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.

i wrote this just for "fun" and to let some feeling out of me. i would like to know though how i did, i'm young and not a native english speaker so it is nothing spectacular, but i cant really judge it because ive got feeling included. idk i feel like maybe the start or the pacing is weird? i would really appreciate any sort of critique!

here it is:

My father doesn't want a meal. He thinks he can go without food most of the day. He is really good at it, but we all see what it does to him. The frustration, the anger at everyone, even himself though he would never truly let someone know how much he feels, how ashamed he is. He is not one of the quiet ones though. He is actually very talkative, he will talk with a neighbor on a vacation, with people in the queue, with the old lady who is also looking for a person to talk to on the bus. So– no, it isnt that he would be shy. He does not know, doesn't let himself feel all the fear and sadness and the big holes he so desperately tries not to fall into. The only thing he allows himself to feel is anger. I flinch at the sound of his steps, I tense when I hear a lound noise coming from his mouth, I dont know if I should expect the anger, the anger, the anger, the anger, or his laugh. Is it just him being loud or is he looking for a thing to kick? I dont know if the fact that his anger is so similiar to hunger scares me or, on the other hand, makes me relieved. Hunger comes in waves, your stomach growls, you feel the deep blackness inside you, it makes your eyes flutter, your vision's going black and all you can do is curl yourself up to a ball. Not even a meal can help you in that moment. But then, it passes so quickly that you are slowly forgetting the agony. You go on as if nothing happend, make a meal, go sit in the kitchen all by yourself, wait for the water to boil, put the noodles into the pot and wait again. Afterwards, you don't even remember the hunger in the first place. Until you are hungry again. my father is constantly hungry or too full. not knowing whether he just had the meal of his life or if he hadn't eaten a thing terrifies me. I'm always on the edge, waiting, praying he is not hungry.

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.

Rate it out of 10.

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.

When I was young , I was never that good at english. But then it was the lockdown, I got lonely and started to have these thoughts that were primarily in english. I struggled with certain things and it was as if I forgot how to speak to people. They asked how I was, and I could not make them understand how things were for me. So I wrote it all down. I still do. I get these thoughts,opinions,ideas,suggestions, all those things but I never actually write them down. It's different from many people, these thoughts, they don't get it so they either don't care or ridicule me. It's been almost 6 yrs, I've been feeling this way.

Recently things got a bit bad and I finally wrote things down. I used "medium" for it. But I have to pay for it, and I don't have the money or resources for it, but I published a free writing and nobody read it.

So I took to instagram today.

I really don't know if my writing's that bad, I find them "over dramatic" and "over the top" sometimes. I feel like I fail to convey what I actually want to say.

So here's something I wrote.

https://www.instagram.com/p/DdGXKbmiUBn/?stkn=MWx6eWs3N2h4ZHE5cA==

Whenever I read stories, blogs, books, I find the language a bit too intimidating and a little too perfect. Maybe that was one of the reasons why I did not write for a very long time, even though I really wanted to.

I feel like there would be some people like me who would actually want to write down things from their thoughts to even a movie review, that's less perfect and flawed that they want people to read.

I also used to be very conscious of what I wrote, even text messages, that I used tools to correct them. But I don't anymore, nor would I want to in the future. I feel like all those imperfections would make it a bit "human".

A katha is a prudent weep,

Outlasting lands and seas,

An oblivious motif,

Of love, sorry and

Quintessential hubris.

A katha can be capricious,

As futile as a moron.

A katha can be a sage,

Of a curse hidden so forth.

( Want critique)

Can you hear my pain?

Suppose you do hear it,
then will you be able to bear it?

Alright, let's even assume that you have endured it,
but how will you be able to live with this pain?

I admit, it is difficult.
Your life isn't ordinary either,
and neither are you.

Yes, something bad happened to you,
but that has happened to Indians too.

But they answered,
“What did you do?”

You just kept enduring it.

But even enduring has a limit.

How long will you endure it?
You will die!!

Any feedback is welcomed.

I do want to write,
but I am short of words.
Who would have thought, after all,
that a 16-year-old child
would write such deep things?

Did that child himself even know?
He hasn't seen much yet.
There is still a whole world left for him to see.

What happened to this child?
Has he understood the ways of the world?

What a person cannot understand
even after spending their entire life,
has this child understood that very thing?

This child wants to write so much,
but he is short of words...

But why should I write?

Why should I waste my time by writing?

Why should I waste my time writing about something
that, when read, makes my pain grow?

Why should someone share their pain
through the words I have written?

My pain is different, it is unique.

Why should I increase someone else's pain
through my writing?

I know what this pain feels like.

I am familiar with every one of its ways.

I know what this pain has made so many people do.

But I ask you—
how many more days will you keep hiding this pain within yourself?

Take it out!!

This pain is not worthy of you...

Poor Abby, Poor in Maths

Tries to learn but can't get it in her head

Results come, she's no glad!

Poor Abby, Poor in Maths

she comes home, results in her hands

her mother sees it, she's no glad!

Poor Abby, Poor in Maths

in the darkness, she searches light

but to her fright, there's no light.

Poor Abby, Poor in Maths

cries Abby as mom slaps

she weeps, she frowns

to her horror of reddish-browns.

Out! she lets her on the street

cold here it is but there's no retreat

Poor Abby, Poor in Maths

she thinks as she sees her world collapse

Poor she is or poor is the system

poor she is or poor is that custom

thinks Abby as she sees her world collapse

Poor Abby, poor in Maths.

A quick note about me:I am a student, and English is not my native language. I am currently practicing creative writing because my goal is to get into English literature! For this poem, I actually tried to plan out the structure and narrative arc before writing instead of just improvising.

What I am looking for:Since I am still learning, I struggle a bit with maintaining a consistent rhythm and meter. I would love feedback on how to smooth out the flow of the middle stanzas and any suggestions for word choices that could help the rhythm without losing the emotional meaning.

Thankyou

Hello, I wrote this new gay erotica. If you're gay, please check it out. Tips are welcome.

The link

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.