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Author Topic: short story writers, journalists, painters, and poets  (Read 82758 times)
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alistarr*
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Posts: 8129


« Reply #1100 on: Dec 15, 2006, 10:10:37 AM »

if you're referring to this:

Quote from: "andronicus"
1.) *grammar


it was a correction of heathcote's use of the word as "grammer". it was funny cus, see, heathcote was saying he really was working on improving his grammar and spelling etc.

history of using an asterisk to do this: i believe it started as an instant messaging thing - you type fast and hit enter then realise you've mis-spelled something in your haste, so follow it up with a correction, eg:

00:01 alistair wrote:
oh gosh hip hip hoorya
00:02 alistair wrote:
*hooray

but it may be older than that, i don't know.
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alistarr*
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« Reply #1101 on: Dec 15, 2006, 10:11:48 AM »

*sigh* new page removes context.
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plainenglish
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Posts: 1187


« Reply #1102 on: Dec 15, 2006, 10:45:10 AM »

Okay, got it.  Just wanted to know where I was. Because here is my 1, 2, 3 to Heathcote...


Heathcote--
On the subject of your new poem, and in line with andronicus's's comments...

1. My comment really was less about the grammar in that one poem than about the relatively few mistakes that really stand out and get in a person's way.  There will be no more comments from me about grammar in creative writing because the more I thought about it the more irritating it became.  But I've been wanting to make up a cheat sheet (actually, for several friends) of those few fatal mistakes, so you've inspired me. Actually, www. biddyfit .com is available...

2. There is really something about this, not just the idea (which I love) but the words, especially in the first stanzas.  I think a. is right about the pixel stuff, and some of the repetition would only work if this were in performance as a song.  But I liked the repetition at the end, seemed to echo the idea of different angles of depiction.

3.  Seriously.  Take a shower.
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"If you don't want to have a good time, the door is... everywhere!" -- shirtless campfire guy, ZOOP!
alistarr*
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Posts: 8129


« Reply #1103 on: Dec 15, 2006, 10:50:53 AM »

don't listen to them 'cote!

don't go changing on me, in either sense of the word.
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plainenglish
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Posts: 1187


« Reply #1104 on: Dec 15, 2006, 10:58:46 AM »

Quote from: milly balgeary
Quote from: "plainenglish"
That's fantastic, Milly, compelling.  Is that magical realism, or a dream sequence...? I want to know what happens next -- is there a next?


it's automatic typing. i had taken a couple weeks off the writin' thing to catch up with my netflix picks. it's horrible, like 99% of what I've written, but I appreciate the kindness. I had come off a pirate story about two modern day kids who use a go-cart to live out their fantasies of piracy, but the story ended up nuking me, there, for a while. When I'm stymied, I just close my eyes and type.

What I liked was something that probably comes so naturally to you that you don't see it anymore -- you create a reality that is very easy to step into.  It may not be nice in there, and I may be wondering "Uh... ok, people on the ceiling dripping blood... wtf?"  but I was there.  (by the way, the gambling and all the lost fingers reminded me of a Roald Dahl story,can't remember the name...)

Funny thing is that I had an experience of this very thing last night -- I'm trying to find my way into a project and I'm still not sure what it is yet.  It's a big shipping box on the table, I told my sister, and I can't find the end of the tape.  so I just started typing last night -- I'll read it again and see if it's worth posting.  Warning: I doubt it.


Quote
One step closer to the ATM in my skull. Wink


Huh... interesting.  Say more?
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"If you don't want to have a good time, the door is... everywhere!" -- shirtless campfire guy, ZOOP!
plainenglish
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Posts: 1187


« Reply #1105 on: Dec 15, 2006, 11:01:26 AM »

Quote from: "alistarr*"
don't listen to them 'cote!

don't go changing on me, in either sense of the word.


Hey, listen, you folks over there want to change your knickers once a year whether you need to or not, that's your business.  Just be prepared for a new definition of ridiculous sex.  

(You didn't hear that, Heathcote.  You heard "ridiculous innocent hand-holding.")
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"If you don't want to have a good time, the door is... everywhere!" -- shirtless campfire guy, ZOOP!
Heathcote
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Posts: 1839


« Reply #1106 on: Dec 15, 2006, 10:52:22 PM »

Quote from: "plainenglish"
Okay, got it.  Just wanted to know where I was. Because here is my 1, 2, 3 to Heathcote...


Heathcote--
On the subject of your new poem, and in line with andronicus's's comments...

1. My comment really was less about the grammar in that one poem than about the relatively few mistakes that really stand out and get in a person's way.  There will be no more comments from me about grammar in creative writing because the more I thought about it the more irritating it became.  But I've been wanting to make up a cheat sheet (actually, for several friends) of those few fatal mistakes, so you've inspired me. Actually, www. biddyfit .com is available...

2. There is really something about this, not just the idea (which I love) but the words, especially in the first stanzas.  I think a. is right about the pixel stuff, and some of the repetition would only work if this were in performance as a song.  But I liked the repetition at the end, seemed to echo the idea of different angles of depiction.

3.  Seriously.  Take a shower.



Hehe, i took a shower today! I washed my hair lots! It's clean! Feels weird, don't think i like it...but i feel good now, i went to a RAVE! in a CAVE and i feel all worn out and sweat and tire....d....

Wow plain english, that means alot to me...i've never really had anyone say anything like that about anything i wrote...like...talking about it seriously...just a few 'that's ok', or 'form an indie rock band', sometimes i'll get a bit of help...but noone's ever said something about it or it's litirary devices or anything...proper!

What i started out with the song the kind idea - which got *half* dropped - it was that if a picture was made smaller so you could see more of it, but you lost lots of detail, so you miss all the key points and the picture doesn't make sence...like...when people group stuff together as right or wrong...or black and white...but they miss out on everything subtle, which is too important to ignore, so makes the someone using something like that as a starting point or guideline mislead or brash

I don't know if that sounded really pretentious, but that's how the lyrics came about...

Has plainenglish written anything?  Surprised
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Me. You. We Two

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plainenglish
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Posts: 1187


« Reply #1107 on: Dec 16, 2006, 12:24:46 AM »

Quote from: "Heathcote"


What i started out with the song the kind idea - which got *half* dropped - it was that if a picture was made smaller so you could see more of it, but you lost lots of detail, so you miss all the key points and the picture doesn't make sence...like...when people group stuff together as right or wrong...or black and white...but they miss out on everything subtle, which is too important to ignore, so makes the someone using something like that as a starting point or guideline mislead or brash

I don't know if that sounded really pretentious, but that's how the lyrics came about...

Has plainenglish written anything?  Surprised


Not pretentious at all, that's what I got from it.  Is it still meant to be a song?  I think you can tighten it up to make it more effective as a poem (think a little more about which repetitions you want, which aren't adding anything, etc.) and break it out again when you set it to music.  Without the music -- on the page -- the song structure doesn't always work.

Plainenglish has written piles of utter crap, some of which will be on this thread from time to time I'm sure.  If you click back I've got a poem or two in there...
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"If you don't want to have a good time, the door is... everywhere!" -- shirtless campfire guy, ZOOP!
Heathcote
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Posts: 1839


« Reply #1108 on: Dec 16, 2006, 05:03:17 AM »

ohhhooo-

Yeah, i'll try that...i'm bursting out to be in a band...i'm surrounded by bands...all my friends are in bands...i guess i need to make friends with people that are *not* in bands...

But in any case, i should start by learning an instrement! I can use the whole Protools mac set up quite well, and i'm taking a music tech A-level! That's really fun.

I'm glad that's what you got from it!
I think i will review it, i just wrote it and then posted it because i liked it, i didn't re-write it very much - so i'll think about that!
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milly balgeary
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« Reply #1109 on: Dec 28, 2006, 09:30:32 PM »

So What Do I Do Now pt 1

“So what do I do now?”
   Paul Harris ignored his daughter Cara who was looking at him expectantly, certain the call was for her. She blew a breath out of her nose and mouth, and made that annoying sound she had inherited from her mother, Paul’s ex-wife. A whiney wispy moaning sound. Paul’s old VW Bug (not one of the newer, trendy kind) needed Freon for the air conditioner so in the summer he drove with his window down - and if the Bug’s window was open just a slight crack, it made the same noise.    
   “Who is this?”
   The speaker on the other end of the phone slurred; Paul guessed it was drugs.
   “It’s for you,” he said, and handed his daughter the phone.
   He went into the living room, and turned the TV to the weather channel. He watched the computer graphics flow across the screen denoting the progressive system coming from the East and heading toward the Midwest. The sharp edge of the storm was going to hook across Peoria. But they’d miss the brunt of it, thank God.
   “That wasn’t for me,” Cara said. She stood, Paul thought, looking graceless, trying her hardest to look like street trash. She was under the influence of the Wrong Kids, the Wrong Crowd.
   “Sounded like one of your friends.”
   “Wasn’t.”
   Paul shrugged.
   “Weather’s holding, your mom’s flight should be on time. You all packed?”
   She nodded.
   “Good.” He felt finished, there was nothing left to say, now he became silent; he wished he hadn’t agreed to take Cara for a week, really by now she was only his daughter by name. Next year, he’d be able to stop paying support, and Cara had made it plain to all parties that she wasn’t going to be attending college. Suddenly the overwhelming urge came on him to sit her down beside him and have a serious and thought-out father-daughter talk, where they’d laugh together when he told her how much he’d hated it, having her there, the strange ghost of the daughter that wasn’t. How he felt like a failure, and that it wasn’t too late - it was never too late - to get to know each other. Of course, he didn’t, wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Too late.
   At 6:30, he switched to the local news. Cara went up to the guest room, and he was glad. How could they be father and daughter, they had nothing in common, not one lousy thing they shared. Too late.
   The phone shrilled.
   He went to the kitchen to answer it, almost there, when it stopped ringing.
   “Paul, it’s for you!” Too late for her to call him dad, it was always Paul when she needed his attention.
   “Hello,” he said, as soon as he answered, he heard Cara hang up.
   “So what do I do now,” the voice slurred.
   “You promised,” the voice sounded clearer now, as if it had grown angry.
   There was an edge to the voice that made his skin crawl. “Are you sick?”
   “I need you to tell me,” it said. “Because you PROMISED you would.”
   “Is this someone I know?”
   Now the voice became more urgent, it keened, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO, I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO, I DON’T KNOW-”
   He took the receiver away from his ear, the voice was still loud enough that he could hear it, bursting from the tinny speaker in a load of distortion, and he stared at the phone in his hand like a squeaking, red-eyed rat.
   He hung it up on the kitchen wall.
   Paul thought he had heard something in the voice, a quality that was distinctly feminine, a girlishness old and much abused. He didn’t know why but he envisioned a crone with blackened fingertips and a lumpy, characterless face, standing in the dark of a phone booth on some deserted street. Calling for advice. Huddled away from the cold, calling in some night much too dark, white face stretching in a horrible mask as it asked its question. So what do I do now?
   He wished he had caller ID, and not for the first time, wondered why he hadn’t done away with his landline and gotten a cell. It was something he’d been meaning to do.
   Of course then it rang again.
   He willed the phone to stop ringing, and after two rings it did, but then Cara yelled his name again. This time Cara didn’t hang up immediately and he heard her breathing on the line, a strange feeling but he felt almost protective of her, wanted her to hang up the phone right now, then he realized his mistake.
   Laurie.
   Course she had a cell. She’d been an early adopter, when they were married, all the way back to when Cara was just a year old or so, she had went back to school, and then get her real estate license, along with that, one of the bulky now-laughable early cell phones. The kind that at the time seemed like such a technological breakthrough, the cutting edge, it cost a small fortune, but Laurie had demanded it, and Paul had acceded without much struggle.
   “We’re just landed so it’ll still be a little while,” Paul heard Laurie tell their daughter. He wasn’t surprised at how artificially happy she sounded because that’s what Laurie had always been good at, which was why she’d been so successful at selling houses, it came naturally to her, a twinkle in the eye, lipstick smile.
   It was this same professional, programmed self of hers that he had seen, during the divorce, as if through a cloudy pane on a rainy day. Waving and smiling like she’d just made a sale. Which in her own way, he guessed, she had.
   “Have you two been having fun while I’ve been away, maybe getting to know each other, ah, better?”
   Cara hung up at that. Paul wanted to do the same. Of course Laurie accepted none of the blame for Cara calling him Paul, not dad. He’d never know what the ex-wife-become-robot might’ve told his daughter while she was growing up, and he couldn’t pinpoint with any accuracy when Cara had stopped being excited when he came to pick her up, it had just happened. Shit it was possible Laurie hadn’t done anything, and that Cara had just come to resent him (to call him Paul, never dad) for…leaving her with an android wearing a human face. No, Androids did not dream of electric sheep, they dreamt of selling, and the way they nurtured was the same way they sold those houses, sign the form, thank you for doing business, have a fine day.
   “Is everything there going OK Paul?”
   “Course,” he answered.
   He thought and what would you do or say if I said that, NO, NO, things are NOT OK, and that thanks to you I don’t know my own daughter; what would you say then, Laurie, what would you try to sell me?
   “I’m glad,” Laurie said. As always, Paul could detect no sarcasm in her voice, but he never stopped trying. “I’ll be there in a little while,” Laurie said, “thanks again Paul for taking her, you’ve been a godsend.”
   After hanging up, he waited near the phone in case it rang again, because this time he didn’t want Cara to answer it, he didn’t know why but he didn’t want that voice anywhere near her, didn’t want her to listen to it even, and if that made him crazy, than it made him no crazier than any father who wants to protect his…daughter. Too late though.
   He was Paul; she was Cara.
   Not dad.
   Not now not ever.
   It rang, and he shuddered.
   But he got it off the wall to his ear mid-ring.
   “A promise is a promise,” the woman said.
   The sense of recognition grew, this was a voice he knew, perhaps not well, or perhaps it was someone he had known long ago, this was, he felt, someone who knew him.
   “Tell me who this is.”
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plainenglish
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Posts: 1187


« Reply #1110 on: Dec 28, 2006, 10:28:12 PM »

After he fell asleep, she let herself out of the house and walked down the dirt road to the pond, feeling her way in the places too dark to see. The path, such as it was, shifted under her feet, gravel giving way and larger rocks rolling over her toes.  Near the end of the path where it opened onto the beach (again, such as it was) the feeble moonlight (such as…) revealed the beach, the tiny corner of rocks and sand that launched canoes and fishing boats out into Willis Lake.  

Everyone thought the lake was polluted, poisoned, something to do with the Superfund site on the other end of the conservation land.  It wasn’t; they’d met a guy, accidentally at Friendly’s, he was on the board of health, he’d told them the story.  You just couldn’t see down there.  There was too much iron, probably from the pine trees, dunno, but the visibility was for shit, couldn’t see more than half a foot in front of your face down there.  What if you were trying to find a kid down there? Half drowned and headed the rest of the way, needing to be dragged back up, you’d be swimming blind.  So I had to shut it down.  Oh, I wouldn’t eat the fish, necessarily, wouldn’t eat the fish anywhere so close to people, we’re filthy creatures.  But you can swim in it, sure.  Except that you can’t, ‘cause I said so!  Haw haw haw!

She stood at the edge of the water and watched it reach out and touch her toes, touch, touch, teasing her into believing it had a sense of humor, a sense of anything, instead of being just a lake, a big dark lake. She reached down and picked up a small, flat rock, turned it around in her fingers, and skipped it out over the water.  The rock bounced only once before plunking below the surface and disappearing.  She looked at the water where the ripples were now spreading and disappearing, the surface becoming still and calm again, as if nothing had happened at all. Just so, she thought. Just exactly so.  

She filled her hands with gravel and ran to the end of the boat dock; she hurled one entire handful straight down into the water, “God damn it!” she yelled. The rocks cut through the surface and the water healed over like skin.  “What the hell is in there?”  She threw rock after rock, feeling the tricky tendon in her shoulder pull, watching the rocks crash ineffectually into the water. She ran back to the beach for more. “I want it, I want to know it!” Crash, she hurled the rocks, slam slam, she ran back and forth along the dock for more and more. Finally she lifted a boulder almost a foot across, staggered out, making it only to the middle of the dock, and lobbed it in a two-armed underhand throw that took all her strength and made her feel like a complete idiot. “Uh… SHIT!”

She stalked back to the beach, to the farthest end, leaned up against a scrubby pine and glared at the pond.

Fuck you, dark mysterious irresistable. Just fuck you all to hell.
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"If you don't want to have a good time, the door is... everywhere!" -- shirtless campfire guy, ZOOP!
milly balgeary
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Posts: 11512


« Reply #1111 on: Dec 28, 2006, 10:37:31 PM »

Dig that voice, PE.
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plainenglish
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Posts: 1187


« Reply #1112 on: Dec 29, 2006, 09:22:34 AM »

Shocked
 Embarassed
 Laughing

That is absolutely the finest and most encouraging thing anyone could possibly say.

That's precisely what I have been trying to "find" (om...) and finally feel like I've actually got something.  

I have the distinct feeling that I am going to throw all my old stuff back into the filing cabinet for now and just start typing; this was sparked by your "automatic typing" idea -- I have no idea who this is or what the backstory is, beyond a very basic structure.
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"If you don't want to have a good time, the door is... everywhere!" -- shirtless campfire guy, ZOOP!
hannah
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Posts: 9366


« Reply #1113 on: Dec 30, 2006, 02:07:37 PM »

I am writing a book of chestnuts, tentatively entitled either "Lafforisms" or "Hannuggets." Here is what I have so far.

Quote
Because there is nothing keeping you watching a DVD. Except guilt.
***
Labelling things is fun.


Feedback pls.
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elpollodiablo
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Posts: 32624


« Reply #1114 on: Dec 30, 2006, 02:09:52 PM »

Can I submit one?
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think 'on the road.'
hannah
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Posts: 9366


« Reply #1115 on: Dec 30, 2006, 02:15:36 PM »

I insist.
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hannah
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Posts: 9366


« Reply #1116 on: Dec 30, 2006, 02:16:20 PM »

Or write your own damned book. "Devil Chicken Soup for the Soul."
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elpollodiablo
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Posts: 32624


« Reply #1117 on: Dec 30, 2006, 02:16:36 PM »

Quote
Sometimes state college is enough.
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think 'on the road.'
hannah
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Posts: 9366


« Reply #1118 on: Dec 30, 2006, 02:18:40 PM »

I will use it but change the spelling to "enuff" becuz

Quote
Consistency is nice.


and my book is called "Lafforisms" so I have to be consistent if I want to be nice
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elpollodiablo
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Posts: 32624


« Reply #1119 on: Dec 30, 2006, 02:24:11 PM »

Quote
Accuracy is nice.
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think 'on the road.'
Andrew_TSKS
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Posts: 39426


« Reply #1120 on: Dec 30, 2006, 03:22:21 PM »

you're losing me with this new tack of yours, hannah, but this:

Quote from: "hannah"
Or write your own damned book. "Devil Chicken Soup for the Soul."


was PURE GOLD.
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I just want to be myself and I want you to love me for who I am.
alistarr*
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Posts: 8129


« Reply #1121 on: Jan 02, 2007, 05:42:04 AM »

thusly concludes my pome-writing for another six months or so, as with these two i feel i'm beginning to fall off where i started and need to wait for something new:

5.

i want to tell you i love you at strange times
sometimes when i'm not thinking about you
when i wake up at night
or when right now

i worry about saying it
because the table has no ears
and the song i'm listening to
on crackled speakers
is so beautiful
if you were here -

i know you are sitting somewhere with your hair and your tummy and your socks
this poem is about me, and my silence
and how i want to tell you at the strangest times
like when it really matters
i stay quiet

6.

in the meantime, i'll go to work
and see my girlfriend
and listen to a band called bauer who have
this amazing song about dolphins
it's a pretty feeling

when i wake up tomorrow i'm going home
with a bag of presents and a bag of clothes
and a book

i wonder which of those things will inspire me
it's december the twenty second and
long past time for it

i'll be difficult for the sake of it
to my friends
i'll drink heavily at parties and spin under spotlights and
recover in the mornings with my family

while
i wait for the feeling to come back
there'll be some dark mornings
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jebreject
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Posts: 27071


« Reply #1122 on: Jan 02, 2007, 11:46:07 AM »

alistarr no offense but these just lack any sort of punch, and lines like "i want to tell you i love you at strange times" are awkward and clumsy.  it feels like they've got no meat on 'em, nothing to really grab on to, and as such they come across more like emo lyrics than poesy
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I'm not racist, I've got lots of black Facebook friends.
alistarr*
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Posts: 8129


« Reply #1123 on: Jan 03, 2007, 04:57:43 AM »

yeah, i know. and thanks for saying it because well, y'know.

i posted them in acknowledgement that i didn't have much poetry in me at the moment and it was time to quit trying for a little while.
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jebreject
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Posts: 27071


« Reply #1124 on: Jan 03, 2007, 09:01:22 AM »

dude, it's never time to quit trying.
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I'm not racist, I've got lots of black Facebook friends.
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