06-11-2024, 03:14 PM
This is brilliant. I’m not sure that you know why. This needs revision.
Let’s get you past the credibility check. The capped first words after line breaks will make serious people dismiss you. Semicolons will make serious people dismiss you. Change the semi for a comma and lowercase the words after line breaks.
Like so:
Endless layers of black silk drapes, the shadows.
Separate, small, unsafe space.
A beacon, a beam, of pure white hot impurity.
Drawn in, crossing an event horizon long before awareness,
long after warning.
Bodies cropped into little frames,
little portions of littler people.
A subject unknowing, thus unwilling.
Those frames scattered across the universe,
millions of shameful stars.
Keep your head down.
The sky tells the stories of your misdeeds.
You fucked up wretch.
Here’s a constellation of your form.
A whore.
Is this what I think it is? I’m queuing on unsafe space, white hot impurity, a need for a new interpretation of constellations . . . Is this a sci-fi adjacent race poem?
Is shameful stars vs stars ashamed intentional? Stars ashamed is much better aesthetically. So much better that shameful stars feels deliberate.
Sorry for asking a bunch of questions. Maybe this poem sucks and you’re a bad writer.
I’d like to crit this more assertively, but what direction are you going? Is this sci-fi or racial justice or both or neither or what? If your goal is to confuse people, stop now. If you want to say something important, tell me what. Then I can beat you up until you’ve said it in the best way.
Let’s get you past the credibility check. The capped first words after line breaks will make serious people dismiss you. Semicolons will make serious people dismiss you. Change the semi for a comma and lowercase the words after line breaks.
Like so:
Endless layers of black silk drapes, the shadows.
Separate, small, unsafe space.
A beacon, a beam, of pure white hot impurity.
Drawn in, crossing an event horizon long before awareness,
long after warning.
Bodies cropped into little frames,
little portions of littler people.
A subject unknowing, thus unwilling.
Those frames scattered across the universe,
millions of shameful stars.
Keep your head down.
The sky tells the stories of your misdeeds.
You fucked up wretch.
Here’s a constellation of your form.
A whore.
Is this what I think it is? I’m queuing on unsafe space, white hot impurity, a need for a new interpretation of constellations . . . Is this a sci-fi adjacent race poem?
Is shameful stars vs stars ashamed intentional? Stars ashamed is much better aesthetically. So much better that shameful stars feels deliberate.
Sorry for asking a bunch of questions. Maybe this poem sucks and you’re a bad writer.
I’d like to crit this more assertively, but what direction are you going? Is this sci-fi or racial justice or both or neither or what? If your goal is to confuse people, stop now. If you want to say something important, tell me what. Then I can beat you up until you’ve said it in the best way.
A yak is normal.