tryna steal spaghetti!” With every foot-to-floor connection, spaghetti fell to the tiled walkway, flinging droplets of tomato sauce onto the shelves of potted meat and apple juice. Seeing that the slippery mess he left behind did not impede his pursuers, Marcus dove through a stack of water bottles in a final gambit, and crashed to the floor.
“Shiieeet mayne look at dis fuckin’ mess you made! You really gone through all dis trouble fo’ some fuckin’ noodles?”
“Don’t touch me, you uncultured troglodytes!” The two security guards grabbed Marcus by the underarms and pulled him up from the spaghetti soup. They began walking towards the security office as the multifarious Walmart shoppers all looked on with a collective expression of shock.
“We gon’ have a lonnggg talk ‘bout all dis shit.”
“Ineluctable modality of the visible!” Marcus shouted, truncating the last syllable of the guard’s sentence.
“The fuck you talkin’ ‘bout white boy?”
“I attend Duke. There, we discuss topics and study texts that a boor like you would never understand. Joyce, Pynchon, Gaddis—the greatest and most sublime prose artists of the English language. During the day, I peruse the ethics of Aristotle, the epistemology of Hume, the political philosophy of Marx; and at night, I go home to my PC and I discuss Derrida the greatest minds of the internet. Of course, neither of you know anything about culture; even the painfully middlebrow Redditors would shun you for your ignorance!” Marcus swung his head upward, raising his nose at his captors.
“Well I attend Negro Academy, where I learn the art of gettin’ muh dick wet with white pussy.” The guards erupted into a peal of laughter.

some work in progress:

I
Gelid graffiti on my window and street;
no eraser needed.
Glass mirrors caked on a street
Cracks and blue piles
Sky and ground is now one color.

II
Cold bows on boughs of these oaks;
wandering eyes lost.
Stomping on a blank sheet of paper
Holes to green sculptures
Snowman’s smile sinking in privy sun


>>9489992
I hope this is just filler and not an opening.

>>9490457
Sounds nice, but doesn't make much sense.

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>>9489296
>>9482996
https://pastebin.com/xk292ARK

since 4c won't let me fucking post it

>>9490771
Booooooo

>>9490777
best use of heavenly trips

>>9490790
thanks for your great insight
>>9486768
>longest word: responsibility
how did you manage that

>>9490777
Holy shit thanks Anon. I've just been tossing pretty colors on the canvas, but I'll definitely be putting hard effort and focus into everything I write from now on.

>>9487335
Still holding out for some input on this.

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>>9490881
When we can only picture ye scribbling away w/pic related, ending each sentence w/a hand flourish—there's a problem...

>>9490888
Still waiting 4u2 stop tripfagging

>>9490929
Why can't you just let me thank you?

>>9490935

This

>>9490799

It's all from the POV of a goblin he doesn't use a lot of lofty words.

>>9490935
>>9491006
So, I can give good advice, but because I have a trip so I can label my writing, you won't crit me? Right. Sorry I'm such an asshole.

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>>9491013
It's bad advice, you post like a fag, & your shit's all retarded.

And you tripfag for no good reason.

>>9491009
Stop w/the goblins already.

>>9491087
Of course it is buddy.

>>9481412
Just a short little sketch with no overarching context.

From the gravel and the mortar there was born life untamed. Revelers, arm in arm, forded the pavement and swathes of litter, cheering each other on in drunken chants. They came and went in broken daisy chains of three and four, sometimes even five, of all men or all women, guided by the cardinal rule. Always they glided past before the moment of contact, just as they looked closest to meeting at a junction. Once, he noticed, a pair at the outskirts touched each other, the girl's alabaster arm brushing the boy's silken sleeve, and their gazes diverged and met behind their comrades as if to share a secret unbeknownst to either party. But they soldiered on, as they must, the boy in the embrace of men, the girl in the clasp of women, lost in the fog of dimmed streetlights and crooked laughs. It was twelve in the morning. The bus would be there soon.

>>9491159
Yeah, we know.

>>9490771

Not an opening, no.

>>9491199
Brilliant. Stunning. Finally someone who Gets It, who slipped out of the handcuffs of society, of monotony, a real genius—no, capital n geNius.

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>>9481438
Reading this was like having anomie felched out of my fart funnel. I can finally feel the wind whistle while I waltz about my prison shell, and the fart exchange, the wild whistling, sounds alarmingly like what I just read—truly striking.

>>9481627
Makes my teeth feel like they're falling out. But honestly, there is a sliver of diamon—wait no, it's a sliver of rhinestone in your post. The Rhinestone Complainer! kvetchkvetchkvetch

>>9481819
This is like divining intelligence out of a dying dog's piss stains. You've been alive for 10+ years & this is the fruit that ye pick from yr tree?

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>>9482423
Off yellow.

>>9482579
i liked

>>9491351
I wanted some real critique anon.

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>>9491410
While being grammatically correct, yr entirely cliched. Nothing we haven't seen b4. A waste of any1's time. No rays of light being split through whirring rhetorical architecture, no psychic backdoors being stomped down, no ravishing loose women's minds... The quality is so low, why bother with the surface structure?

>>9491393
I'm sorry what?

>>9491444
Someone forgot what roses really smell like.

Look where you're at. If you're not going to put in effort for the little guys, don't put in any.

>>9487624
still looking for comments on this. I realize it's pretty short and unambitious so maybe there isn't too much to say, but basically i just want to know if it works

i critiqued some other anons in separate posts and i'll respond in equal detail to someone's poem if they have any thoughts

>>9491502
Any advice though? I know that the premise is a little sparse, but what about the prose and style?

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>>9487304
my boss printed the poem on metal with images for me

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>>9492050
ah it was sideways.

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>>9492053

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>>9492055

>>9486613
Who cares? None of us are getting published anyway. You might as well influence others, that's really the best we can hope for in this day and age.

Oh, this day I see someone
They soar through the air
No visible care
To guide them

In a moment of light
I reach out
To feel the freedom
In that face

A rush!

But only wind glides between my fingers

>>9491738
>gravel and the mortar
This is great, it really gives me a feel for your setting.

>swathes
This not only works in context but is a fun word to say!

>alabaster
I'm always looking for a place to use this word! So cool you found one!

>crooked laughs
Perfect.

Overall very well done. You were able to get cool words in and the affect is really cool.

>>9492776
I love how this guy crits one thread and thinks he's hot shit when I'm more often than not keeping these threads alive for the people who are trying here. Not to mention I'm usually giving better advice too.

>>9491738
Your prose is heavy handed when it doesn't need to be and lacking when it could have more detail. I'm certain of the people, but I'm not certain of much else.
Don't worry about sounding elegant, worry about using the absolute right words at the right time to drive the idea.
It's difficult when you post such a short excerpt. If I were to read an entire piece as this, I'd find myself gaining a lot of details but not much progress. Practice moving along the idea as you progress through the scene. Not just: Introduction to scene--details about the scene--progress the idea. You should introduce a scene and allow the details to push the story forward to come to some sort of conclusion.
Prose and style come down to author. Everyone has their own flair, but they utilize it properly. Don't worry about your style and prose, and worry about writing a cohesive story and idea. Then check your grammar and other technicals in edit.

>>9487624
If you just want to know if it works, yeah it's fine. Nothing I'll remember in 24 hours, but you painted a picture and it was structured well enough. If a new line doesn't start a new sentence or thought, don't worry if it's capitalized or not. Using punctuation and syllabic structure, poetry gives itself form, not just from line breaks. If you read it straightforward, following the punc and voice, you'll realize Caps don't make it cohesive. It will also help you notice hiccups in your rhythm such as 'kicks up its feet'. Also, I believe you should have a period at the end of the second line in the second stanza and start a new thought in the third. Otherwise it's a run on. Also what are you referring to when beginning with 'which' in the second stanza? The clouds? The mountains? It's not entirely clear.

>>9492376

Only Connect

>>9491013

You're not forgiven. Kys.

>>9494376
thanks for your comments. will comment on "the forge" later

>>9492409
Just the right touch. The poem makes me feel like I am soaring with you and I can imagine the face. I felt the rush!

>>9495035
Thanks Skyler, you're the best. I wish you'd critique more than most of the other pseuds on this board.

>>9495044
Yeah well, I'm the only one who puts any effort in. I'm glad you're woke af.

>>9483283
>>9486746
tfw nobody will critique my posts.

>>9495055
Clearly!

Here, have some soup! It's the least I can do.

>>9495056
Maybe if I get time I will later. After a quick skim, it looks really unique.

>>9495060
Oh, if only I was as perfect as you, I wouldn't have forgotten the image! Time to punish myself until I've earned forgiveness.

>>9495065
Oh jeez. Cheer up, were all friends here :3 Except the pseuds. Their frustrating.

>>9483283
Why do I believe that --(of no relation)-- is not part of the story?

>>9495072
A lot of people give insight in different ways.

>>9495072
And still, others don't have to wait until after school to troll or post. Its like, where does the pseud start and where does it end?

>>9495081
--maybe-- your a non contributing loser?

>>9495078

cus it's not. As a narrator I just type and go and don't even hesitate even if what im typing is mega-gay or cringe, if it's funny to me im typing it.

>>9495090
You're*

>>9495112
Well it's just difficult to give you a respectable critique if you have lines that aren't associated with anything going on. You're detracting my thoughts from your story to Huxley by saying its not related to him. You also have issues with tense and cohesiveness. It's all fairly sloppy and needs a lot of work, and you could use a lot more practice. Just keep studying other works and comparing yours to them to see what you're lacking. More often than not, it's an issue with writing about something you know nothing about (which may include the act of writing itself), or else trying to hard. Read Strunk and White, and study why the authors you enjoy are enjoyable and strive to learn enough to emulate.

>>9495149
This was really insightful. Thank you.

>>9495149
Its not about Huxley. Theres only one thing in there that doesn't have to do with the story. The Huxley reference is relevant in some ways anyways.

Let me just say what the story is so far. It's about a man who is figuratively dead (exausted, hopeless) from his wage lifestyle. He drifts into a lucid dream completely seamlessly and isn't yet aware of his dream state until he is approached by a mysterious figure. This figure controls his dream and can change form at will, I haven't decided what this ambiguous figure is, it could be a demon or a powerful metaphysical being or anything. It will probably stay mysterious. Anyways this being does a lot of things that are bad as well as helpful.

Idk you are right but its also hard to judge about what is relevant to the story until i have written the whole thing. I think a big problem is I write in short bursts and dont stretch ideas over several paragraphs or pages so things get really disjointed and eclectic.

I sukk lad.

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>>9495215
>>9482246

Preposition Ratio: 10.26 %

Zombie Nouns:
'extraction'
'location'
'succession'
'explosion'
'retaliation'
'vision'

Verb Leeches:
'finally'
'weakly'
'wildly'
'only'
'suddenly'
'barely'
'nearly'
'simply'
'slowly'
'badly'
'painfully'

Lexical Diversity: 24.15 %

Content Carrying Words: 61.42 %

Personal Vocab Diversity: 36.14 %

Longest Words: accentuating, illuminating

>>9495383
You really should you ideas cohesively mapped out before you begin something you want to finish. At least enough for a complete skeleton, key word here complete. While the whole work doesn't have to be perfect in your mind, you should have to enough to be able to stretch your story over the frame. You should have an idea of the ambiguous figure-- who or what it is, why they are doing what they're doing, what it represents and why it's represented that way. Obviously not every details needs meaning, but if the figure is central to the story, it should have a representative meaning (if not at least be apart of one). Staying mysterious isn't always better. Do you truly think you're the first person to attribute the sometimes zombie-like state of a wage life to being a some kind of dream world? So you need to have interesting ideas within that; it can't be your interesting idea because it's not either. So then you should focus on a good story around this idea since it is not original. Something cohesive and relateable in some way, even if just by its humanity. But writing around an air of profundity that isn't quite there is only going to get you ridiculed. Especially here.

Keep writing and keep practicing and most importantly keep reading. Compare yourself to writers who have a grip and try and see what you're missing. Or if you're better another way, take a class or watch lessons on how to improve your writing. A lot of what makes something great is it's time and place. Writing or portraying the right thing at the right time, regardless of the medium. That is what you should strive to seek when you write. Writing structure just comes with quick study and lots of practice.

Also, if you feel as though you can only write it in small bursts, do you not think that you believe you are not capable of achieving what you want? Trust your gut. Hold the idea, put it off, and try other less important to you ideas. Put your practice in them so you can grow better into your more ambitious ideas.

>>9495448
Forgot my trip, can't do that with all the haters.

But I also wanted to add that it is also likely you've just idealized writing in your head and you'll realize you don't want to write once you see the work put into it.

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>>9482605
Preposition Ratio: 11.54 %

Zombie Nouns:
motion, position, pristinity[←srsly?], activity

Verb Leeches:
originally, Only, quickly, awkwardly, only, barely

Lexical Diversity: 39.57 %

Content Carrying Words: 59.41 %

Personal Vocab Diversity: 57.75 %

Longest Words: accompanying, acknowledged, expectations

>>9495448
>>9495461
I was going to say, this cringey drivel had to be the same kid.

But I'm glad you were able to actually read it. So thank you for looking at me.

>>9481412
Either I'm a blunt, obtuse dickbag or that's some real displeasure with city life. Might be both + reading too much into it.

>>9481438
I stopped after you ended with evening and immediately started the next sentence with the same word. Do that in scene transitions or chapter crossovers, or even changes in characters or perspective. Otherwise that shit is jarring.

>>9481499
I don't know shit about shit, but that reads like a generic manga intro for an unglamorous MC.
I do like the idea, though I may just be too partial toward Grimgar.

>>9481627
If you're not a comedian already, I have faith you can make it, anon. Probably do a whole lot better than Adam Sandler, but your kindness will hamper you if you're >>9481688

>>9481819
If you're going for avant-garde, send out the manuscript as soon as you're done, it's interesting. Otherwise, editor. Even Upwork or Fiverr would help.

>>9482221
Revise while listening to music with a good sense of apparent rhythm, and while you needn't chop out all manner of sophistication, write/rewrite a lot more to find your style. Feels kind of like your influences outbalance your own method.


>All right, /lit/, I'm a dick, here's my shit:

“In distant lands with ever-present clouds lay an egg supported by a tree. Heard, or perhaps felt, for many miles were struggles of the protectorate being in the confines of its shell. Its endeavors toward freedom like a newborn’s tender heartbeat. Should any creature survive the mists and terrors wont to meander the egg’s aura, that creature could regard the translucent nature of the membranous shell. If said creature were to then gaze long enough -- with clarity and focus of mind -- a rare and ancient abscission may rend the world external, veiling the moment of connection between creature and eggnomaly. An icy, cool darkness would baptize them in a calming privacy. The fatal mistake of all such creatures, however, is staring too long at the abyss – for even the Lord Death could not stave folly.”

I'm also a faggot and calling it "Birth of the Altkneht"; tentative subtitle "Purveyor of the Abyss."

Tear that shit up.

>>9495513
about to make a new thread, post yours there and I'll get to it later tonight as it caught my eye.

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>>9495469

Who the fuck are you, stop pretending to be me. He's responding to me! Help! Someone is being an imposter!

>inb4 it's actually the tripfag trying to garner fake heat to justify his defensive egodriven posts

>>9495522
Thank you, Anon.

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>>9495461

>it is also likely you've just idealized writing in your head and you'll realize you don't want to write once you see the work put into it.


oh yeah btw I don't think I have ever idealized writing, I am a musician, but it would be nice to try my hand at getting better at telling stories in a more cohesive way. I think I am going to writing because initially I had an interest in film until I realized being a filmmaker costs a fuckshitton of money.

>>9495557
You could always learn to write short stories and shit, then use success there to propel yourself into directing or producing music videos.

Just a matter of directing your focus.

>>9495527

get in here boys

>>9495522
thx skyler, where would we be without you

>>9495579
viewing accidentaly dirty photos

>>9495600
Why are there 2 critique threads when this one hasn't hit bump limit?

>>9495540
No it wasn't me, there are a lot a fakers here. Also he was making fun of both of us.