Post good poetry ITT

Good execution with poor concept.

in my previous life
i was a samurai
i ate bamboo
and was a samurai
i knew kung-fu
and was a samurai
i commited seppuku
no more a samurai

I call this poem "reddit spacing"

through rose-tinted glasses
through typewriter keys
through doctor's appointments
through hair on my knees

through wet autumn sidewalks
through summer's fat ticks
through winter's dead foxes
through bees in the spring

through broken glass bottles
through wooden old swings
through prescription for glasses
through melting of rings

through tunnels of a flesh
sat a man on a bench
through a flash of an eye
that man thought and said

Does a book have to be made out of paper?
A tree out of bark?
Does a car have to drive on wheels?
A poem to rhyme?

bump

A cold winter morning, and still no revelation
Everything feels like autumn
Brown leaves still skitter across the field
And hangs on the ends of branches.
Gnawing mouse trapped
In a collapsed den
Certain the snow would breach any moment
Yet eagerly storing the last morsels of damp air
As he claws the dirt
Until light breaks in at last,
And not snow.
All certainties are lost,
Frosted-tipped meadows under Dawn's weightless fingertips,
Ice daggers slice the wind.
Retreat far into the den and huddle,
Surely this is a trick,
Winter is already come.
Wait until tomorrow to be sure.

doesn't even rhyme

user posted this is the critique breab. I thought it was nice and nobody actually critiqued it, I think

Roasted Eyes; commonalities of midnights past.
Condemned to behold the wicked dreams, an utmost fantasy.
Tampered when visiting, my memory lusts after you,
A gust of fabled fiction grandeur.
Mild whispers of an evergreen pasture.
Soft leaves turning on their backs.
Revel under ol' tales and wondrous phenomena.
Drink the scapegoats sweet milk with edible iron of the bloodied paw.
Thorns never stuck so deep.
Chain mail failed to keep me dry
And it lies mystery's falsehoods akin to the merchant's charismatic side.
Spokane; the place of mythic beauty.
The elders once scowled the boy's refusal into submission.
A limit on the field of vision, cursed with branded lids and White Iris Oblivion.
Madman of the East, They call me Roasted Eyes.

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