#1
Sorry for having two pieces on the front page, but I'm the angriest and quietest right now and want to post something for someone to see.

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For every synthesized talent they've got holstered each one of us throws them a curveball of three struck chords that ring in full and they may be your pet peeve but I certainly don't consider their failing, desperate cries one anymore. I may be just as much of an ambitious fool as Mr. Efrim here believing in the promise that true restless emotions and angelic slivers can cut into your ear drums and that we'll stick together and melt our dull souls to the core to find this promise, even for a split second, but at least I'm not one of the apathetic or the quitters. Why? Be it for the frisson we perfectly see in the defectiveness of loud noise that paints wiggly aesthetics in our minds eye so slash our ear's eye, or for our need to compare this imperfectness to our dysfunctional multicultural souls we still don't ease our grip and we have FUN. That was a thing once upon a vinyl making right? We don't make it a paper grubbing thirst, we only are NOT apathetic or quitters or gone gone gone absent minded...

That is all, and that is all they'll ever be. And why should we oh why should our efforts succumb to the ingrateful ****s doing an overzealous dance up and down a seedy ****ing stage all while saying in archaic practice "Look at me! Place thine eyes and mind on these marvelous bosom and bottom but mute yer ears lest you lose lovable love for music (life)!". I'll always be this sixteen year old holding his grip oh so tight round a cheap old crummy guitar's neck that it runs out of breath in the run and it gets mad and starts to express SOMETHING! Something from the tasty green vines of sexuality, the loudness of armies having its back. Something in those pretty wooden noises you hug or trumpets you sold, something something something!
#2
I like how the text is divided in two vast pieces with the repetition, emphasis on the end. It radiates energy. I would take the form to the extreme and leave the sentence points out.

Like this:

That is all, and that is all they'll ever be and why should we oh why should our efforts succumb to the ingrateful ****s doing an overzealous dance up and down a seedy ****ing stage all while saying in archaic practice "Look at me! Place thine eyes and mind on these marvelous bosom and bottom but mute yer ears lest you lose lovable love for music (life)!", I'll always be this sixteen year old holding his grip oh so tight round a cheap old crummy guitar's neck that it runs out of breath in the run and it gets mad and starts to express SOMETHING, Something from the tasty green vines of sexuality, the loudness of armies having its back, Something in those pretty wooden noises you hug or trumpets you sold, something something something!
#3
Quote by ali.guitarkid7
Sorry for having two pieces on the front page, but I'm the angriest and quietest right now and want to post something for someone to see.

____________________________________________
For every synthesized talent they've got holstered each one of us throws them a curveball of three struck chords that ring in full and they may be your pet peeve but I certainly don't consider their failing, desperate cries one anymore. I may be just as much of an ambitious fool as Mr. Efrim here believing in the promise that true restless emotions and angelic slivers can cut into your ear drums "What does this mean? Am I supposed to know who Mr Efrim is? It was just very confusing." and that we'll stick together and melt our dull souls to the core to find this promise, even for a split second, but at least I'm not one of the apathetic or the quitters. Why? Be it for the frisson we perfectly see in the defectiveness of loud noise that paints wiggly aesthetics in our minds eye so slash our ear's eye, or for our need to compare this imperfectness to our dysfunctional multicultural souls we still don't ease our grip and we have FUN. That was a thing once upon a vinyl making right? We don't make it a paper grubbing thirst, we only are NOT apathetic or quitters or gone gone gone absent minded... "I didn't get it. I don't know. Maybe I just don't have a poetic sense. Some of these lines like this boggle my mind"

That is all, and that is all they'll ever be. And why should we oh why should our efforts succumb to the ingrateful ****s doing an overzealous dance up and down a seedy ****ing stage all while saying in archaic practice "Look at me! Place thine eyes and mind on these marvelous bosom and bottom but mute yer ears lest you lose lovable love for music (life)!" "I liked this line a lot. It really shows how people focus too much on certain things (boobs) rather than others. At least, that's what I got, since he's showing off "these marvelous bosom and bottom""I'll always be this sixteen year old holding his grip oh so tight round a cheap old crummy guitar's neck that it runs out of breath in the run "I like this line too, it fits nicely with the poem" and it gets mad and starts to express SOMETHING! Something from the tasty green vines of sexuality, the loudness of armies having its back. Something in those pretty wooden noises you hug or trumpets you sold, something something something!


Holy god this is long.

I wish it was broken up a little more, it's almost painful to read.

My suggestion for you. (you don't have to follow it, but this took me 5 minutes, so you can probably do this yourself.)

Quote by ali.guitarkid7

For every synthesized talent they've got holstered each one of us
throws them a curveball of three struck chords that ring in full
and they may be your pet peeve but I certainly don't consider their failing,
desperate cries one anymore.

I may be just as much of an ambitious fool as Mr. Efrim here
believing in the promise that true restless emotions and angelic slivers
can cut into your ear drums and that we'll stick together and
melt our dull souls to the core to find this promise,
even for a split second,
but at least I'm not one of the apathetic or the quitters.

Why?

Be it for the frisson we perfectly see in the defectiveness
of loud noise that paints wiggly aesthetics in our minds eye
so slash our ear's eye, or for our need to compare this imperfectness
to our dysfunctional multicultural souls we still don't ease our grip
and we have FUN.

That was a thing once upon a vinyl making right?
We don't make it a paper grubbing thirst,
we only are NOT apathetic or quitters or gone gone gone absent minded...

That is all, and that is all they'll ever be.
And why should we oh why should our efforts succumb
to the ingrateful ****s doing an overzealous dance up and down
a seedy ****ing stage all while saying in archaic practice,

"Look at me! Place thine eyes and mind on these marvelous bosom and bottom but mute yer ears lest you lose lovable love for music (life)!".

I'll always be this sixteen year old holding his grip oh so tight
'round a cheap old crummy guitar's neck that it runs out of breath
in the run and it gets mad and starts to express
SOMETHING!

Something from the tasty green vines of sexuality,
the loudness of armies having its back.
Something in those pretty wooden noises you hug or trumpets you sold,
something something something!


The ENTER key is your friend.
#4
Thanks for the crits guys.


I'm not sure if I'd want to change this into a more poetic structure, gateway. To me this piece is an impassioned, enraged rant and I don't want to structure it just yet. Mr. Efrim is a reference to Efrim Menuck's written piece (which greatly influenced mine) 'Don't ever love music it'll only break your heart'. Link for that's in my sig.

Thanks again for the crits.