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A little something I wrote when I was in a certain mood because of a certain girl...hope you like it, or are at least not getting ready to call the cops or the mental hospital or something...
The Girl in the Yellow Dress
You are perfect.
Perfect, lying there, covered in shards of glass, refracting, sanguine, over your perfect body, sparkling on your pale, death white skin.
Your poor dress.
Your poor beautiful dress. It’s ruined, isn’t it? You played in the dirt, you played in the rivers of blood, and it’s all stained. All stained with ruin, all caked with desolation. A golden sun hue, broken by cut after cut into your skin, spindling red, shining with glass. Your poor dress.
You were perfect. You were more and more perfect as I drew nearer and nearer to you, to touch you, lightly, else my skin would burn with your iridescent glory.
But then, you were too perfect. Too close. Too late. Yellow stained teeth, contaminating breath after breath with lies. Eyes, shining in perfect green, too chemical. Too dead, underneath the plastic of your face.
You were perfect. Now, you’re ruined, aren’t you? Broken by rape, by heartbreak, by torture scene after torture scene. Broken mind, broken heart, broken teeth. Your hair, your rich, brown, flowing hair, broken and knotted, all wrong, all muddy and wrong. All imperfect.
Harlequin. Standing, dancing, dancing on the street corner, as cars flash by in the middle of the night rush. Broken people in broken cars. All perfect for you. And you for them.
Fishnets on, come on girls, fishnets on, lipstick smeared, hair tousled. Time to put on a show. Time to dance.
Underwear inside out, come on girls, mascara running, bra missing, shoes broken at the heel. They were perfect. You were perfect. Then you grew up. But you never grew up.
Whatever happened to that beautiful dress? That poor dress. Your poor dress. No hope of repair? Sunflowers, crushed into it? I remember it. It was a pretty dress. You looked very pretty in it. What time is it? Three in the morning? Is that liquor on your breath? What have you got on? Have you no shame?
You were a perfect daughter. Now you have no parents. They’re broken, broken and beaten by some dictator in a country you didn’t know existed. Tortured and beaten, and fed to the dogs, chunk by chunk, piece by piece. You loved the flopping sound of their bloody flesh, hitting the ground. You loved the masochistic tussle of supremacy, biting for the jugular. Some sick display of violence. One man’s trash.
You loved treasure.
Remember how I used to kiss you? Badly, as I recall. You, in your yellow dress, living down my street, meeting me as a little kid, running around the backyard. Don’t trip. Don’t walk on my grave. I’m with Jesus.
I’m with Jesus. I’m with stupid. Jesus is broken. He is perfect. He was perfect, looking in the mirror. He was perfect. And then he was born. And then he died. And then he died for my sins.
My sins were perfect. He didn’t have to die for them. He didn’t have to live for them.
I feel guilt that I didn’t do anything, as you became Jesus. As you descended into thinking you should die for my sins. I wanted to die for your sins. Your sins made me feel special, made me feel needed, when I could hold you, and feel you, and run my hands along your hair, and dance with you in the dark.
Always that glowing yellow dress. Piercing the night in my soul, as we twirled. The sun. The sun was perfect.
The sun is destroyed now. Her children, they live in an orphanage. Sometimes they visit her grave, up on the hill, grass stubbornly dying in some long dramatic scene, blue skies too blue. Too perfect.
And they just stand there, these children. Some of them cry. The bigger ones hold onto the little ones. The littlest one is too young to understand why his mother was too perfect to feel pain. Too imperfect to feel the shot ring out through her ears, and feel the bullet ring out through her brain.
You were the sun. But now you’re the littlest girl in the world, and you’re twirling until you get dizzy. Until you fall on the ground, the green ground, and look up at the sky, just like we used to.
But I’m not there. And you’re not. Not really. You’re somewhere else, just like me. Just like I was, when I was perfect.
I identified the body. I went in on that Wednesday morning, a little shocked, face grim and determined, into the morgue, into that crypt of real person after real person. Everyone is real after they die. Nobody exists in real life.
I walked through that pristine shit-hole, walls bleached to perfection. Too perfect.
Cracks in the mirror. Your judgement is too hard.
I met the doctor, some fucker with a tie with patterns on it. Lab coated, bristle haired. Too perfect.
Cracks in the windshield. The rain is too hard.
I walked into the depository, and I watched as the sheet was pulled back. You didn’t have to watch. You couldn’t watch. You said you felt sick.
I looked at you, and saw your bloody face.
Cracks in her head. The blood is too hard.
I looked at you, searching for recognition in those lifeless eyes. I feel sick, I feel sick. Vomiting, changing your mind. Your baby was due to arrive yesterday. You arrived somewhere else. We would’ve named her Sophie. I always liked that name. She would’ve worn a yellow dress, gone to school in a yellow dress, played with her friends in a yellow dress.
Gotten drunk in a yellow dress. Smoked for the first time in a yellow dress. Lost her virginity in a yellow dress.
Cracks in her body. The bones aren’t hard enough.
I saw something that was there, but then it wasn’t. But then it was again. I always saw it. You never saw it, until it was too late.
It was a tree, and you never saw it, until it was too late. Until your eyes couldn’t even see what was staring at you in the face.
Let me be the one who stood in front of your car, stood in front of it as it raced towards nirvana at one hundred and forty kilometres an hour, raising my hands, shouting out stop.
Let me have been the one who died for your sins. Your pathetic little sins. Your perfect little vices.
Let me have been the tree, as you hit it, as the steam poured from your once perfect, now broken engine, and as you flew gracefully through the windshield.
Let me have been the artist who carefully traced your blood into spiralling messages of how much you loved me, and how much you’d miss all of us children, as it fell down the glass, and collided with heavy rain drops.
Let me have been Jesus. Imperfect Jesus. Let me have cared too much. I care too much. I don’t care enough. I don’t go to church anymore, and I don’t want to. They all wear black, waiting for Death, praising Death’s glory over us all. I saw you in black. You always wore black. I hated black. I loved you most when you wore that yellow dress.
Whatever happened to that yellow dress? Oh, that’s right. Bloodied, and crushed, and cut into millions of shreds on your now naked body, naked for all of us to see on candid camera. Why were you wearing it when you died? Harlequin.
You grew up.
Cracks in the camera lens. She didn’t fight hard enough.
You never grew up.
Cracks in her armour. She loved me too much.
 
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Now you have no parents. They’re broken, broken and beaten by some dictator in a country you didn’t know existed. Tortured and beaten, and fed to the dogs, chunk by chunk, piece by piece. You loved the flopping sound of their bloody flesh, hitting the ground. You loved the masochistic tussle of supremacy, biting for the jugular. Some sick display of violence
I think you should seek help.
jk, its actually not bad, although a bit out there.
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yeah...I just got one of those DIY straitjackets, s'all guud...
I'm inspired a lot by the works of T.S Eliot, George Orwell, J.D Salinger, that sort of thing...so sometimes its a little crazy, but if I'm inspired I sit and write, and then I forget what I was sorta thinking at that time...
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Well...
Welcome to Teamliquid.net!
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That's really terrible and pretentious dude, sorry. Why would you want to post this don't you have any self criticism.
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Well I thought it was semi-erotic.
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If someone makes a blog their first post do they have zero posts?
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never thought of it as semi-erotic...
personally, its more about people you love becoming different and changing into dangerous things, and then they can't get back to what they were...
wait, I'm confused. whats so pretentious? I wrote a story and said some stuff about how I got my muse from different authors. I didn't extoll my own virtues at all, did I?
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On September 28 2008 22:56 Jizz wrote:
The man needs some porn.
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Where do I start explaining what's so bad?
-Your style is inconsistent.
-You start new paragraphs at points in the story that don't seem to require a new paragraph because it's the same nonsensical babble as the sentence before it.
-Half your sentences don't really follow the next one you can just mix the sentences around and it wouldn't matter.
-Some of it just doesn't make sense, bringing up jesus when talking about beauty and stuff? That's pretentious.
-It's just a terrible story in general.
-Stop mentioning the yellow dress so much.
-You have no idea how hilarious an expression like "flew gracefully through a windshield" is.
It's way too much like a poem for normal writing. And try to express a little more feeling and less gibberish that feels like you added it for no reason at all.
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ok, well, thanks for reading it anyway.
My writing is very heavily influenced by T.S Eliot. Most people would say his stuff makes absolutely no sense, but its really the undertone to it, and the rhythm of it, that makes it so beautiful. I tried to emulate that.
Its not really supposed to make sense. Its more of a string of thoughts that I wrote when I was feeling a particular way.
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that was good i guess, sorta different :o
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Ma Jae Yoon fighting!!!!!!!!!!!!1111111
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Don't listen to the noobs. It was quite encaptivating.
I do think, however, that you need further practice "emulating" this style.
There should be that really eye opening "aha"-effect when reading these kind of semi stream of consciousness texts; whether it be in the sense of "I got it!" or "What did the author really mean by that?".
If it confused people to the point where they didn't get anything, you probably went about it the wrong way. The beauty of this style lies in the reader's constant open interpretation of it while reading.
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On September 29 2008 00:16 Frits wrote:
Where do I start explaining what's so bad?
-Your style is inconsistent.
-You start new paragraphs at points in the story that don't seem to require a new paragraph because it's the same nonsensical babble as the sentence before it.
-Half your sentences don't really follow the next one you can just mix the sentences around and it wouldn't matter.
-Some of it just doesn't make sense, bringing up jesus when talking about beauty and stuff? That's pretentious.
-It's just a terrible story in general.
-Stop mentioning the yellow dress so much.
-You have no idea how hilarious an expression like "flew gracefully through a windshield" is.
It's way too much like a poem for normal writing. And try to express a little more feeling and less gibberish that feels like you added it for no reason at all.
You should stfu.
I don't care how he write it but important thing is he tried to write something. if you kept feeding him negative comments he might not find the courage to write again so please.
Not to mention to share a poem is to share a piece of mind and what u said basically means "lolol your emotions and toughts are bunch of pretentious bullshit why do u even feel or think at all hahaha."
Bottom line, if you think it is terrible, bear in mind that literature is highly subjective and different people have different styles of going about things, and you should not over criticize.
Oh yeah and I hate people see something different and go "it's pretentious! I knew it!"
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On September 29 2008 00:16 Frits wrote:
Where do I start explaining what's so bad?
-Your style is inconsistent.
-You start new paragraphs at points in the story that don't seem to require a new paragraph because it's the same nonsensical babble as the sentence before it.
-Half your sentences don't really follow the next one you can just mix the sentences around and it wouldn't matter.
-Some of it just doesn't make sense, bringing up jesus when talking about beauty and stuff? That's pretentious.
-It's just a terrible story in general.
-Stop mentioning the yellow dress so much.
-You have no idea how hilarious an expression like "flew gracefully through a windshield" is.
It's way too much like a poem for normal writing. And try to express a little more feeling and less gibberish that feels like you added it for no reason at all.
What sort of authors do you read?
Can you provide any samples of your own writing?
You call the piece a story. It's clearly not a story. Explain your classification please.
How are comments like "it's a terrible story in general" supposed to be interpreted? They obviously aren't helpful - are you just trying to be abusive?
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On September 29 2008 04:01 evanthebouncy! wrote:Show nested quote +On September 29 2008 00:16 Frits wrote:
Where do I start explaining what's so bad?
-Your style is inconsistent.
-You start new paragraphs at points in the story that don't seem to require a new paragraph because it's the same nonsensical babble as the sentence before it.
-Half your sentences don't really follow the next one you can just mix the sentences around and it wouldn't matter.
-Some of it just doesn't make sense, bringing up jesus when talking about beauty and stuff? That's pretentious.
-It's just a terrible story in general.
-Stop mentioning the yellow dress so much.
-You have no idea how hilarious an expression like "flew gracefully through a windshield" is.
It's way too much like a poem for normal writing. And try to express a little more feeling and less gibberish that feels like you added it for no reason at all. You should stfu. I don't care how he write it but important thing is he tried to write something. if you kept feeding him negative comments he might not find the courage to write again so please. Not to mention to share a poem is to share a piece of mind and what u said basically means "lolol your emotions and toughts are bunch of pretentious bullshit why do u even feel or think at all hahaha." Bottom line, if you think it is terrible, bear in mind that literature is highly subjective and different people have different styles of going about things, and you should not over criticize. Oh yeah and I hate people see something different and go "it's pretentious! I knew it!"
God people like you are the worst. If he's really gonna quit over a few comments I made I doubt he's very dedicated to his writing. Better not give him any constructive criticism or he might kill himself! Why would I "stfu" when I can help him out by giving some pointers, I know how to write pretty well myself.
You sound like a fucking soccer mom, Im sure the OP isn't 12 years old, he can take it. Grow some goddamn balls.
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On September 29 2008 04:06 Freyr wrote:Show nested quote +On September 29 2008 00:16 Frits wrote:
Where do I start explaining what's so bad?
-Your style is inconsistent.
-You start new paragraphs at points in the story that don't seem to require a new paragraph because it's the same nonsensical babble as the sentence before it.
-Half your sentences don't really follow the next one you can just mix the sentences around and it wouldn't matter.
-Some of it just doesn't make sense, bringing up jesus when talking about beauty and stuff? That's pretentious.
-It's just a terrible story in general.
-Stop mentioning the yellow dress so much.
-You have no idea how hilarious an expression like "flew gracefully through a windshield" is.
It's way too much like a poem for normal writing. And try to express a little more feeling and less gibberish that feels like you added it for no reason at all. What sort of authors do you read? Can you provide any samples of your own writing? You call the piece a story. It's clearly not a story. Explain your classification please. How are comments like "it's a terrible story in general" supposed to be interpreted? They obviously aren't helpful - are you just trying to be abusive?
I don't really care for any specific writers I just read any good books I can find.
I could give you samples but they're in dutch and pretty boring academic stuff.
I guess it's not really a story but then again it's not really anything, that's the problem with it.
Yeah I guess that last one was kinda vague: what I meant was that it just seems like a few scraped together thought totally unorganised and without any serious thought put into it. It feels like it's one big mess.
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People need to stop playing literary critic and just let the man have his written piece up to be read. If you can't bear to read it then you should at least have the dignity to refrain from commenting on it, especially since it seems the author invested himself into the piece.
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just another....brick in the wall
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On September 29 2008 06:13 jellyfish wrote:
People need to stop playing literary critic and just let the man have his written piece up to be read. If you can't bear to read it then you should at least have the dignity to refrain from commenting on it, especially since it seems the author invested himself into the piece.
There is so much wrong with this comment I can't even begin to explain why.
Please take your retarded logic elsewhere and never hit the post button again.
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Nice. We did alot of Eliot in our final year of high school and your writing really reminds me of his style ^_^
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On September 29 2008 06:25 Frits wrote:Show nested quote +On September 29 2008 06:13 jellyfish wrote:
People need to stop playing literary critic and just let the man have his written piece up to be read. If you can't bear to read it then you should at least have the dignity to refrain from commenting on it, especially since it seems the author invested himself into the piece. There is so much wrong with this comment I can't even begin to explain why. Please take your retarded logic elsewhere and never hit the post button again.
Well I just don't understand why you felt like you had to spread your shit all over his post. Why did you spend so much time and attention criticizing what he wrote even though you obviously thought it sucked? If he's not a good writer and his style his pretentious and all that then what makes it your business to point it out to him in a reciprocally pretentious matter? I'm not defending his piece, I thought it was confused and unpolished and refracted; but I am defending his right to post something he wrote without it being attacked so derisively.
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On September 29 2008 07:05 jellyfish wrote:Show nested quote +On September 29 2008 06:25 Frits wrote:On September 29 2008 06:13 jellyfish wrote:
People need to stop playing literary critic and just let the man have his written piece up to be read. If you can't bear to read it then you should at least have the dignity to refrain from commenting on it, especially since it seems the author invested himself into the piece. There is so much wrong with this comment I can't even begin to explain why. Please take your retarded logic elsewhere and never hit the post button again. Well I just don't understand why you felt like you had to spread your shit all over his post. Why did you spend so much time and attention criticizing what he wrote even though you obviously thought it sucked? If he's not a good writer and his style his pretentious and all that then what makes it your business to point it out to him in a reciprocally pretentious matter? I'm not defending his piece, I thought it was confused and unpolished and refracted; but I am defending his right to post something he wrote without it being attacked so derisively.
What's there to understand, I give my opinion on his essay on a public message board end of story. So it's alright to voice your opinion if it's good but not when you think it's bad? On a message board?
In the end I am giving him something he can use while you all give pointless comments on something that you don't give a shit about anyway, at least I try to contribute. You guys are praising him while Im sure most of you see the flaws in his work, are you all terrified to get banned or something? Giving an opinion on something while using commonly accepted standards in writing is not the same as trolling.
It's funny because you are giving him a skewed view of his work while Im being totally fair but I guess that somehow makes me an asshole. Yeah I guess your teacher is an asshole too for pointing out the flaws in your work.
You guys just don't 'get' message boards I guess.
Also just because I thought it sucked doesn't mean I want him to suck. Why am I investing time in my comments? Because I want him to be better. Sometimes you gotta be an asshole when doing the right thing, you guys are pussies because you'd rather protect your pathetic internet ego's than doing what is right.
So in conclusion, I am the only useful person here except for the OP and you guys are a bunch of fascist walking vaginas. Allowing only 1 side of arguments is still bad even though it seems 'good' in this case. You guys need to control your temper and think about your argument instead of blindly writing down your feelings.
There I pointed out everything that was wrong with your comment, hopefully you will suck less at posting from now on.
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I like to write as well and I'd like to applaud you for being brave enough to post something you wrote because, frankly, it takes a lot to put something out there (that is essentially a part of you) and face criticism.
Your style of writing doesn't thrill me, but there are some gems here and there that I really enjoyed. Specifically:
"Remember how I used to kiss you? Badly, as I recall."
I know this is simple prose, but it is the frankness in the line - like some secret to which we are now privy - that appeals to me so much.
Keep writing. (I wish I still wrote often, but I don't so much anymore. It's hard work that most people don't understand).
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There are so many ironies and self-contradictions in your post I'm not even going to take my time nitpicking them, Frits. And before you go off again about how lazy and weak-willed I am, and how much I suck at posting, take a moment to compose yourself before you yourself post. By the end of your post I wasn't sure whether you were ranting at me or at everyone else combined, because it seems somewhere along the line you just got confused and attributed to me attitudes and actions I didn't show anywhere in my posts.
In a phrase, don't assume shit. There's a sharp distinction between commenting on a work and commenting on the comments, and just because I disapproved of the way in which you commented doesn't mean I disapprove of your disapproval, capisce? I never complimented his piece. Only a person with very peculiar tastes will be blind to this work's faults, three of which I mentioned in my post (which you somehow forgot). Except for that one time, I NEVER commented on this guy's piece. I was talking only to you, Frits, and never was I giving an implicit judgment of what this guy wrote. Thanks for the stereotyping, buddy.
And I very much doubt the need in this situation for you to be so condescending towards his piece; what is so wrong with being critical in the way that Rayzorblade was above? To my judgment the author would be much more receptive and thus more likely to improve if you offered advice in a gentler manner than in a curt, one sentence defamation of his work as "pretentious".
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United States1865 Posts
I think back to when I first read your poem. I smile, teeth of pearly white. Except they arent white they are yellow, and cracked. Also they are not smiling. Rape. Jesus told me about the poem. But he didn't tell me, yet he did tell me again. For the first time.
I clicked the link. It flashed. Real. Alive. No link is really alive until you click it. Unless you are dead. Jesus is dead. I weep as my dry eyes scan your words. Paragraphs. Sentences. Cracks in your grammar. The writing is too hard. The page is too white. Black is not rigged. Too pristine. Its a shit-hole. Vomiting. Jesus vomits on me. On his dress.
Let me read more. Inspiring. Loving like a Family. Family Guy on Fox at 8. Jesus is Peter Griffin. All dressed in white. Perfectly white, perfectly dead - finished. scroll down, crashing dowards the bottom of the page. Nirvana at 200 words a minute. The poem finishes. My brain raped, crushed. Brain fluid everywhere. Soul peirced. Changed. Soul fluid everywhere. Read on, Jesus begins. He does not finish. Frits. Jellyfish. Criticism? Frits is Jesus. Your criticism was perfect, horrible. I type.
Whores. They argue too much.
I post. They argue too little.
RST. Australia. Its beautiful
Your beautiful.
Jesus.
Amen.
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On September 29 2008 12:42 Atrioc wrote:
I think back to when I first read your poem. I smile, teeth of pearly white. Except they arent white they are yellow, and cracked. Also they are not smiling. Rape. JoeJesusClassic told me about the poem. But he didn't tell me, yet he did tell me again. For the first time.
I clicked the link. It flashed. Real. Alive. No link is really alive until you click it. Unless you are dead. JoeJesusClassic is dead. I weep as my dry eyes scan your words. Paragraphs. Sentences. Cracks in your grammar. The writing is too hard. The page is too white. Black is not rigged. Too pristine. Its a shit-hole. Vomiting. JoeJesusClassic vomits on me. On his dress.
Let me read more. Inspiring. Loving like a Family. Family Guy on Fox at 8. JoeJesusClassic is Peter Griffin. All dressed in white. Perfectly white, perfectly dead - finished. scroll down, crashing dowards the bottom of the page. Nirvana at 200 words a minute. The poem finishes. My brain raped, crushed. Brain fluid everywhere. Soul peirced. Changed. Soul fluid everywhere. Read on, JoeJesusClassic begins. He does not finish. Frits. Jellyfish. Criticism? Frits is JoeJesusClassic. Your criticism was perfect, horrible. I type.
Whores. They argue too much.
I post. They argue too little.
RST. Australia. Its beautiful
Your beautiful.
JoeJesusClassic.
Amen.
This is why I have my quote beneath my name as, "Atrioc, I hate you so much"
However, JoeJesusClassic approves, as you gave a few shoutouts to him in your poem.
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On September 29 2008 12:42 Atrioc wrote:
I think back to when I first read your poem. I smile, teeth of pearly white. Except they arent white they are yellow, and cracked. Also they are not smiling. Rape. Jesus told me about the poem. But he didn't tell me, yet he did tell me again. For the first time.
I clicked the link. It flashed. Real. Alive. No link is really alive until you click it. Unless you are dead. Jesus is dead. I weep as my dry eyes scan your words. Paragraphs. Sentences. Cracks in your grammar. The writing is too hard. The page is too white. Black is not rigged. Too pristine. Its a shit-hole. Vomiting. Jesus vomits on me. On his dress.
Let me read more. Inspiring. Loving like a Family. Family Guy on Fox at 8. Jesus is Peter Griffin. All dressed in white. Perfectly white, perfectly dead - finished. scroll down, crashing dowards the bottom of the page. Nirvana at 200 words a minute. The poem finishes. My brain raped, crushed. Brain fluid everywhere. Soul peirced. Changed. Soul fluid everywhere. Read on, Jesus begins. He does not finish. Frits. Jellyfish. Criticism? Frits is Jesus. Your criticism was perfect, horrible. I type.
Whores. They argue too much.
I post. They argue too little.
RST. Australia. Its beautiful
Your beautiful.
Jesus.
Amen.
Thank you for sending me into uncontrollable fits of laughter during my science lecture.
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On September 29 2008 12:42 Atrioc wrote:
I think back to when I first read your poem. I smile, teeth of pearly white. Except they arent white they are yellow, and cracked. Also they are not smiling. Rape. Jesus told me about the poem. But he didn't tell me, yet he did tell me again. For the first time.
I clicked the link. It flashed. Real. Alive. No link is really alive until you click it. Unless you are dead. Jesus is dead. I weep as my dry eyes scan your words. Paragraphs. Sentences. Cracks in your grammar. The writing is too hard. The page is too white. Black is not rigged. Too pristine. Its a shit-hole. Vomiting. Jesus vomits on me. On his dress.
Let me read more. Inspiring. Loving like a Family. Family Guy on Fox at 8. Jesus is Peter Griffin. All dressed in white. Perfectly white, perfectly dead - finished. scroll down, crashing dowards the bottom of the page. Nirvana at 200 words a minute. The poem finishes. My brain raped, crushed. Brain fluid everywhere. Soul peirced. Changed. Soul fluid everywhere. Read on, Jesus begins. He does not finish. Frits. Jellyfish. Criticism? Frits is Jesus. Your criticism was perfect, horrible. I type.
Whores. They argue too much.
I post. They argue too little.
RST. Australia. Its beautiful
Your beautiful.
Jesus.
Amen.
Hahahaha. Funniest post this entire year. Laughed out loud for 3 minutes straight.
You, sir, just hijacked this blogpost.
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On September 29 2008 04:01 evanthebouncy! wrote:Show nested quote +On September 29 2008 00:16 Frits wrote:
Where do I start explaining what's so bad?
-Your style is inconsistent.
-You start new paragraphs at points in the story that don't seem to require a new paragraph because it's the same nonsensical babble as the sentence before it.
-Half your sentences don't really follow the next one you can just mix the sentences around and it wouldn't matter.
-Some of it just doesn't make sense, bringing up jesus when talking about beauty and stuff? That's pretentious.
-It's just a terrible story in general.
-Stop mentioning the yellow dress so much.
-You have no idea how hilarious an expression like "flew gracefully through a windshield" is.
It's way too much like a poem for normal writing. And try to express a little more feeling and less gibberish that feels like you added it for no reason at all. You should stfu. I don't care how he write it but important thing is he tried to write something. if you kept feeding him negative comments he might not find the courage to write again so please. Not to mention to share a poem is to share a piece of mind and what u said basically means "lolol your emotions and toughts are bunch of pretentious bullshit why do u even feel or think at all hahaha." Bottom line, if you think it is terrible, bear in mind that literature is highly subjective and different people have different styles of going about things, and you should not over criticize. Oh yeah and I hate people see something different and go "it's pretentious! I knew it!"
Any writer worth his salt looks for feedback to gauge how his work is... Seeing as he posted it here, that would be the case
If you're not looking for that, you're better suited to keeping a little pink diary under your bed.
edit: forgot that i came here to sasy that atrioc's poem was dope, ahha
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EPT
