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I love the rhythm in this rap. I was able to say it aloud with any trouble. Very smooth and I enjoy the 'Psycho' theme.

At 1/27/14 05:45 PM, Maltos wrote: Still here?
too late for dreams
too fake for screams
this poem is a failure
and yet
so familiar

I applaud you for incorporating 2-stanza rhymes. This is very pleasant when read aloud.

At 1/27/14 05:11 PM, Iusethetoilet wrote: i love the way you play with words and describe the different details in the start of the poem. It is really well thought out all of it. god you're quite the writer! :)

Aww, you're starting to make me feel all fuzzy inside.

Numb,
Cold to the core.
Never really feeling
Or wanting.

Too stiff to ever bound across a meadow,
Too dead to ever want to.
Only ever wallowing in the cruel reality,
As if frozen in time
Without a hope.

The harsh wind slaps you across the face.
Glassy eyes cry without even feeling sad,
The cold nips the nose red.
It hurts too much
To look up
And try to find the sun
That left so long ago.

Suddenly,
The ice encrusting the world in a cold prison melts,
And your cheeks flush and warmth floods you.
A blanket acts as a shield.
The coldness has left.
It's strange to remember now
How it felt to feel.

Enveloped in warmth,
The world comes alive.
The color, once drained from the flowers,
Paints the landscape
Hues of crimson and violet.

Everything has a heartbeat,
Everything has a pulse.
Warmth radiates from a world
Once so dark and desolate.
No one knew
That underneath the coldness
Was life
Still worth living.

So look up,
Because
The sun is smiling down upon you.

~As a sliver of hope for the people who are going through the whole "Portal Vortex"/"Chiberia" predicament~

With a slam, I swiftly threw myself into the closet and shut the wooden door behind me. The only noise to be heard in the dark, musty atmosphere was the sound of my labored breathing. I was immersed in a sea of old coats; the stiff smell enveloped me. The beads of sweat upon my brow chilled me. My heart started beating a steady pace again, and I sank down to the comfort of the plush carpet. In this place, I let myself be comforted and soothed. My memories clouded my vision, and I became happy again.
I relived it: I was crouching in the closet, trying to disappear into the walls. Pressing myself up against the hanging coats, I held my breath. My heart rate quickened as I heard the floor-boards creek on the other side of the door. Everything was silent.
Suddenly, the door flew open to reveal my sister. "I found you!" she shouted, a triumphant smile on her round, freckled face. "Now, we just have to find Dad."
Fading back into reality, I knew that we could never find him again. No matter how hard we searched this closet or anywhere else, we could never give him our triumphant smiles. So, I knew that all I could do was try to submerge myself into this old closet. I would try to take in the smell of these old coats and shirts, the sights of this old corny striped and patterned ties. I would feel the leather against my skin, as if Dad was here hugging me. I would stuff my hands in the pockets to see if he had some candy as a surprise for me. I would try to imagine it all over again.
I woke with a jolt; I had fallen asleep on the floor of the closet again. My eyes searched around in the darkness for a bit, but then I realized that all I was looking for was right here in this closet. I laid back down and shut my eyes.

At 1/26/14 10:05 AM, greatwh1teshark wrote: acting like a helpless lamb to my own slaughter.

I like the "Lamb To The Slaughter" reference here. It's out-of-place though.

At 1/26/14 07:02 PM, SolidPantsSnake wrote: You didn't do much to create a setting or environment though. There was no sense of time passing as the day went on. Suddenly we are in an alley. It destroys the immersion to have a weak setting.

Thank you for that. Setting isn't one of my strongest areas alas, I will focus on improving it through future posts.

At 1/26/14 06:49 PM, Iusethetoilet wrote: and you have done it once again, damn you're good! :D i have absolutely no critique. it is truly astonishing work right there, i am really amazed by your talent at writing! :) it is very enjoyable reading your stuff :)

Aww... These are very kind words, even for me. I'm glad I have someone who enjoys reading my work. I don't have many who do where I live.

It's said that the eyes are the window to the soul. In that case, then I can easily confirm what I already knew - my family has no soul.
I threw my hands out, trying to catch myself from falling, but the hard pavement scratches my skin raw anyway. I hit the ground with full force. I release a throaty groan, and feebly try to lift my body up with all the dignity I can muster. My eyes peer behind me to meet that ice-cold glare of my mother. Her eyes are deep, bottomless pits that probably go down to the lowest level of hell. Never breaking eye contact, I wipe the blood on the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, stand up, despite my muscles screaming in protest, and run through the yard, away from "home."
My "home" is as good as dead to me. Beaten, bruised, and scarred, I've had enough, I've reached my breaking point. This time, I am never coming back. I might starve, but at least I'll never have to stare into the cold emptiness of my mother's eyes again.
I faced the brutality of the streets before, but this time, I had nowhere to hide. Though I almost broke my resolve, I had to remember that nothing and nobody was waiting for me at "home." At least, nothing but hate.
It's especially cold tonight. I spent all day trying to get food, water, money, shelter, a job, and basically anything that might keep me alive one more night, but to no avail. I'm rested up against a rough brick building in an alley, shivering. I can't keep my hands still enough to zip up my coat farther. I'm almost worried that the noise of my chattering teeth will draw unwanted attention. My gaze shifts out of focus, and I blink through heavy lids that become plastered to my face if I keep them closed for too long. I was already dead before I left, but soon my body will be too. A faint smile comes across my blue lips, and I gently close my eyes, with no intention of ever opening them again.

Suddenly, a faint whimper echoes through the night. Abruptly, my eyes whip right open and I'm on my feet. Somehow, my frozen joints carry me through the alley until I reach a knocked over trash can, the source of the noise. I peer inside to find a small puppy, matted and helpless, squirming and crying. It gazes up at me, and I am instantaneously flooded with warmth. Its round, chocolate brown eyes are filled with an innocence and purity that melts my stone-cold heart. I feel drawn into the animal. I want to care for it, to help it. I can save it. "Hey, little guy," I murmur gently as I cradle it in my arms. "You just needed someone to save you, too."

At 1/26/14 03:29 PM, fearthepiff wrote: Really great; a cool, deep and emotional read. I really like the narrative and the way everything is described is nice and simple so it lets people enjoy it instead of think about every detail, so when it gets to the moral at the end, we're left thinking about that. I don't know if that's what you were going for exactly, that's just what I imagined, I'm kind of a bad reviewer that way.

Either way, it's fantastic.

Thank you very much! I used to be more verbose back then but I've gotten criticized for it thus I've decided to tone it down a bit for a much easier read.

The faded black and white photograph sits idly on the vanity. My exact likeness stares out at me from within the flowered frame. We stare at each other, admiring the intricate feature we share. She seems to understand how lucky I was to inherit such beauty from her, the ideal embodiment of femininity. A sort of arrogance glints in her eyes; her plump lips seem to smirk. Her creamy, alabaster skin glows with confident. She is aloof, to say the least. I know everything about this woman, my grandmother, as well as myself, by this photograph. I am the spitting image of her. I know that I am much more than my sorry excuse of a mother. I know that there is more to me than her. Because of my grandmother, I know that I come from more than a disrespected, cheap drunk. This photograph of my grandmother shows me everything that I could ever be.
One day, I know I will leave this place I am forced to call home. I will abandon the lower-class without a second-glance the first chance I get. My deep resentment for where I come from is only soothed by the notion of all I could live up to one day. Even in this hopeless, miserable place, I will never let go of this slight trace of hope, mostly because it's the last thing I have to hold on to. Whenever the house is invaded by rats, or sewage fills the street, I remember how my grandmother wasn't suited for this life either.
I was spending my morning sitting at my vanity, brushing my hair, as usual. I heard a hoarse shout from down-stairs. I typically ignore her, so I just continued to brush my hair, my eyes fixed on my reflection. Without a warning, a ragged figure appeared in the doorway, clutching a bottle. "What is it, Mom?" I ask irritably, upset to be ripped from my euphoria.
"I can't pay the bills this time. We might be evicted." She started to sob. I feel my resentment boil inside of me. Even by working four jobs between the two of us, we couldn't keep up with our debts. If she cared about it, then she wouldn't be wasting all of our earnings on alcohol. My knuckles turned white as I clenched my fists. My head starts to pound.
Suddenly, Mom's head perks up. "You still have that old picture I gave you? It's just some actress from the 50's."
My heart sinks to the floor. With horror, I watch my reflection contort itself. My smouldering eyes, my flawless skin, and all my features twist. Suddenly, I am staring at my mother in the mirror.

At 1/26/14 12:54 AM, AntmanVernon305 wrote: How to start a story

FUCK Opinions

start it how you like

Exactly. Just look at James Joyce.

At 1/25/14 07:27 PM, Iusethetoilet wrote: I have nothing bad to say about it, it is truly really good, though i have one single question: how long did you work on this?

I wrote this for the prompt: "The worst is yet to come. Like what?"

This was also written for a writing tournament at my school

It took at least an hour for me to fully structure the sentences the way I wanted them to be.

I will be writing more often in the forums, though.

My painted blue eyes, lined with rows of synthetic eyelashes, knowingly stare out at the crowd. My full, pink lips are frozen into a sickening smile that reveals my pearly white teeth. My plastic body is arranged into an appealing and inviting pose, which is flattered by my tiny, floral, custom-made dress. Every strand of my blonde hair is neatly and perfectly styled. In whole, I am the ideal image of a doll, an idealistic human. I used to take pride in my enticing and flawless appearance and demeanor, but I know better now, that there are thousands of exact replicas of me. Here, sitting on this shelf, we are all competing for the attention we crave.
It's nearly impossible to stand out among an army entirely compiled of copies of yourself. Side by side, we all try our best to smile a little wider, to glow a little brighter. Children with wide eyes and gapped-toothed smiles will gape while we each try to yell, "Pick me!" as if they could hear us.
I used to be so depressed that I just wanted to cease existing, but now I know that it's still possible to be adored, cherished, loved. Now, my ambition is to be bought, and forever prized, to have my charms and beauty preserved forever.
I smile wider as a child beams up at me, her eyes set on me and only me. I grow excited; this could be it! The day I finally get out of here!
I am envisioning my happy future while the child is suddenly pulled away, and my heart sinks. "You're lucky, you know," says a voice beside me. I strain to hear through the cardboard box. "Sure, the kid will be gentle with you for awhile, brush your hair and tell you you're beautiful, but soon, it turns into a complete nightmare. They'll pull your hair, leave you out on the floor over night for the dog to chew, never fully dress you. They'll swing you around upside-down and bang you like you're a piece of dirt, like you can't feel it. Then, when they've had their fun, they'll dump you and leave you in the attic to rot and grow dust, your beauty wasted."
"How do you know this?" I stammer, shaken by what the doll is saying. I try to hide the panic in my voice.
"The worst is yet to come," she warns. She remains silent after that, and I am too terrified to say anything else.
Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to know that you have absolutely no control over your own life? I have no where to turn, and am comforted by nothing. The doll's words never leave me. They ceaselessly repeat, like a chant. There's no way to escape the inevitable prison that I was destined to always be locked away in. If a doll could cry, then I would.

At 1/18/14 02:55 PM, MrFalcon wrote:

The mutation isn't fully complete until you reach around ten years old. People of the world, humanity has evolved into super beings.”

I am forced to lurk around this ripe story of yours since it piques my interest very much!

Balancing on the edge of both could-be bi's
and teetering off the autism spectrum;
the mind is a silent factory and
mine in a perpetual neuron boom,
ideas growing out like roots
drinking in the hyper,
images entering as ships
in the docks of Eye,
every sense hitting this empire
like a five-fingered chord,
life making me waltz
through every shadow and tint:
life is a reverse cosine to a flipped coin,
balanced.

I will french kiss history,
make love to the zeitgeist
until it pushes into the next one
and inject hope into my synapses,
smoke dreamland,
take poetry as LSD,
I will believe because empirical evidence
is a dictatorship,
faith a republic,
republic of the heart,

I will love dust
because altruism is my wife,
I will laugh because
what a sweet currency it is,
I will find the saxophone in every city
because God is poetry.

Bellowing out like smoke from a fire,
Like a flag unfolding, is this.
A knowledge, a sign of recognition,
Truth follows quickly in its wake.

Minutes stack themselves to the ceiling,
They turn into many hours, long and full.
And yet no movement comes from me,
Only the blinking of the eyes.

Thoughts dance vividly across the mind,
They sway and take new forms and shapes.
After a moment they turn into stars and blaze,
Burn they do, a blinding light to behold.

Fight or Flight, those are the options,
Stand firm or run free.
Can distraction be eluded?
Only if the sky can blot out the soul.

It stood there in the meadow,
Glaring at the grass and overturned rock.
Its life was not known to many,
but it continued to prance happily down the beaten path.
Many times were its brothers and sisters slain,
Yet it only knew peace and forgiveness.

It liked to nibble on the heads of the daffodil,
and take sips from the gentle brook.
Though its life would never be more than a dream
Its presence would be everlasting.
Like the ancestors before it,
the small creature danced to the edge of the world,
and jumped into the sky to be with the stars;
Making sure to leave a small trinket behind.

Frozen claws of ice,
Daggers made of glass

Cold and biting wind,
Blowing flakes around

Chilling, freezing snow,
Seeping through my skin

Digging into my muscles,
Into my tendons, in my bones

Bare and barren trees,
Silhouettes of dark tendrils

Branches reach to scrape,
Holding me back

The frozen tundra,
Untouched, fields of white

Death hides in shrouds of beauty
Danger, in the glistenin' snow

The gorgeous, spacious cold
Lures you in

And draws you to your doom.

A fetid corpse remains still,
Stagnant waters engulf it's surroundings.
The lifeless trees billow,
In a calm uniform motion caused by the wind.
Grass grows tall, but weary,
As clouds seemingly freeze in time.
The sky is grey, dull, and picturesque,
As the air flows menacingly through the fields.
Whispers of forgotten smiles are heard,
As the screams of worried souls echo throughout the plain.
A single rose blooms quietly in the middle of it all.
Near the corpse, where life seems unheard of.
It's color, a sharp, piercing red.
Brighter than that of the blood which once flowed through the nearby veins.
It's smell is sweet, and fresh,
Unlike that of decay which roams about.
In the middle of the horror,
The rose embodies a symbol of hope.
When all seems lost,
Hope always remains.
For a while that is,
For beautiful roses wilt,
And even the most noble hearted lose the will to live.

Also: please, please, please keep up this attitude. That is exactly how you will improve. Some people take a critique as a personal insult, which it simply is not. Seriously, you have the right mentality. Kudos to you.

Heh, thanks for the input. I guess I am pretty criminal for being fluffy.

Once again, a critique would be much appreciated.

He led on his bed, eyes shut, the dim light creeping through his eyelids. The purple walls were soft with peace as he listened to Jeff Buckley's Grace.
The nearby lampshade lit the one white wall which reflected around the room like a spectrum cast over the soft purple walls, darkened by shadows.
He thought of how his death would affect the world if he were to choke on chewing gum right then. If he'd been found listening to a tragic masterpiece with dead ears. But then he worried, he was no one. None of this would affect the world around him, so he stopped the thought as soon as he could and returned his attention to the melodic guitar riff of Last Goodbye.
At that his lungs tightened and his stomach contracted as he sprang forth, clenching at his chest in hope for the pain to cease. With a cough the pain began to fade. Legs hanging over the bedside he found himself bent double clutching the space below his rib cage, applying some pressure as to squeeze the pain out.
As his plan slowly worked his golden hair swayed before his eyes. Despite the dim light of the room, his retinas burned like staring at the sun. He lost focus on the floor below him, closed his eyes and slowly led himself back to the mattress.

What was that pain? Was it to return? He didn't know and didn't foresee an answer. As long as it had gone he was fine for now. Softly back into Lilac Wine.
The smell of warm winter spices filled his nose as his entire body relaxed, like ice melting, filling all the sides of a cup perfectly. The chewing gum he didn't choke on picked up some of the warm spice's smells and began to taste warm too. He stopped chewing and just let cold air wash in through his nose and run warm out of his mouth.
At the base of every strand of every hair on his head, he gained the sensation as if all his hair was flowing free, forming the plumes it does under water.
The sound caressing his mind and his body, Hallelujah sighed in.
Again the searing pain entered his chest, but now he knew not to spasm and convulse. He pressed both palms down on himself and sheepishly the pain left him once more.

The warm spice smell faded. The smell of fresh books replaced it. The fresh leaves fanning their unique smell. His eyes grew heavy as he found great comfort in the transition of smells. The song crept through him as though it never wanted to disturb him. Slowly opening eyes, he saw not a burning sun, but warm darkness, like a bayou's fog. His eyes still stung but his muscles wouldn't allow him to break his relaxed comfort.
Smiling, he let his eyes shut once more. The smells grew thicker and thicker as he took his breaths. Warm and smooth, they tickled his lungs, most unlike the sharp pains before. As his muscles relaxed more so did his thoughts. He was no longer thinking of thinking and instead natural thought played on. Grains of sand, shades of purple, golden locks of hair and dancing lights. The lights danced on and pulsed between brightness and darkness rhythmically matching each sigh of breath, slowly favoring the dim light instead. Leaving true focus completely the dancing lights danced their last to the call in Lover, You Should've Come Over. And then he slipped away into his bed, soft as fresh grass.

The smoke was unseen, the smoke had gripped his lungs like an oily vice-grip. He never knew such comfort as he did in his last minutes. Drowned in ash he serenely, warmly sank away.
The heat soon bore too much as it ripped through the purple walls and smoldered the one white wall. The once purple room was vacant and now a terrible orange, yellow and white, wisps of black licking the air. Reaching their long tongues down breath-ways and drowning lungs and shutting down the thoughts of its victims.

P.S.
I forgot to point this out in my previous post, but there was good in that story. Your grammar is solid (no errors jumped out at me) and only a few of your sentences are excessive in length, so you have that going for you.

Thank you very much for the kind words. I'm going to write an actual story now...

At 12/3/13 07:11 PM, Diki wrote: Unless you're writing a poem, which this doesn't appear to be, you shouldn't be putting every sentence in its own paragraph. Doing so can be a useful way to create a sense of frantic tension, but if it's done for the entirety of the story it completely eliminates any and all tension.

It seems like you were trying to write some deep or thought provoking story, but you ended up just writing a bunch of words about nothing. Nothing happens. A story needs understandable characters, with whom the reader can relate, that get thrust into conflict. If you don't have conflict then you don't have a story.

How often do you read? If you don't read then you need to start. You cannot be a writer if you don't read. If you do read then what are some of the recent books you have read? What's the best book you've ever read?

Free Verse.
I understand the fact that I am committing purple prose in my writing but for good reason. As a solipsist myself, I will tend to describe and describe without being conscious of it. I will also make metaphors that either seem too personal or too irrelevant.
I read rather often. The recent books I've read are Running With Scissors by Augusten Burroughs, Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë, The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Pride And Prejudice by Jane Austen, and Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.
The best book I ever read was Ulysses by James Joyce. I love it.

If I could a critique for my writing right here, it would be greatly appreciated.

The way by which I got here escapes my comprehension.
And the sole last thing I seem to be able to recall is how I closed my eyes.
But even that I can't be sure of.
Nor can I be certain of the exact time, at which this mystifying shift had happened.
It could've just occurred mere moments ago, or immeasurable aeons past.
I feel like I have crossed through an undefined mirror between worlds.
A most sublime and confounding venture.
And there, whence I had come from, they deem it a reality.
Whereas this they would've dismissed as a dream.
Yet, now that I am here, this is the one realm that appears to me as the only true existence,
While the other is nothing but a fiction of my own design.
In fact, I am its demiurge.
I take the many things I witness and experience from this outer cosmos
And weave them all together into that universe within.
But alas, my perception is impaired.
For here I'm like an insect, lying squished on the ground and imagining of living as a human being, while dying.
With my sight forever fixed in place, staring into that vast open space, which I called Blue.
Thus I'm only able to conceive my other life out of what little my few senses could discern.
And whatever is beyond their reach will never come to pass in my exclusive remake,
Which is, hence, indeed devoid of anything genuinely novel.
Randomly, it might seem to this domain, I seize its countless aspects all around me and reassemble them in my own way,
Without ever knowing, whether any of them belong to each other, or if they're far diverse from one another.
And, even as I contemplate this now, so much of it is racing past what I presume to be my brain.
There I see cyan tears spiral down from the Blue into a valley of sable mist.
Some of them bloom into colossal spheres and a forest of light ripples through their liquid surface.
Others are bound in a tapestry of viridian flames, only to be engulfed by a metal tidal wave of spires.
In its wake it leaves behind neon flowers that rise above the burning cloth
And spread a symphony of aspirations over the stagnant monotony of its archaic patterns.
They shed an aurora composed from leafs of immense diversity,
Which washes away the rusted languages carved upon pale ruins.
And there I feel the presence of figures cast in flesh.
They gather into eager constellations and establish their prevalence over everything.
They harness all and put it into motion like a magnificent machine, of which they are the cogs.
Entities entwined within the essence of their own kingdom.
And the most striking of those clusters, presiding high above the rest, I have dubbed to be the human race,
Thereupon proclaiming my fabricated self as one of them.
Though...
Suddenly, this brings a new perplexing doubt to my reflection.
Why do I think of myself here as no more than a lesser pest with huge ambitions?
From among these beings, parasites and vermin are clearly of the lowest tier.
And since I likewise helplessly observe this creation from beneath, I naturally equal their inferior fate to mine.
Still, with such a wishful likening, it just as well might be that I'm none of the forms I see.
So what if I'm one of a kind?
The sole one in existence, who could ever envision stuff this way.
What if I'm not even dying?
What if I made up death too?
And the only thing I have to do, in order to escape from this dream back to life, is simply imagine how I wake up.

It is an attempt in vain: I have learned to perfect the pain.
Anger sparks from the mouth in a sickly red hue,
but deeper in the blood runs blue.
I watch the black movement with envious eyes of lime,
the tragic teenagers of the time.
I run away to the shade in which all colors fade .
For those content, the rainbow above acts as an alcove.
I am in no way worth the stay
for the duplicity in this treacherous city.
So the shadows take me silent
and the boiling blood turns violent.

All the time...

Postulating stationery can be utterly lugubrious. Although, it can be derisive to one's well-being if you were to partake in an act of monogamy. Always be reminiscent of the fact that everyone's survival rate drops to zero.

We all wear a mask
No matter how we shape or mold it
It stays the same way even with a slight change
For the mask is a part of us
Just as we are part of the mask

When we hide a hidden side
Deep within our hearts
It becomes a shadow
Something we try to deny
Something to forget

But it always comes back to haunt us
Trying to engulf us in its darkness
To show others what their really like
As they keep denying it gets stronger
Shifting and molding into something terrifying

The shadow becomes a beast
A monster of our dark side
Because we've denied it
For thinking it isn't a part of us
But it is a part of us
Like we are a part of it

The only way to combat it
Is to accept it as it is
For that shadow is you
You are the shadow
Your persona that is in your heart

Don't be afraid
Just face it
Show no fear
Accept it

The shadow is you
You are the shadow
You wear the mask
Wearing the mark
On your heart

Once you accept it
It becomes a great ally
A powerful persona
Right by your side
Always there to help you
When things get tough

Most important of all
Never forget the friends
That help you through
The hard times you face
For they will help you

They are the light in your darkness
A shining glow at the end of the tunnel
A hand extended out to grab you
If you are to fall
They will be there for you

We must learn to accept ourselves
For who we are
Hiding our other selves
Will just make problems grow

Just be yourself
Be proud of who you are
As you wear the mask
Keeping your head up
With full confidence

Your persona is a special one
Never forget that
It is your ally
Your friend
Your other half

Your shadow
Most of all
Your mask
Its your persona
Be proud of it
As it is proud of you
To accept it as it is