Poetry critique thread

a bit of prose i wrote in french. Would love to have some feedback from french speakers

"Encore un après-midi désert. Encore la pluie, qui voudrait bien dire quelque chose mais qui se contente de murmurer sur les vitres. Où que j’ailles dans la maison, c’est toujours le même chant lointain qui m’accompagne. Une incantation, qui roule contre le toit et qui se glisse dans toutes les pièces. Quand c’est comme ça et que je me retrouve toute seul, je reste longtemps sur mon lit. Je ferme les yeux et je laisse ma conscience se réveiller. Elle sort, timide, de sa torpeur – il lui faut du temps pour s’habituer au noir. Dans l’obscurité, je commence à distinguer des formes. C’est la pluie – qui est là et qui n’est pas là, comme sur une vielle photo. Des taches fuyantes, des traits - La noirceur immobile entre en mouvement. Bientôt, il n’y a plus que du noir et du blanc – les couleurs du silence. Mes pensées dansent avec la pluie. Elles épousent la trajectoire des gouttes, elles tombent avec elles, elles meurent sur les vitres. Mon esprit inonde tout le jardin et bientôt toute la ville – il arrose les passants et la terre sèche des bords de route. C’est le murmure de mes pensées que j’entends taper contre les vitres. Je suis cette pluie – qui glisse sur les choses et les gens sans jamais les saisir. Une seconde, je tombe, puis celle d’après je forme une flaque. Je suis cette pluie – se mouvant partout, toujours changeante, toujours fluide. Un instant se fige, je suis suspendue entre terre et ciel.
Je rouvre les yeux. Juste pour vérifier. Je les referme."

—Verdunt—

The meadows where our bodies lay
were torn apart by blackberries
we hid & danced, then ran away
when clouds had read our histories

and when the rain restores the Life we burnt
I’ll show you love in a handful of dirt.

>Open there do to here

Not even going to critique if you can't even use proper syntax to make sentences. This is the only place it occurs. Proofread your work before submitting.

Clever turns of phrases. Good word choice. Good flow. Great example of what free verse can do.

this is great

Not bad but histories is a difficult to rhyme with

Thanks. I know. I've been trying to write a few poems that use heavy allusions and metaphors to make a time/place feel like it's seperated; as if there are precisely two ways the poem could be read.

This is another I'm working on;. It's literally about an abused lover, while the metaphorical reading is that France was drunk with dictators and Kings and inebriated by hopes of revelation, only to be subjugated once again.

Revolution*

"Is a difficult word to"

>toute seul
trap?

Doing a series of portraitures dressing scenes faintly in the images of women in omage to the Earth. My most recent one, how is it?

Read Dermont Healy for inspiration if you haven't done so already.

Come Spit ball poetry
For all eyes to see
Watch your aim it may sting
Words are bling
When you step into this ring
As Monkeys shit fling
The birds may learn to sing

Co developed, revolutionary
Birds and the bees, give us our money
Monkeys and beast, learn to feast
As pairs, we are the first and last
Come and have a line, and make it fast

Something I'm working on tonight, I just write stream of consciousness when I'm high without going back to revise until I'm finished.

You led me out of the city
Foundations, streets, and stone
You, all pale and pink and pretty
Back to your flower home

On the banks of those glassy creeks
I tasted in stupor
Lemon eyes, pomegranate cheeks
And cotton-candied lips

Birds, insects, bugs and trees
Joined our dreamy picnic
And felt you melting on your knees
Now you're wonderfully sick.

I know this isn't the purpose of this thread however, has anyone read Clarel by Meville and how did they go with the countless biblical and geographical references it makes?

Bump this post back to the top
So shitty crits again shall drop

revised it:

—Verdunt—

The green hills where our bodies lay
were torn apart by blackberries
we hid & danced, then ran away
when clouds revealed our histories

and when the rain restores the life we burnt
I will show you God in a handful of dirt.

I used to be ravaged by acrid
jealousy for the
Blessed ones--
princes of vast domains of
carelessness. I wanted to
dirty the smooth glass of their
minds, shape them into something
gnarled. I watched them all for years, spent the
dregs of my mind on them.

Now I am prematurely old, wracked with
fever and
weakness. My body is a wraith, a stumbling, crawling
thing. Mind going, too, in
fits and bursts--words lost, time and
times.
I feel as though I shall be crowned a newborn king, of
suffering. I wear the rose-needles upon my temple, I
cry in ecstasy, my vision
sprayed upon my wall of
mind.

I am dissolute and mad, I will be
famous for this
dumb, deaf dance, this
whirling into
stasis and decrepitude

Who knows my name? Let it ring out--I am the
King. I died so I could
live in hearts and minds

I went invisible, I went insane

Who knows me now? Please, lend an ear, a mouth, a
brain. Please learn my
name.

It hurts so much

Just say that you missed me, at the least

I won't ever know if you're telling yourself not to hear me, and telling you this won't ever make you stop

How else do I end this misery besides closure

What is this weight upon my soul?

It only returns when the hope of being with you is given oxygen.

I feel as if we are a wardrobe of childish toys, spiders and promises unspoken that are forever discarded.

I wish I understood the armor you wear to protect your self from me.

I lash out in frustration and malice. a mace of emotion to try displace what you built. unbroken.

I hoped I might have had a room within your heart where a light bulb glowed. stowed away, unnoticed

Unfortuanlty it appears I was wrong. I found this room but it was empty. dark, damp left abandoned.

No hope, just a cold stare is it yours? is this opinion you have formed completely of your own design?

How can it have changed so rapidly to being bent like a rusty nail that you have hit too many times with your grief

Am I shifting the blame away from my own despicable actions?

Rumours and cousins the dagger you forged to stab yourself in the back. ripping holes large holes of already decomposing temptation.

Time has not been kind to my mind as I sit here the everlasting oxygen keeping the heat of my ambition afloat.

I contemplate should I give in to what is obvious. reality will one day set in. opening my blind old eyes to the realization.

You have moved on.

I liked it but:
-there are lovely images put together, but it seems kind of forced.
-your references don't really add that much. e.g., the last line: what you gain is much weaker than what you lost by breaking the metical pattern

Have you ever seen the film misery?

i scratched my ass today

tiny fibres of shit stained my fingers which
i put to my pink lips
and tasted
with my tongue's spittle,
my tongue stained from whiskey
and beer

the shit on my fingers tasted bad and i
am tired, it is 4 A.M
and i have work in the morning at
8:30 A.M.

i scratched my ass today and
i drank whiskey and beer.

i thought of calling a whore, but didn't,
because i have to pay my electric bill and also
need the gas money if i can get my car back.
public transit makes me want to jerk off
on my mother's big titties

i look at the clock and it is 5:30 A.M
bed now

see ya

gonna give these threads a go

Bold bricks sway
Foundations cater
The gummy flick of a wrist
Gives way to my metre
There are walls made of eyes
There are eyes cemented in walls

Distance crawls
Bleats yawn off
Into the single breath of eternity

You stand
I fall
Making way for the new
Piling onto the used

Simian’s #3

You were born
with (statistically)
no chance

You were born
into soft noise
and sickness

What good is
what little
quiet that
remains?

against the
onslaught of
glowing screens
and hyper-present
noise, outlined
in neon

These days
you nurture
all you have
left of your
animal hurt

Fueling an
acid flux,
a nausea
at the seat
of yr soul,
an anti-
Kundalini,
Sit with it
and hold it
like a secret,
like a poison
that loves u
too closely, that
licks behind ur
ears like a
wayward flame-
child,
a friend that
nobody else
has

Too much abstract, where is the concrete?

A poem is not philosophy, it is a painting in word form. Don't tell me what the ponder, explain what to ponder.

Read more Plath

I read a fair amount of poetry OP, and, I must say, this is actually good.

There are a few minor things which can be worked out, but you have talent which can be refined to produce art.

In your poem there is powerful imagery using few words, a strong yet elusive rhythm, and, perhaps most importantly, a component of the feeling things are being left unsaid - which gives the poem re-readability.

I encourage you to keep writing and to familiarize yourself intimately with poetry.

Fair trade for an allusion to The Waste Lands imo

a sundown miracle

your coat pockets are full
of froot loops
and energy.

a math professor
coughs up a peninsula.

dream again
dream again
dream again

united child
laugh up a spire
and spit proudly
into silver gene pools.

seventy nunchuck
frown girl surprise
aimless barefoot mannequin
leech tomorrow!

this is lovely, thank you for sharing.

The ending is in horribly bad taste. Don't be so uninspired as to end your poem as a parody of well-known lines.

Do you know what this makes of you? It makes you an afterthought - a feeble, comic shadow of your better.

FIND YOUR OWN VOICE!

bait

Now hes 25 and hes never felt love
hes scared and alone and hes drunk in the dark
holes in his shoes mirror holes in his heart he laughs when he talks but Im falling apart
Stop the car let me out
dont care if we're still states away
Ill walk and Ill walk till the memories fade
no more liquor for boredom
no more liquor for pain
the salt and the roof and the memories fade

It really isn't.

thank you.
not quitting my day job but definitely committing more time to it.

A Confession, by C.S. Lewis

I am so coarse, the things the poets see
Are obstinately invisible to me.
For twenty years I’ve stared my level best
To see if evening–any evening–would suggest
A patient etherized upon a table;
In vain. I simply wasn’t able.
To me each evening looked far more
Like the departure from a silent, yet a crowded, shore
Of a ship whose freight was everything, leaving behind
Gracefully, finally, without farewells, marooned mankind.

I was refuting Eliot. There is no fear in dirt. The dead aren't fearful . They are dead, and turning into grass.

Incomplete

Lush green leaves and bark of brown
grow up on hills beside a river
murky with the waste of town.

Cold air streams by old, red cinder
blocks, which crumble from old age,
and barren brush that's much like tinder.

Grey fog creeps in over sage-
green eyes and light-blue skies
which turn the golden sun a hollow grey.

Roads which lead to greater heights
are seeped with murk and cast in fog
and crumble as forgotten lives.

Oh will thou judge my words with secret bore
If they don't sound as sweetest melody
Or will thy eyes in loathe for me implore
Thy urgent need to lack my company
Of roses nearly I forget to Speak
Thine beauty steals my voice, gentle thief
And only murmurs I can sharply shriek
As courage fades and lends but weak relief
Two fallen angels, lost in simple stare
Forget that love in tyrrany proclaim
'No sound nor light in my presence shall dare
To shine against my glowing rich domain'
In truth, believe me, I do love you mute
For love is silent whilst he plays his flute

Yes I'm pretentious as fuck but so is all Veeky Forums
First sonnet I made trying to copy Shakespeare's sonnets
Also English is not my first language

Your rhyme is steady, your syllable count is consistent, but you don't have a very fluent meter. The nuances of poetry come from metrical patterns within the form, ie if you have a two syllable word iamb, try inserting another four syllables after, two syllables after, or in the same place in the following line. Establishing a consistent metrical pattern within a steady meter and rhyme is what makes the difference between a poem and poetry. This can also be used with internal rhymes which meet on specific syllabic counts within the meter; ie within sixteen syllables, have every fourth syllable meet on a specific sound or foot. (Use that specific technique to create a momentary tension in the verse.) Just remembered your words are musical in poetry and you are in essence creating a song. A song which relys solely on time in rhyme and count is great but the ability to divide the music into overlying rhythms and signatures is what define true music from the average poet.

I'll critique in the next post

My girlfriend has pretty hair, so here's one about it

The golden hair of yours
Oh, how it drapes cliche
In time, despite a temperance fair
I deplore how a shimmer will come to fade

Your mothers plight
and Dave, he knows the same
To come so far, A Saddened Sight
But these poems shall never fade

I'm the op in in here, can you critique any of mine?
Do I have a knack for it? I do it intuitively and do not study.

This a good shit poem

Like if you're after the very contemporary poems, that I personally don't like, Yeah, it's pretty good. Better than average

You're going alright, got imagery going a nice amount. Can't give a big critique on incomplete work though, I'll just say I like the imagery and I'll leave it at that

You're going pretty good, only criqtue is pretty much what the other guy said. But that's only the case because it's a sonnet,, needs to be pretty strict rhythmically, Maybe a touch more imagery combined with the rhythm could turn it into a great sonnet

Try to be more meticulous and work on rhythm, that's would be my first piece of advice

Steady meter held in rhyme, no notable foots or devices used and the subject is very bland and uninteresting. It speaks no volumes but only personal injections. Speak of the truest form of your subjects and see the wholeness within, not the skin of the ideas you wish to contain.

Thanks user, happy new year, best wishes from a stranger in a foreign country.
I can only give you my gratitude

I mean this thread. and here is a fresh og i just spit out.
they call me the prose ego, the call my the rose eagle
I soar like a growing rose, bud in the lovers garden.
I know what, I was to say
I see it in my mind, the nature of all beauty,
Open, before me and I gaze like an eagle on prey.
I hunger for the final act of this flower play.
I mourn like a changing face, lost in the lines of lace.

I know why I came today
I move like pros move, I dance
with music and sound, then as my forever lore.
As before me, a musician on pay, strikes thunder for the final act of our stay.

Fair, very fair critique. Think I've missed the mark, alot of my poems I write particularly for my girlfriend, which in terms of correlated to decent poetry more often than not misses the mark

I'll post some more, ill go for an objectively better one

No problem, it's advance advice, and may only truly be achieved in your native tongue, hut it's something to absolutely strive for. Never forget the music, never forget the image. Combining both is difficult. Mastering the two will take a lifetime. Stay at it. Best of luck my friend. And happy New year's.

I think I might fall into similar problems with this. I'm writing from a bit of a niche with my girlfriend being the sole consumer usually. Might post some more solid stuff later on

Bereft I lay against
The washing tide upon
A crashing shore of silted mess.
The harbour sun shining bright
In fickle folly bearing dense.
Afar i gaze and many same.

Idle swilling sharply starts
Among the hordes, a stale
Stench and belly laugh.
Downing ales, laxing
Brooding, stirring farce

I pay patronage
To neither church or public house.
In shadows of grit and steam
We grew, we fought and dreamed
Another striking cause espoused

Stupendous views do not await
Our water front of slick and smog
But in the harbours sun we bask
A hand by hand endearing march
Golden sun among the port
Rife of sweat and grease
My golden girl,
The melancholy dream is thwart.

Nothing wrong with personal poetry. But there's a certain lack of mysticism and bewilderment in poems which don't emody the largest aspects of their subjects. Take breaks in between poems, read poems in between, and when you come back you'll see where you were small and how you can enlarge your ideas and images. It's a matter of willingness to improve, and you can certainly reach it.

I don't get it

Like I'm guessing the other person who is still critiquing said. Abstractions, they aren't that great in poetry. I could write an essay about this, but your own research would be fruitful

I feel like you tried to emulate and pulled it off poorly

Like, all I'm saying is wrote this poem with a girl in mind. But the only notes of personality are held in the nuances of the wording and the atmosphere of the image. I'm not saying my poem is better nor that it's great, but just that the particular point I'm trying to suggest is being used there. Find aspects in the grander scheme of the subject and you will find a more poetic way to envoke them than quite specific and personal details which lack imagery and scope.

That's where I'm getting at that I've missed the mark, it's was meant to be just a very simple sentiment, and I think it's just come off poorly

Lies lies fed to my brain
You so lie so much even if the truth were told I'd think the truth was insane

Words words mean nothing at all to you
Words just count in your head 1 2 3 and 2

Believe believe me I'm telling it real
Why would words, morality I care about given to a liar you steal

It's alright, I'm giving professional level advice, not for the average sentiment. If she loves them, write em my man.

Pour

It's like this: a girl comes
and sits next to you,
flashes her teeth like a lioness.

You give her a glass from your heart

The first drink & we're all smiles,
you're unsure. This all seems
familiar
she asks for another. You pour another.

She's a little drunk and
you're a little drained
running out of tricks,
anemic in your plays

The third drink does it,
she's giving you the eyes
that say 'come back to me,
pour yourself in mine'

by the hand we go
facing sunrises with trepidation
into cheap hotels
without reservations

clothes slip off
well-oiled by your tongue,
your heart becomes
a little more undone

in morning facing dawnlight
she begins to see
received all you could give her
she begins to leave

Before you even start
to talk of love (and the part
that she'd drank so heavily)
She's gone, you're naked—now

Empty

I appreciate it. Decent advice in a poetry thread is hard to come by

I feel this is more of a narrative, not really much imagery, poetic techniques or much rhythm. Rhetoric and rhmye are there, but that is probably the least important part of the poem

That was the point. The initial part and the final part were meant to be unstructured and free verse. Its a narrative poem. The rhyme is there to make it flow, a representitive of how the night flows when one is enamoured. The final two stanzas don't rhyme as easily (or at all) to reflect the dissonance of that uneasy moment.

Purposefully kept it unmetered, though I did use an iambic dimeter/trimeter for the climax (pun unintended) starting with the "clothes slip off" ancephalous line. This was sortof intentional.

Does it come off as maybe a touch cliche? I find something off putting about the whole thing, can put my finger on it

Definitely felt a little cliché while writing it—but life is cliché. I wanted to write something a little bit relatable tonight when I was feeling depressed and despondent. There's certain enjambments that I can't use in Veeky Forums that I feel are pretty important. Last line has more white space that puts Empty all the way on the right. 'Familiar' lines up directly under 'Unsure' so that they are close in proximity; to reflect that they are rhyming words but also to emphasize that the speaker has been through this before.

I am not a great poet, but I do these little things for myself and share them on Veeky Forums when I am able to.

I understand.
I will give you props for lack of abstraction and getting a rhythm with no meter

I appreciate you, user, for reading my poetry

Oh boy, time for some drunken crits. Happy New Years. These are my shitty poems in case people were wondering

(yeah, I know I'm an asshole for posting before critting. w/e, go fuck yourselves)

kill instances of "that" or "the" to free up feet for more descriptive words. I suffer from this problem too; too many particles. Yeah, I know it helps with rhythm but you can be more creative about it.

>the pile
>these sobs
>the huge laugh
> that knew that
>the chain gang

cmon user. I like your use of hyphen at 'in-to'. i see what you were trying to do and I appreciate the fuck out of it.

>the the the the the the the
see above. Unless its singular and means something special, aka unique, criticize every instance of "the" within your poem. If it doesn't need to be there, excise it.

phrases that I didn't like:
>so you too

yeah thats about it. liked everything else. especially:

>you crumpled there in the rain heavy lilacs
>eyes and mouth filled with dirt

why do you gotta do this to me user—I am not ready for these feels.

Je ne sais assez de francias, mais j'ai aimé tout que je comprenais.

this is the kind of shit that children think up when they are asked to make poetry. Like the user before me critted, rhymes are the least important part. Also, memes.

actually fucking good. sober editing will help you. pay attention to these lines in particular:

>You, all pale and pink and pretty

remove and

>I tasted in stupor

revise entire line

>Now you're wonderfully sick.

good idea, needs revision. keep it very similar though.

Had to look to see if this was a plagiarized poem. Its good, but on the level of some of the shittier poems that famous people put out. Too much emphasis on enjambment and no regard for rhythm or meter. In fact, its pissing me off because you have this ability to enjamb wherever you want, and you choose to do so on fucking particle words or pronouns. Pay attention to first AND last word when you pick when to mash that fucking enter key. Fucking Rupi here.

Good word choice, tho

save it for the blog posts. read more poetry. try again

(hope you find love that doesn't shit on you)

i despise the word gummy if it doesn't include residue right afterwards.

>metre

fuck off back to england

>There are walls made of eyes
>There are eyes cemented in walls

:eyeroll:

>Making way for the new
>Piling onto the used

rewrite the poem using this line for inspiration. Its the best part.

dont be afraid to split words across lines. i see that you were going for a solid rectangular shape with your poem ( commendable) but if e e cummings can say fuck it to enjambment, so can you. Use symbols for and (&) to give it more aesthetic.

last line confused me. its hard to put into words, I know, but you gotta try for us all.

>surrealist post modern garbage.

thanks for calling my poem garbage, you reminded me to take the trash bins in.

My veins are heavy,
filled with lead and
ice,
burning with the
sharp tongue of dense
metals.
The flame that
cannot be quenched
is a
demonic flame--
that which is eternal is
unnatural. The smell of
formaldehyde accompanies. Dust
lays on all the surfaces
in the house.

You could say I’m
scared, but it’s simply a
sensation--cold water where my
heart should be, slower
pumps as I walk toward
it. The metal is dull, the
wood worn. The wood is
like all the wood in the
house. My heart slows
as I walk toward it.
There’s a whine in the
air, cutting electric. But
so’s everything. I don’t
know what means any-
thing, when to react,
where I am. Looking at
the gun, I have a weary
feeling. I know that this
is a trap. I taste gunpowder
in my mouth, and images
flash through my mind
like choppy video.
I tried
suicide--once, or more,
and it didn’t work. Like a
video game that
sets you back levels,
wipes your memory.

Each dream gets colder and
colder, night by
night. It takes a pronounced
effort to remember them.
There’s a will to
will. Mine is gone, or
dormant. This dream
flashes quickly in the
theater at the back of
my skull. Something
about the lithium
created at the end of the
beginning of the
universe.
I was an alchemist. I was
trying to figure out a way
to survive off that,
grinning like an
athlete.

thanks for the crit, i really do need work on enjambment . i still kinda write poetry like it's prose

History is over

I have a hard time
focusing, sometimes

Late summer rain no
longer means “late summer
rain,” because History is
over, History is
history

But as I was saying,
there was a late
summer rain building
towards what might
be a climax, but …

and there was an
orange light
shooting through the
puddles

I saw her standing
there, only five feet
from me

But that’s the thing
about distances

These days, distances
are all that
matters but they are
defined in multiple
arguments, or attributes
like a line of code

Distances are defined()
in a different way
now that the past
is dead
now that the future
stretches before my
lonely eyes like the
lit-up screens in a
BestBuy

Like the

best bargain in an
empty store full
of
nowhere people

Part 2

That was the year
that I couldn’t
sleep, and also couldn’t
die

Actually it was just
that I realized
I would never get
to attend my own
funeral, therefore
death seemed like
another
bad performance
in a
series
of attention-seeking
acts--draw a straight
line from me squirting
chocolate milk
out of the
sides of my
mouth in middle school
to this maudlin
finale

Also I was scared
as shit
I didn’t want to live
particularly, with this
dull throb, but
I also couldn’t
pull the
trigger

Hell, i was scared

enough shooting
at paper targets
Muzzle-flash and
force , demons
summoned singed
and air-rending

When you shoot,
the air is out of
place, the street
is in yr house, the
wheel is frozen
in midair--yr heart
is chrystallized

That smell is like
the goddamned
Devil leaving
a tracer round
in a cig

Everyone ducked

And me, I had a
guide, he firmly
grabbed my hands,
guided my grip,
showed me where
and when to
pull

Everybody moved
4. (post-script)
I hate
you,
for not
having the
strength to
hold the rope--
or not
loving me
enough
You could have
at least
supported me
leaving this
world, you left
me
not-hanging

I welcome
the hate
you stir in
me, it’s like a
communion
Burn through
me again
and again
Clench and
unclench me,
leave me
holding the
broken rope,
staring into the
mirror, waiting
for a lover
who could
end me,
wading in the
white noise
of the edge
of my mind,
the liminal
space taunting
me like a
schoolyard
poet

I'm sure its very clever inside your head, but readers on Veeky Forums have no fucking clue what your childhood references and high school memes refer to.

That first part, "my veins are heavy, filled with lead and ice" sounds so similar to me that I wonder if we came to the same place. I use it to describe the feeling of being in trouble, the feeling of receiving awful news, etc. In fact, right before I switched tabs i had written something like "__'s veins went cold." before junking it because it sounded basic. I thin you should find a better way to say it, with almost the same words (dont say lead and ice, use one of the two. I'd use "her veins feel filled with lead" or something, but honestly, when I write that I don't feel the pride of a good sentence). I'll leave the rest of the poem to someone else.

My statement stands - trite and uninspired. That wasn't a refutation, it was an infant squealing at its father.

And?

Lewis' name is not a seal of artistic merit. I would tell Lewis the same I told the user, save I wouldn't have to - he would know. I don't believe for a second Lewis wrote poem and considered it profound. He wasn't an arrogant man.

an ikea salad

been bamboozled another by that moonslinging son of a whip-crack. one of these 3:36 pm’s i’m gonna wake with cake on my throat. speed racer earning some greasy simoleons, he does. grendall kirchner aimless and true mumbles his way into rightless eternities. my elbows grungy up to the idea of wingless avocadoes. please be told you are one buddy walleye in this fling-up parade. you are my rastaman from iceland with golden fingertips.

weightless birds with lego blood dance towards infernal burger joints. like 30 times the bunsen burner feeds the viagra babies in pepsi. with my lighter i set the mosaic mirror on fire. georgia peach in georgia font. keep on surgeon on for those mink iron answers. billy eyed bluebelly really ought to do something about this.

tennis elbow johnny manhunt lily willow steal this heart of water bells. the stream seems false. verify your freedom condition with your freedom identification. who do you think you are smoking space shuttles in the blossom pie night? the future takes you where? ablaze’n din and even ablaze’n lulls. the task manager is a task. go back to your home.

Less drugs user, I implore you.

Kinda works as 2 fragments but it's hardly cohesive. I cut all the stuff I didn't like:

I burned at the feast.
Gather my wax into water:
see the droplets form,
watch the shapes.
Pour me onto your page
and cover the words.

Gather the last third of yourself and
send it off on a raft,
into the childhood weeds, the mint, the purple loosestrife.
Crumpled in the rain heavy lilacs, filled with dirt.
And decompose into the moss;
learn to die and let the snow melt
from those ancient boughs about you.

Much better. Still don't like so many "the's" in the poem, even now that I am sober.

Don't like that you removed and revised my favorite line, though. It feels weaker now.

Sorry. I didn't like "Eyes and mouth filled with dirt" followed immediately by "see" but then I cut that out, so the line could go back. Idk really; it's not my poem. I'll post one of mine next.

>Open there doo there

Wrote this in an inspiration thread a while ago about pic related
If you turn away,
I’ll turn away.
(Your orange dress and all
the hidden colors of your hair
drag me out, heavy-fisted
with ropes. The lines
of your neck curve like owl feathers,
and from this angle
I wouldn’t be able to see any talons.)
If you turn away,
I’ll turn away too.

You didnt do her justice, user, desu. There is not a shred of impressionism in the poem, so >pic unrelated.

Almost makes me want to try something along those lines myself, although I am making something else right now.

It's called Ekphrastic poetry. Give it a try, you might find it fun.

>Ekphrastic poetry
I am referring to expressionism (I mistakenly said impressionism, damn) I literally do nothing but descriptions of painting these days, so you dont have to tell me twice.

Posted in last thread, to mixed response. Let's see if it's better this time.

...

The pristine cot is cool with novel sheets
known to many beds and many nights, cursory
in the cursives kept in pages 'pon pages, each
a set, which, paired as dancers met 'til the next piece,
extinguish little of the singe the hand feels through
their elmwood-ashes rough of paper-linen fibres.

The meagre cushion feigns hospitality,
its iodine imprint is a mâché ring of hell
or else an other burial site of pluméd things,
whose reddish earth would hide a bloodstain easily.

The treacherous give of the matress bears through hours
a self-sustaining wake that must remain undiscovered.

awe yea I open a photo album I found under my bed
uhhuh, The dusty, leather cover decaying and smelling of the years
awe yea baby Regrets mingling with my tears
as I methodically turn the pages, you see
I like to dress up in REALLY tight underwater pumpkin beavers...
and I take a deep, painful breath
Because staring back at me from the tattered oragami licences
oh baby yea Are black and white visions of faraway hearts uh huh
Mistakes where made and moments lost
But I take the blame all for myself
awe yea You see, sobody's done messed up
my latvian women's soccer team fantasy REAL bad,
oh pagers make of cheese,
Isn't that cute? The fluffy pumpkins I mean
you can't HANDLE the fluffy pumpkins...
If I could just steal away one
tender moment from my past
And trap it in my heart
ohhhhhhh baby It would unravel the regrets
woven deep into the tapestry of awe yea baby my life
awe yea the Whiteness glimmers in

if you want me on less drugs, i'm starting with my Invega (antipsychotic).

BAKA how can somebody still believe the meds meme in the conterporary-date year