This is the first couple paragraphs of a story I've been working on
interested in honest critique.

Neko awoke to the smell of blood. He sniffed the cool night breeze, and his ears swiveled, listening intently.
A wolfs ears were sharp and keen, but it was the nose that knew everything. The nose that had woke him from his dreams of warm summer play.
"A rabbit," Neko thought, injured and bleeding, maybe three hundred yards away upwind in the tall plains grass. Neko's stomach growled.
A wolf always knew an easy meal when he smelled one. Neko rose from his slumber stretching his powerful limbs and began to move slowly and methodically through the grass. He was careful to remain upwind. His steps fell like whispers on the soft ground.
The moon, which Neko so loved was full and bright tonight and threatened to betray him as it cast its silvery glow across the grassy landscape.
Neko's nearly white coat stood out against the yellow grass, his saving grace was the smattering of silver that ran down the center of his back and rimmed the tops of his ears.
Neko crouched deeper into the grass, and farther down into the shadows, his movement slowed to a crawl. He could hear his prey now. It was weakened but not so much that it wouldn't recover given time, or run should he miss his mark.
The rabbit had been lucky at some point earlier this evening in an encounter with a lesser predator than himself, a coyote or a fox perhaps.
However Neko had no intention of allowing his prey any reprieve from fate.
All animals great or small ended as a meal for someone, even wolves bones were picked clean in the end. Neko knew this on some primitive level but he gave it no thought, he crept closer.
The smell of the animal's blood was intoxicating. He could hear it's labored breathing.
His muscles were coiled and tense, he inched as close as he dare then suddenly,
Neko sprang swiftly and with no remorse. His jaws closed around the rabbits throat with a sharp snap, one shrill, short, squeal, and it was over.

Glassy windows stare, a house stands, holding in wait,
For a love that never came, sealed by cruel fate.
On the wind, whispers of promises fly,
For the heart that yearned, through many seasons,
Beneath the unchanging, silent sky.
He waited, aged, with a love that wouldn’t fade,
Waiting for his lover, who left him,
Until his last breath, she never came back.
She left him with a silence, a love on the wing.
The journal whispers a tale of love untold,
Of a heart that waited for its love,
And a life that grew old,
Remaining within the household until found.
Now only echoes linger, in a house by the shore,
Two souls, bound together, though forevermore apart.
Their love remained, in the breeze, passing in and out of the house.
The traveler closed the journal,
Feeling the deep longing and sadness from the dead man.
He sought to find the truth, to let the dead be at peace.
Learning the lover of the man left to find a cure for her fragile heart,
But it was too late for her fragile heart; she couldn’t come home.
And even at the last beats of her heart,
She called out to the man she left at home.

—ancn.

He gave her his heart, thinking it was safe,
believing her smiles were real, her love true.
But her words were a mask,
shadows of what she never meant to be.

He held on, even when the cracks showed,
begging her to stay, though she never stayed.
Each time she left, he believed it was his fault,
but it was only the echo of her lies.

She said he changed, became something dark,
but it was her truth that poisoned him, not his love.
In the end, he stopped pleading,
but the love he held for her never faded,
a flame that burned despite the lies.

He walked away, silence his final act,
But her memory stayed with him, a weight he couldn’t lift
He learned that love doesn’t always heal,
sometimes it just leaves you empty,
holding on to the ghost of what never was.
for in her lies, he lost more than just her—he lost the will to love

He thought love was a lie, yet still felt it inside,
He believes love is real, but not the way he once imagined it,
for it’s not beautiful—it’s pain disguised as passion.

‘Once upon a time’ -
that’s not the first line
not the start of this plot
it’s not where we start

no smart talking mirror
no scheming stepmother
no frog in a pond
no magical wand.

‘In the beginning’
and then ‘In the beginning’.
That’s the story we’ve got -
us and our God.

A row of tabs with titles in hiding,
Each one a witness to the weight of today
The clock ticks louder, each second sharp,
Echoing the resolve she’s forced to obey
When did life slip into this solemn tone?

Her hand hovers, drawn to a magazine,
Its cover untouched, still crisp and clean
She peels it open, and there it is—
The faint smell of paper, a balm for her soul.

Not pages of profit or the season’s couture,
But the world of Bobo, the blue rabbit and friends
Bright illustrations, laughter tucked in each corner,
A refuge from journals and theories that age her too soon.

Here, she remembers a simpler time,
A decade past, when her world felt lighter
This magazine, still standing, still waiting,
The same one that sparked her love for the written word.

She smiles,
Because even amidst the seriousness,
A pause is enough to bring her home.

Sending me tender kisses like airbags, softening the blows to my
heart; your service with a smile radiates warmth as I stand in line,
eager to sketch the portrait of our love— chasing after sparks, once
your heart starts to believe you’ve found the one.

Making daylight savings – to awaken with the sun, its golden rays
dance upon your cheek, radiating warmth that yearns to envelop me.
Yet, I ponder— will a touch more of this brilliance consume me, or
shall I remain alert– do I stay woke,

or…

spend most of the day in a daydream, cherishing this infatuation,
cradling it close to my heart, preserving our moments for a future
where courage blooms within me, allowing me to finally ask you to
be my wife.

“Perhaps yes, or maybe not” – I’ve pluck the petals of my choices,
now lingering on the tenth flower.

                                             I think I'm in love with you Daisy.

LOTP vo[ɑ]miting verses; a strikingly formi—
[life of the party]
—dable, non-stop rising reserve in
terms of thrills & bliss-providing emotions
a megamart of endorphins in bo[ɑ]dily form, b#tch
an ultimate source of blast, like a bunch of explosives (kaboom!)
you're gonna need an ophthalmo[ɑ]logist service
in the wake of getting an eyeful of A̲[ɔ]ll this
inner li̲ght that I glO̲w with
like a ****** pI̲ne box that's furnished
with LEDs; I̲'ve got a story; it's co[ɑ]mic but... morbid
[consider yourself warned]
[blast, explosives, gunner ("go[ʌ]nna"), (a) wake, ****** pine box]
[get the picture?]
————————————————————————————————
awakened early, go[ɑ]t
out of bed, did some daily morning stuff
wet my somewhat dehydrated gorge with squa[ɑ]sh
then decided to take a morning wa[ɑ]lk
strolling through some great, sun-glowing spo[ɑ]ts
I notice twain alluring gals perambulating shoulder ta
shoulder, all murked out: make-up, clothing, lo[ɑ]cks
[murdered out]
and with their faces dolorous
think: "why are they so jO̲Y̲-bankrupt?"
after taking notice o[ʌ]f
the twosome, like a well-proportioned bo[ɑ]d
["toothsome"]
I put on a Ledger Joker mug
["mug" in the sense of "face"]
mask, outflank 'em, then make my way toward these go[ɑ]th-
-reminding lasses from behind in a sly-a## fashion
just li̲ke those dashing cowl-disguised assassins
[assassins from the "Assassin's Creed" franchise]
O̲nce I'm close enough, like self-sacrificing soldiers o[ʌ]f
islam, I explode releasing the co[ɑ]ntent noted 'bove
bawl: "LIT MORNING, QUIT MOURNING!"
so ear-piercing-lY̲ as thO̲U̲gh my nuts
were being twisted, hI̲t, then blown apart
they seemed to bE̲ in total sho[ɑ]ck
had these two squealing so **** hard
you'd think it's a visual-glory-o[ɑ]b—sessed princess woken up
and seen herself in a mirror old with rucked
skin; the ground's pretty firm & rough
with some edgy stones sticking
out behind 'em; while backwards-stepping, both trI̲p on
those freaking stones, then dro[ɑ]p
like a high-schooler's jaw when he gE̲ts a clO̲se view o[ʌ]f
a centerfoldesque fo[ɑ]x occupied wI̲th her yoga stuff
in the wake of tripping, bO̲th end up
with the backs of their bE̲A̲ns split open, blood
streaming, like getting stuff shown by li̲vestream
stand next to their figures frozen up
like a software piece, while both lie dying
find a lipstick in one of the dismal gI̲rls' pants' front
pocket, then make it look like both died smiling
awaken in the bedroom quarters o[ʌ]f
mine, it's dark, night; I̲ hit
the lamp's switch, then hear: "YOU JOKER SCHMUCK!"
said in a loud, low-pitched, fiend-like tone; my mI̲nd in
that moment's still in sleeping mO̲de somewha[ʌ]t
which is grounds for why I̲ deemed
it's a wicked version o[ʌ]f
that bat guy here to get me iced; turn my sI̲ght in
["Dark Knight", i.e. the Batman; "Heath" (Ledger), who played the Joker]
[in "The Dark Knight" film; "bad guy", which ties in with "wicked"]
the voice's direction & see the murked-out broa[ɑ]ds
proceeding towards my sI̲de with
their **** peepers glowing blood-
-red, like "s'prI̲se, *****!"
like a Negroni, I stare at 'em thinking: "coldish slug!"
["ice there"; the "Negroni" drink is served with ice; also, it's red]
["coldish slug" - "holy f#ck"; "slug" in the sense of "shot of drink"]
[which ties "coldish slug" in with the ice-served "Negroni"]
utter a loud-voiced cry frightened
witless, or as much
as these goth girls fro[ʌ]m mY̲ dream
then I get pulled out of that creepy horror stuff
by the second awaking as I bawl: "F#CK! DIE, FIENDS!"