I want to hear the most brutally honest reviews you can come up with. I don't trust people when they read my stuff face-to-face; they're too morally obligated not to 'hurt my feelings'. I want to hear the truth.
Life, or the Lack Thereof:
Grief is a selfish emotion. We, the living, are sad not for the departed, but for ourselves. We mourn for our own loss, for our own feeling that we have been wronged and that something has been forever taken from us. Grief is not a feeling of pity for the dead, but a feeling of pity for ourselves. The dead, they need no pity. Forever calm, forever idle, perpetually still, the dead are even enviable. It is us, the living, who must remain alive, who must wake up again each morning to carry on the burden of simply living. Grief, perhaps, is a form of jealousy. In the presence of death we realize how arduous life itself has become, and are envious that it could not have been us to have been fated to die. After all, life is no way to treat a person.
Untitled, as of yet:
Something has it in for me, so It’s time for this.
I’m tired of living this self imposed façade, thinking that the one good thing haplessly intertwined in the spider web shaped concoction of bad should be enough to keep me interested.
I used to think I liked things shaken, not stirred. Bitter at best, but everyone else seemed to enjoy it. Only now do I realize that the problem never was that I was preparing my drinks wrong, but that you kept appearing in a swirling dance every time I moved my cup, settling back to the bottom with a comfortable grace so sweet it would rot your teeth.
That cute little mint leaf floating in the glass turned out to be hemlock.
It’s time for something radical. I’ve got a list longer than Mark Antony and I’m going to be half as lenient.
‘With a mark, I condemn thee.’
And thee, and thee. This is my kind of purge. Symbolic at it’s most powerful, yes.
But at 3:30 in the morning, it makes me feel better.
I want something right fucking now. I want to hear something so awful, the thought itself makes me gag.
I want to see something so beautiful that I can for once sincerely mean the term ‘words can’t describe it.’
I need for something out there to remind me that there’s a way to find good in life besides the less conventional means of attaining it, which I’ve grown so accustomed to. Because this was never going to last long. I’m sticking to water from now on, please and thank you.
Skeletons:
Never content to stay part of my past, you drag into view just as I tuck the last of the skeletons you dug up with your last departure back into the closet. You enter boldly, floating with a dancers grace in your step, waltzing and spinning like you’ve finally returned home to what’s yours. How many homes do you have these days, anyway? The same habitual look appears in your eyes, expecting nothing less than a warm welcome and a heart wrenchingly fast paced return to ‘the way things were’. With my hands behind my back and a marble-chiseled smile, the past snaps at my heels with every step. The essence of everything you were to me is breathing down my neck, threatening to surround me and suffocate me into the same agreeable and gullible coma I’ve fallen victim to, time and time again. You’re angling, testing the waters. With a cool and apathetic glance you gauge my emotions, because despite my attempts not to wear my heart on my sleeve you read me like a paperback, without a second glance. That crooked smile is a vice, those brown eyes a trap. I can see who you are, so why can’t I stay afloat in the sea of memories you’re drowning me in? What makes me think that the sincerity will be any different for round two? Or round three? What brings me back to you after you inject these unintelligible glimmers of false hope into my veins with your sideways glances and covert gestures of empathy, and then beat them down into nothing but mockery? That careless laugh resonates in the very bones that hold my body together, and it’ll be my undoing yet. It is derision in its purest form. It is a calculated display of the joy you gain from proving to yourself once more that I will bow to your weakest queue, and I am powerless to stop myself. You play God of my universe, toying with all that is mine.
There needs to be a balance between negativity and making a point. I'm not trying to judge the subject matter itself, just how it is percieved.
I'll let you figure out the when and where's, but you've got a good foundation.
Don't spend too much time thinking up fancy words or "unique" sentance structures. At times, it felt forced. But like I said, you've got a good foundation.
If you feel stuck trying to write a sentance you don't know how to word, just type it out in the most basic form possible, and come back to it if needed later.
the content of "Life, or the Lack Thereof" is actually pretty cliche after you read a lot of literature.. but it is written okay nonetheless. Just need some more interesting and original points. I would work on your flow and running things together.. and like I mentioned original ideas. It looks like you've used the synonym feature on microsoft word too much. It's almost clear that your vocabulary isn't that of which you are using because some words you've used you wouldn't flow with the previous unless you were just changing them to make them more "fancy"
I didn't use the thesaurus feature, hahha. But I can see how it would seem forced. I tend to use words with a little stronger meanings than the subject matter elicits. Thanks for the feedback!
Hey, here's a new one. If you're feeling like killing a few minutes, let me know what you think.
Words of a Feather.
Maybe I’m better off sitting home alone. Maybe I’m better off biting my tongue and shoving my hands deep in my pockets when the urge to delineate my woes shivers its way up my spine, shaking the rust from the back of my teeth and loosening the hinges on my jaw. The world outside my mind is far too dangerous for my fragile thoughts, for my feeble words. But every now and then those words get the better of me. They’ll convince me that their songs are worth hearing, that they can make it, and then jump off my teeth like a diving board, spreading their wings and gliding out into the world of the unknown, the world of wars waged to divide and the battles fought to conquer. And I’ll watch as they hang suspended in the air, small and beautiful against the ominous background, innocent if only for a fleeting moment, before the shots ring out from all directions as everyone around me opens fire upon my winged thoughts, firing guns, arrows, cannons, whatever they have: delivering the message loud and clear that the airspace between us is better left unclouded by my superfluous banter. And I’ll watch as they drop from the sky, my unsuspecting words, one by one. Wings broken, eyes shut, they crash to the ground, silenced. I want to gather them one by one, my feathered thoughts, gently in my hands; I would take them somewhere safe and give them a proper burial, for they were once so near and dear to me. But I’m afraid of what lies in the battlefield. I’m afraid of the landmines and the barbed wire and the trenches. So I bow my head, refasten the locks on my sore, stiffened jaw, and turn my back on the carnage, on the dirt and grass and the haze and smoke. I turn from my defeated birds, form the bodies of my barely spoken words, and I leave them.
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