Young Writers Society

I tried to read through this once and was not very interested. I tried to read through it again and again my mind turned away.

One of the thing that bothers me is the extraneous talkin' in chat. I know that's the nature of chat. I know there are other people doing other conversations at the same time, and in a certain light, that's poetic, having these pieces of other people and topics come in to sprinkle the conversations you were trying to capture.

I also understand that the conversation that comes in the chat about health and health problems helps to serve as support for the poem that comes later, and I like how it acts like that base.

I like the idea of trying to communicate the way that poems can happen naturally, can curl out of conversations, and can be written by anyone anywhere. So like, I understand to a point some of the things you're trying to do and trying to communicate, but it didn't pull me in as much as a presentation of just the poem might have.

So, about the poem.

I love the first two stanzas -- they are perfect. I love that the first sentence in the second stanza changes form -- from "being" brittle to "having" vigour and vitality. It allows for a stronger, more concrete presentation of the words "v" and "v"!

The third stanza has some weirdly constructed sentences, like maybe somewhere a verb is not agreeing with a subject, but it still has words the work together to present a beautiful image of a free fall above water (for me, at least, and also mixed with cities and wind, etc.).

The first sentence of the fourth stanza doesn't say what I expect it to say. Is the storm -- the thing the speaker is fighting against, within their own lungs? I feel like that is contradictory and suddenly I get confused about the plot. I like the phrasing of half held breath, but maybe just apply it as a state of the speaker, not a description of the storm.

I also absolutely adore the idea of becoming a city to rise above this problem -- I could weather ages and ages and ages more if I were a city.

Lastly, while I kind of like the effect of Stella's addition in the script version, because it's clearly responding to someone who has gotten down on herself about age throughout the whole conversation, I don't think it works in the poem -- it's like whiplash at the last second.

Hope these thoughts are helpful!
PM or reply if you have questions/comments.
Good luck and keep writing~

Hannah

Wow, you guys are so creative.

Woah! XD Good stuff, you guys! (y)

So this is what happens in chat when the clock strikes 2300. *secretly wants to join in next time*

This was unique, and I love the stuff you did with the newspaper lettering.
I found it hard to understand though. In the comment below, you made it seem like I wasn't supposed to read the other stuff, that wasn't poetic? That made me question what of previous parts I wasn't supposed to read. I'm not sure this in whole qualifies as a poem? (I'm sounding so unsure of myself because anything can be a poem, so who am I to say this isn't.) This reads like it is: YWS chat. I found myself doing what I normally do in chat, reading only the conversations I'm interested in. Then I felt bad because this is a poem and you're not supposed to pick and choose what you read in a literary thing.

That said, if I was supposed to read everything, it didn't seem to make much coherent sense, because again, it is chat.
If you wanted this to be like, a standard beautiful poem, I would suggest cutting out 97% of it.
But if you want it like this, and I'm sure you have your reasons, like perhaps the human spirit itself is not a bridled beast that speaks in rhyming couplets, and thus this is more beautiful and human and truthful than any poem could be, then I suppose that's fine and I just don't understand the true meaning of art.

I'm not sure there's much else I can review this on, to change any words or anything would be to change humans' flawed nature itself, and thus cannot be done. So sorry if this isn't very helpful, I just wasn't sure what you were aiming for when you wrote this. I was warned to read this at my own risk.

I enjoyed the poetic parts of the chorus, but I attribute that to Pengu's lyrical way of living. And Audy's material of course.

It was still a fun read, great job, keep writing!
~fortis

Beautiful!

I realized the poem was cut out by accident D; and I can't recover it from the screenshots.
So here it is in its full, totally improvised:

I'm starting to feel the fingers of Age take hold of my neck and squeeze out my soul.

The fingers of Age were not brittle as I had supposed, instead they had vigour and vitality. They took hold of my neck and shook the scruff, and my soul squeezed from my body like so much dandruff and breath, begging to float into a cloud.

Ripe clouds had the water enough to drown a city. I'd take that life for the thrill of its free wind fall like the gall and ganas of the sea. Yet, time in its prison prevents me even that.

Were I a city, I could weather this storm, the half held breath that strains inside my lungs. Were I the tall buildings I could rise above or beyond, stretch myself out like a lake of glittering steel and glass. But I am not. I am mortal. I am flesh. I am bone.

I am dust. I am blood. I am but the faintest touch of speck on mud.


[[[no you're not. you are hell in high heels!]]]