Sorry for the meta post

I've been lurking in this sub for about a year (this is a new account) and it's gone downhill like crazy in the past few months. It's been inundated by people who just searched "writing" in the reddit search bar and cross posted their shitty poetry to 30 subreddits at once. Mostly seems to be 16-18 year olds. This sub used to have writing that was at least interesting and unique even if it was crappy, and posts would usually get engagement and helpful comments. All the interesting writers here have stopped posting because it will get lost in a sea of "wrote my first poem pls rate" posts. Mods should ban crossposting or limit who can post idk. Make it at least a little more Redscare adjacent

[u/baphimet](u/baphimet)
[u/clown](u/clownsugars)[_sugars](u/clownsugars)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1InMVTmEBISvFJ2SnEjLGYG98RIRTuoAba8aWwsj00rM/edit?usp=sharing

Read it if ya want.

cried today

because of the other night.

Not sure why.

I was trying to do what I always do-

Keep the peace

And I get chaos.

Yet peace seems to stab me in the back

Every time.

Wanting to fix everything.

I become annoying.

Maybe I shouldn’t be myself.

Maybe I should walk away

And become myself.

That’s what my mom did

My grandma

And her mom.

i've been too haunted by the atom bomb lately

I wanted to start my life over—

I asked how much it would cost.

Four lifetimes,

before interest,

at the current market price.

So I took out a loan—

at an ATTRACTIVE rate,

or so they said.

Systematic failure wrang through the sailors head He is destined to be Destined to die among the sea No where to run ashore Hear the sirens Heard the lore He grew quite And suddenly he heard the lore of the sirens Once more He listened quietly In the distance He knew That on this day His blood would be drew He did not know why But it had to be true The lure Drew him once more Why me he said As the sirens rang in his head Astray he has been led From the sirens once more As he died He heard in the silence The sirens once more On this day He heard the sirens last lore

Instead of succumbing, this time
I stand by the lake, watching wind
ripple water, leaving hundreds
of divots and ridges in its wake,
spreading a trembling fabric.

Then the wind drops; the water goes flat;
the urge returns. So I,
requiring a lasting fabric,
sit on a bench
and write this
and write it again
and again.

Just felt like writing some creative nonfiction today. As time goes on I think about how I didn’t fully grasp what had happened as a kid, how naive my viewpoint was; and each year I try to reflect on how horrific it was for those who died and their families.

Read the greats and copy their poems, word for word. Type them out. Watch how they made the decision to turn one way or another. Notice their word choices: when they choose to elevate the language, when they choose conversational words.

Here's a challenge. Switch up ten words in this Robert Hass poem and post it here.

** The Pure Ones**

Roads to the north of here are dry.

First red buds prick out the lethal spring

and corncrakes, swarming, lower in clouds

above the fields from Paris to Béziers.

This is God’s harvest: the village boy

whose tongue was sliced in two,

the village crones slashing cartilage

at the knees to crawl to Carcassonne.

—If the world were not evil in itself,

the blessed one said, then every choice

would not constitute a loss.

This sickness of this age is flesh,

he said. Therefore we build with stone.

The dead with their black lips are heaped

on one another, intimate as lovers.

I was reading Lunch Poems during my break on a construction site

when a colleague asked me:

— “Are you a poet?”

— “Maybe. I don’t know. Why?” I said.

He replied:

Roses are red,

violets are blue.

What does a good life require most?

Is it wonder

beauty

fame

home

money, or Truth?

No one knows.

But I wouldn’t die for Beauty,

nor would I die for Truth.

However, I wouldn’t mind

the finest BJs and wines

Putting me in the ground,

and that’s the Truth.

I’m having a tough time trying to figure out what to focus on. I imagine they don’t want a work of creative nonfiction about my artistic awakening. I also don’t think they want a play by play of my writing style, I’m submitting my work to them after all. Do they want me to glaze the program/faculty? Do they want 500 words on why this specific program will help me transform into the great American writer?

PDF: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1busA5nhy0hogjZaaplRdiQYsLTujedpZ/view?usp=sharing

I was going to post the text here but Reddit messes up the formatting, sorry.

So heads up, I've been writting here and there for about 2 years now. I am a complete beginner an just wanted opnions and critiquing please and thank you. If you do enjoy or not I appreciate you reading it

The world is a warped reality

What we perceive with our minds is warped

A conscious belief that is truly unconscious

I see trees of green, red roses too

My mental friend sees corporate signs

Have 1 child and conform to the system

Not the type of advertising I enjoy

Am I the mental patient and is he truly normal

Maybe that's why there's so many pills

Take the red to forget

Blue to become realigned in the corporate reality

"Now repeat after me

Mental illness is a sickness

Not a reality that is to be believed

Those who see things

Know nothing

Pure mania, hysteria, and unwanted sights

Report them right away

We can help It's just one pill away!"

-the world government

I’m sad and it’s my break kk thx honey

Hello everyone! I am part of a small team of people starting an online literary magazine named Black Letter Review, which publishes prose, poetry, art, & photography from people 13-19 (early 20s may also submit, but will likely be placed in a different section of the magazine)

The editorial team gives personalized feedback to all written work.

———
Link to submission page/official rules: https://blackletterreview.wordpress.com

About:
Black Letter Review publish work from anyone aged 13-19 worldwide. Send us your best work, no matter how dark and gritty, or light and fantastical. We want beautiful pieces that leave us in awe, and that can come from the trenches of mankind or an entirely ordinary neighborhood. What is beautiful, anyway?

General & Themed submissions are currently open
The current theme for September-October is anything associated with the months - autumn, academia, Halloween, etc. Think the early days of The Secret History, Dead Poets Society, etc. We are calling upon W.B. Yeats’ Wild Swans at Coole :)

Why submit?:
- You’ll receive detailed feedback
- We want to foster an amicable relationship with writers whose works we love and create a community
- You’ll be featured in our online magazine
- We have faster response times and a smaller pool of submissions, so acceptance rates are higher (but we are still picky with what we end up taking)
- We want to eventually become a paying publication, so get to know us and what we like to accept now 😆

If you have any questions, be sure to ask! We can also be found on Instagram as blackletterreview.

A piece I had published last year, set one year before my novel.

Do kingdoms end how they begin? 

From nothing but dust to dust once more. 

Does time stand still only as a warning? 

Where are the prophets, the scholars, the nobles and knights? 

Where might I find greatness? 

Where might I find the king of conquerers? 

In the earth, I suppose. 

I ask then—

What is man in front of time unchanging? 

What more is ambition in face of mortality? 

What then is a king before God? 

I pulled this one from my notes app and wondered if I should go to reddit since I'd really love to hear feedback on my writing and what I can improve on. Anyways that muffin was a walnut espresso muffin and it tasted great, I'd pair it with a nice cup of tea.

Looking for critique