Poetry Critique Thread

harshly did the ire cry
'neath such seldom midnight choir,
loosely clutched in untold psalm,
half-mouthed crutch that darkles tall
in tepid spire, tumescent fire

quite impressed with the last three poems and the second

Honestly, the double hath and disturbeth bits are real distracting.

Real potential, I wish I had context. It'd likely make me dig it much more.

Flowers and youth, it's been done to death.

Pretty fucking good, user.

Hope she was a good lay

Not bad

Good shit

>wish I had context. It'd likely make me dig it much
Thanks
I was thinking about the metaphysical conflicts between the young and the old, and how our world is asome sort fever dream created by revolutions and yhe pursue of stability.

I'm assuming it's suppose to be
>when the last

Really reminiscent of Eliot. Solid images, economic verses. Great poem, user

pretty amateur shit here fellas

If the moon sinks
Beyond all plumb reason
I care not to think
Of the madness evinced within me

Her white breasts bow in the night
Like a gasoline-soaked beauty
Whose burning habit weeps light
And scarcely covers her pale form

Above the moor she dances
The stars seem no more than distractions
From Diana’s romance
And a crescendo carried in the wind

But with my head bowed I shield my fears
And hide my thoughts from passing years

Good, but everything is ruined in the fifth verse

i mean my poem is amateur shit lol, the rest of these are pretty good actually :-)

Really interesting use of the language

You provide some original imagery, very nice

mind your likeness
to desert skin,
removed of all human qualities
except for the sly
movements of a tongue
so dripping with loathing
forgotten by beauty unadorned.
Who's angel hair falls out
with every nod,
who's cordovan wonder light
shines primer greygreenblue
through the mote in your two eyes.

So kneel so pray--
keep your built up lighthouse
tethered to the inside, not the outside.
So sit there and nod until
time's lullaby sings you pale
and the starlight searcher shines
no more.
Gone are the boats in your harbor,
lost in the rock emotion current,
tiny waves, the bodies break.
So kneel in your brown
cloud of string wasting
away on the sand,
and dream of the mote
that begins to fill my eyes

My memories are tiny grains, like footprints on the beach
The waves come in and wash away the ones just out of reach
Slipping through my fingers no matter how I close my hand
I can't retain my memories, like tiny grains of sand

Kinda good

Angel's hair noonono

Just bad

Very good

Very interesting

The wait

Tire I rest
At the front sit
Waiting to emerge
The lake monster
YES he is Free
YeS

I'm shackled to a heavy task, it chains me to the floor
There's no point in breaking free, I've tried and failed before
And failure's all I'm good at; Failure's all I've ever known
The scars left by my chafing cuffs, the cold and chiseled stone
I escape into my peaceful mind where I can find reprieve
Alas, too soon begins the hurt and once again I grieve
I'm tired from the torture and I wish that I were free
But it seems as though the dungeon's keep has other plans for me

The creation

The uncaused moment that is this comma,
is the bough that for, but, a moment sways,
as only its motion relates the day,
beyond the bars that this sonnet infers,

as the mellifluous light of morning,
inters his eyes within this space of time,
without that joy, undeterred by this rhyme,
where he smiles in a way, just seeming,

to hint at a skull, which only relates
to his past, this poem finds so distractive,
unlike that bough which, for a moment, stays,

within its rhythm, or its beginning
to end. And it ends. And then there is life.
And the mellifluous light of evening.

I like it, it reminds me of Shel Silverstein.

This is a different style from my usual, I thought it may have been a bit too on the nose. What do you think?
I wrote these as well.
Thanks for the feedback so far.

Wrote this drunk and in a hurry. Edited sober. Its a revolutionary idea, or so I'm told.

The Loner's Bar

Our eyes betray our stoic trance;
a sadness infiltrates, disguised
as quaint looks off to the distance —
a happiness again denied.

And though love won’t be coming in
we will try to drink a little.
Maybe tomorrow, we’ll again
steel our hearts to be less brittle

Teach ourselves lies that we’ll repeat
drifting in — off — alone to sleep

I have a whole series in this theme. Let me know if it's shit or if anyone wants to see more.

Slovenly, bedshackled
and indifferent.
My matted mange clings
to the covers
in dowdy, mismatched socks;
I am the slothlord.

Stoicistic and dullen,
I reach for a cup of water
over the course
of several minutes.

The rain! It scatters sputters
On a billowed white canvas.
Otherwise invisible without the backdrop
To evince its mood.

Not like the snow (fat and
cantankerous), nor like the Hail!
Shrapnel that rains down
From the angels' reign.

Zephyr bears n'ill will with
his guest (welcome nowhere),
but would this rain pass unnoticed
if not lucky enough to linger in Eliot's pools.

Boreas paints the world anew
Cascading cacophonies of directionless
Yet ever invasive pools in our souls
And worse yet, in our soles.

...

Reposting this bit of prose in french bc no one replied last time

"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."

Here is some garbage I vomited up in five minutes a few weeks back:

_____________

A poem never breathes or beats
its last| never, like a
Boltzmann heart, whose throb
is a thermodynamic necessity.

To selfness| selfishness, posing
an enemy| a foe, diffusing
the origin of Nile

- to throning looming in the azure of the sky -

an ocean atop a mountain peak,
a bubble ever bursting
ever pouring.

And from this vantage point
against a river, a swimmer
whose body - the height
Himalaya devoured|

or else he became a shower,
puddling its unlikely way
to the other - ocean.

A youth's feint of flamboyance
flame in his eyes, his hands,
haloing his head
to overcome;

the distance daunting| but so
is his irreverent heart strung
tu plunge.

And so he is dashed;
with the impossible wrath of
a scheduled departure|
his flame is forever|

never moving against the lines
of the composition.
Never against the caesuric embalmment.

I like it man

the pace hits a height in the second last verse, I felt a sort of lyrical crescendo was being achieved and it is perhaps an underwhelming, though strongly written, ending.

still, a nice poem all around.

It's closer to a "working poem" to be honest. It has imagery and all, but no beauty. Honestly, I am disappointed in myself that I still write preteenish stuff like this. But there is this thread to vent it anonymously, so that's nice I guess.

Je déteste pas, c'est intéressant, et globalement en terme de rythme ça marche très bien. Les idées sont belles et percutantes, mais peut-être que la forme n'est pas idéale pour les exprimer - j'ai l'impression que quelque chose de plus condensé et en vers marcherait mieux, mais l'un n'empêche pas l'autre non plus. Bravo en tout cas.

Of all the lists on Saint Nick’s Night,
Of all the gifts wrapped in delight,
To snow that we shove and snowball,
To ice that we skate and skim offal;
In warmth it may be that budding Night,
In all tongues and lands who bare Christ,
May winds will wishes and snows white,
Over a thousand lands of Christ.

Wake

A whole night
thrown near
a massacred
companion
with his mouth
sneering
facing the whole moon
with the congestion
of his hands
penetrating
my silence
I have written
letters full of love

I have never been
attached to life
so much

This mutilated tree gives
Me support, left in this pot-hole
It has the bitterness of a circus
Before or after the show.
I watch
The quiet passage of
Clouds over the moon.

This morning I stretched
Myself in an urn of water,
Like a relic, and rested.

The Isonzo scoured
Me like
One of its stones.

I pulled my four
limbs together,
And went, like an acrobat,
Over the water.

Crouched by my clothes
Fouled with war, I inclined
My head, like a Bedouin,
To receive the sun.

This is the Isonzo.
And it is there I
Most see myself
In the universe
A compliant
Thread.

My pain is
When I do not believe
Myself in harmony.

But those hidden
Hands give as they knead me
A rare joy.

I have relived
The stages of my life.

The Serchio: from
Which have drawn, perhaps
For two thousand years
My country people, my father,
My mother.

This is the Nile
That has seen me be born,
And grow
And burn in ignorance on
Extending plains.

This is the Seine; and I mingled
In that muddiness learning each
Part of all myself.

These are my rivers confluent
In the Isonzo.

This is my nostalgia
That in each
One shines through me, now
It is night, and my life seems
A budding
Off of shades.

The problem with poetry is that no one who writes it wants to read it as is evidenced by this thread.

No, I've read most of those posted. The better ones have been acknowledged already and it's no fun saying 'its bad' in a bunch of different ways which all boil down to 'keep trying and keep reading and keep studying form'. Most people who write poetry aren't going spit out anything great, only a few 'good' or ok poems or rap or pop verses--good as in not publishable but readable and tolerable. Few will make a great poem which has publish potential. And those who have inherent heart for the craft will create a or a few truly memorable poem(s) in their life.
But it's clear where there's a severe lack of talent or effort so it will and should be met with none in return.

it's bad
it's bad
it's bad

its bad

He's right though.

Better to know they suck than to keep writing bullshit

Then don't dismiss "it's bad'

Frail hands are kept floating
In a void of white.

They're reaching out to it,
What they're doing's not right.

They didn't win anything,
they'll lose what they'll take:
they draw a razor from their pocket;

What difference does it make?

Now space is coherent once again:

The only thing that broke
Gravity's winning streak
Was the contemplation
Of a cerulean sea.

Singularity and duality were kept in their sheath;
And the razor was probably
Never there to begin with.

video day

i remember
when i first saw you
in the science video
i was in the 8th grade
on prozac
wondering if the nice man
explaining geomagnetic reversal
ever thought about killing himself
the keyboard was soothing
and they showed your pretty face
for no reason
it made no sense
you were standing near the ocean
everyone in the class saw you
and kept watching

Work with me people. When you write poetry you're evoking raw imagery infused with thought and personality. As well, you're entering into a musical flow of language, or what is known as meter. The spectrum of the former is from esoteric to universal, and of course the latter is noise to harmonious time. In a 'shared' sense, the first of each these sets essentially equates to 'bad', and the second, 'better'.

Addressing meter, let's take a look at the phrase 'the sun is brighter than the moon'. As it is, there is nothing special about it. It reads, to put it simply. When beginning a thought, grasp the infletction (known as prosody) placed on the first word. Say you choose 'golden' as your first word. Now it's important to note that you should always develop a sense of direction before landing on something concrete. Brainstorm general ideas on where the ideas or images behind the language is going before selecting the language itself.

But returning to 'golden', note the raise in tone of 'goal' before the lowering of 'den'. In a general sense, when you have a raise in tone you have your stressed syllable, and lower tones are unstressed. This isn't exactly always true, as specific vowel and consonant sounds may confuddle one in this basic strategy of grasping metrical foot. A syllable structure of stressed then unstressed is known as a trochee. While that technical bit is helpful for knowing the term for the syllabic pattern, it's merely a placeholder in this lesson.

Once you've chosen where you're going to begin YOUR WORD CHOICE AFTER THIS MUST BE PRECISE. No ifs, ands, or buts.

'Golden light shines brighter than the silver moonlight.'

Here I've gone and taken the original idea and followed the syllabic pattern of stressed/unstressed. You cannot over think this step. Don't think of each words specific syllabic stressors but think of the phrases in their natural phrasing. Attempt to 'feel' the rise and fall of your prosody as the words are spoken in structure. At this point, it's easy to think some words are said or stressed(unstressed) in the way you want them or don't want them to be. It's very important to keep your phrases as naturally spoken as you can when coming up with them. Poetry is an art which can easily be over thought and butchered because of it.

Since the phrase has twelve syllables alternating in twos, I'd recommend following this syllabic (and metrical foot of trochaic (remember that stressed/unstressed is a trochee)) count strictly at first. Try generating another thought after mine following the exact footing and syllabic count. After some practice, you should be able to develop a sense of time in the language which allows you to hover around they syllabic count, as well as the exact footing and/or rhyme. But that's a bit more advanced and I wouldn't recommend it right now, only once you can generate consistent lines at a rate of about one every 30 seconds.

>tbc

>To be, or not to be; that is the question

Doesn't follow your rules. You forgot about caesuras and pyrrhics. You can't show people the basics unless you follow with the exceptions and art strokes. Its like telling a kid he can paint with primary colors, but cannot mix them more than once.

So, returning to my initial phrase, let's focus a little more on the prosody of the word structure. Sure, what was used follows the trochaic foot just fine, and is technically sound. But notice the repetition of light, and the inconsistent yet somewhat consecutive use of the hard 'i' sound. It's a little distracting from the foot and clarity of it's ability to be read. Let's try this:

'Golden rays beam brighter than the silver moonlight.'

Diving into a more developed sense of linguistics, notice how this creates more consistent repetitions of specific sounds through the yse of allertation as well as equal syllsbic spacing between the sounds. 'Beam brighter' repeats the 'b', than the repeats the 'th', but more technically, 'brighter than the silver' repeats 'er' on both an equal syllabic count of four within the count of twelve, as well as on unstressed syllables. Between all the similarities within the line, there's multiple levels of flow and structure being generated which helps both propel the piece forward smoothly and opens room for other patterns outside the baseline meter (trochaic) to be used to hold time as you continue.
------

Once you're in tune with your audibles, you must focus on your imagery. Poetry plays with language intimately and literally. This means many words fall incredibly flat in a poem because you evoke no raw thought imagery but simply the words implication. 'Abstractions' are incredibly common in common language, and so when transitioning to poetry, it's difficult to realize how much they take away from an image.

'Hellish hallucinations haunt my every thought' has a notable rhythm to it, but it leaves so much imagery to be desired. It's incredibly abstract because we see only what we may fill in to understand and progress through the piece. 'Hellish hounds evicserate my rodent mind'. Here, the imagery is raw, it's evocative, and it generates an idea behind the image. It says what it needs to say and more through it's metaphorical structure. This is how language must be used in poetry. You words should be pure, and thoughts bright and clear the mind of the reader. They should see the scenes and feel the music through your words. Otherwise no impression will ever be made. Only relation on the most basic sense.

Take into effect the ideas here and I promise you'll begin to notice an improvement in your poems as well as a reformation of your thought process when writing for the better, in all senses. It just takes time, practice, and the willingness to improve. I hope this will help someone.

>Tl;dr: advice to write poems with effect and interest rather than pitty or attempt

Pyrrhic is a foot, and caesuras are definitely an advance technique to be used once you understand the effect your meter is having on the reader.

Not to mention Shakespeare was a playwrite writing with poetics, which is a totally different approach to what is writing pure poetry. You can take any quote out of his many, many page long plays and say it does not follow the rules after many of the many lines already have. Oranges to apples.

>I will show you fear in a handful of ash

Please scan this for me, because I always have trouble with it.

i wouldn’t say the advice here is bad but based on i would bet you write bad poetry

And lastly, no not every line must literally be raw image. But the poem will ultimately hinge upon the lines which are, and you should never make your most important lines your most vague. Shakespeare defined poetics, and is outside the realm of a beginner. 'Practice your ones and twos before you shoot your threes.'

...

Are you being rhetoric because eliot was established?, or do you wish for my interpretation of the line?, or my assessment of its technical structure?

how's the beginning of my longer poem thingy?

the image should be the primary focus of a beginner, THEN people should write sonnets until free verse makes them uncomfortable again.

>in a void of white
white void sounds shaper and more natural

>Now space is coherent once again:
this almost sounds like stage directions, and not in a good way

>all in all
i have no idea what this is about desu, i feel like its trying too much to be about everything

Rhetorical*, I'm drunk

Do dillied up to crit, I'll come back when I've awoken with a lot a coffee. But,

>the image should be the primary focus of a beginner

Is technically correct, because I do believe conforming a developed sense of imagery into meter is (because I did so) and would be easier than the other way around. But then again most novice wtiters lack the ability to transcribe their imaginings and experiences with clarity, and that is usually the quitter's bar when it comes to a real writer and the person who's idealized writing. So, it's almost a natural progression to assume. But you never know.

the snow is too hard to give way
unless you press your heel into it
then, it sinks a little

it glistened in the afternoon
and froze over again in evening.
the night is bare and mute

except for the sound of your heel
sinking into the snow
where you leave it to linger

as cradled as everything else
as cradled as the light of the street lamps
lounging everywhere at once

as cradled as the soft scrape
of your heel
sinking into the snow.

A dumpster more for this dying thread:
____
Not-oddyseus

Who are we in the fires?
Whose is this figure afoot upon
a river that wont bear a water-strider
whether moon or sun be within the fog?
The world is filthy with the bough-wet sheen
of cold alchemically distilled from stones
and bark and winter harvests yet unreaped,
and yet the scornful feet eschew the land
the same as hands shy from a splendid ember:
a fill of heat in a film of injury.

There will be no poet blind with uttered names,
no firstborn to cradle starbound infants
in bindings in eldritch letter, script and blood
in none of feathers, coals nor clay nor throats.

If after this thawing the body is found
afloat in a river past many its names,
of his will have only become unorphean silt.

Whats your meteric structure here?

Imagery wise, this very lovely, it embodies well the 'dark, quiet, streetlit snow covered evening' and is just as gentle. Meter wise there's a lot to be desired and it really hinges only on some rhyme and intermittent footings.

There's some imagery here, and I'm sure this is filled with allusion. But in my mind it leaves much to be desired to be seen with greater clarity, and while you have a relatively consistent meter, you fall in and out of it with extra, unnecessary words cluttering both your language and your meter. Try a few rounds of edits and keep working on this and other poems, you'll get there.

There isnt really any allusions, beside the absolutely obvious like "blind poet". I kind of just wanted somebody to agree this was kind of rubbish so I could drop it and move on. And I guess I felt like not even showing it to anybody would have been a waste.

Still, I would like to know which words you felt were unnecessary. I didnt really metre this rigorously, so just for language economy's sake.

Lights

The lights make me drawn to them
But they do not always hurt me
They help me see ahead
But some lights are too bright
Blocking out all other vision this dark winter night
The ground is slippery im losing my grip
But the light is there, beckoning me to come quick
As they draw near, I feel its pull
But the car passes me, on this dark winter road

Just a quick sample, L4 remove with and note the jar in meter in L9 once you hit shy, then it's total drop in the following line

is meant for you

Bad, my man. It's no bueno

You missed the point of my question. I did not metre this rigorously, I wanted to know what words were redundant, not where my metre irregularities were.

What a calamity that you who are made
for beautiful achievements and renowed,
should always be, through your hard fate, denied
occasion and success; that you should always
be hindered by the mean observances,
the littlenesses, and indifferences.
And how unblest the day when you give in
(when you have lost yourself, and you give in),
and you depart, a wayfarer for Susa,
and come before the monarch Artaxerxes
who welcomes you with favour at his Court,
offering you satrapies and things akin.
And you, despairing, you accept those honours,
those that are not the honours you desire.
Your soul is hungering for other things:
the praises of the Demos and the Sophists, —
the difficult, invaluable “Well done”;
the Agora, the Theatre, the bays.
These — how should Artaxerxes ever give,
how should you ever find in satrapies;
and what a life will yours be now, without them.

Redundant in meter my man. Otherwise you can use whatever words you want and call it poetry. I gave you an example of a useless word in both image and meter, and an unfit word metrically. Don't tell me I missed the point of your question when you missed the point of writing poetry.

why is there always someone like this in every critique thread? every critique is just “muh meter” just over and over and over. i bet you are bad at writing in meter anyway, and you don’t understand poetry

I can bet I write in form with way more skill than you. For me it's somewhat secondhand in nature. Once the ball has started rolling I can keep it going. But you let your ball stop, then you blame it all on me.

You didnt give me much of an example of either desu. Having an extra unstressed syllable in a iambic line is not a metric fault anyways. You find things like that even in old sonnets all the time. I am like you, a purist, often appalled by what passes for Iambic pentameter with some readers, but if I say I did not write in any particular fixed metre, there is no point trying to bitch to me about it. Thats like reviewing the imagery of my shopping list.

post your poetry

Reposting from last thread since no (you)s
____

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.

Don't much reason to.

It's free verse, but I think I succeed in some interesting rhythms at the least.

Terrible, like grade school shit

These threads have really gone downhill.

they have been bad with occaisional ok stuff for the last 5 years at least

I remember how good it felt back then
but now with pages scattered, paper tattered
and butterflies so flat with only ink blots flatter
the joys of ripping tearing yelling swearing feel like they don't matter

This is good user, gotta tweak some of that rythm though, it flows great but some lines have a little too many syllables and it ruins the silky flow.

and lo

the fountain whispers on all keyboards
like a new rent or a downpayment on furniture

i ate my breakfast with the wind which
led me to a new dimension

something unusual made me stay inside the womb
or something sexual like a neutral gear
i never learnt how to drive except with my tippytoes

i wrote in all accordance with the
quality of this imageboard
welcome to all freewriting on bullshit
i wrote this on my macbook will
you hate me or not

i bet you feel very flowery
when you shout faggot on the internet
a fat cat and the number 482
i was in jail once but now i'm in a monsoon
if you honk and let all lie
more than me will pass thee by
peennial code
milennial rode
the nut to all the buttttttttt

and all is all and all is all and here i am
go fuck yourself , budday

poetic nothing and twitter is too
but 140 characters to say fuck you
made my bed yesterday
believe it or not i'm awake still

got some work to do but yo
i'm jizzin on t' keyboard
i wish i had an
azzhole to suck
cuz i like putting my thumb in her
ass as i fuck'er

One of my first attempts at poetry, in German :

Am Anfang der Zeit jeglichen Seins war die Nacht
Sie, alleinstehend, war das Mass aller Dinge
Unendlich wäre die Zeit die dahinginge
Am Anfang des Anfanges war das hellste Licht

Doch ein dunkles Licht war dieses Schattenlose
Farblos wie die Nacht war es in seinem Lose

Einsam war es denn auch bis eines Zeitalters,
Wodann helle Nacht auf dunklem Tage einbrach
Es wurde Schatten und Licht, Welt kam nach und nach
Eine Welt der vielen Farben des erstn' Malers

Lame poem that needs refining. Wrote it today after being rejected for the millionth time.

An endless corridor is home
to him, a boy, who waits and waits—
Waits for one to call his number:
One thousand six hundred and eight

And he grows old
His fingers, cold
His heart, more bold
or so he's told

In adjunct rooms he goes when called
to answer questionnaires or facts
while faceless voices scrutinized
his life and all the things he lacked

so soft he sings
his words, and clings
to hope that brings
peace to being

A joyous day had come at last!
the boy, alone, for them to judge
If he deserves a chance at all—
a chance at life in which he's loved

"The records say youre not a match.
We can be friends...." The boy walks back.

His lonely tears—
Like gasoline.
He waits for fire—
Finds only rain

...

you needed a cherry pie and so you ordered one

mama spooks had to throw out the old processor because it began inventing new colors. individuals sending smells as attachments. pal derby walking in circles chanting “the stoned guardian angel flowers on.” man. another day another world. cobweb killer my throat is the enemy of 40 nude baristas. london brother your hair is covering the mantras of tuesday acorns. la-doo. crumbling band-aid brain winds up discovering the pixelated beaches of californ-aye-ay. klingon secretary for short times my evening blossoms toward you. doo-la-lee. lily trundled to the best spot we got we got the best spot we got. billiard bubba blow my french silk balls when you can. “politely,” i plea; “politely,” i plea. apply leeway safely to the lever that struggles you up without failing. porta potty princess my lisp welcomes you home. yes my vest vexes me. minty monday leavin’ it up to drew barrymore. winter of suckitup monuments. lit candied drugs you errored there. live me again and again. song to song freed me into a good time with a real brother man tomorrow i will scoop the grass all finger-fed green. everyone in jumanji had hazel eyes. eradicate this indecision silas of the sovereign hills. who said to me “cherry pie grave digs the most ludicrous appetites.” minion of the yellow river you want it and you want it gone. i do things, making a simple offering. simplicity is blue, you know. it rains in front of me sometimes. surround sound meteor. pour me a churning rhythm over that plangent little sock.

frocked we run amok. who cares to take stock anymore. keep on whispering “someone’s gotta do it.” see where that gets ya. the jubilee man frowns in yesterday time. nantucket! i knew i put my...yes the million machine. landis port sings in swims of softly gauze. no one knows what to do when the blue whale chirps. god tried to make a world in my stomach. gods do that. sometimes you prescribe a certain amount of staring to your routine. rudy farmweather samurais himself into the oblivion of just one good night, finally. reggae bobs and apple blossoms. until now there has never been mouse clicking in the persian islands. crestfallen lithium froth wave storming into the empty denny’s demanding pink lemonade. i won’t be serving my purpose until i create children. FLIP/FLOP. orange peels in profile descending under starlit ufo’s. morbid jungians tessellate a game or two before losing their bodies in a bet with horus. blanket statement puzzle gaming into the silvery mist that befuddles the pathologers. mondo filming grey bricks because why not. okay look. there are a few dynasties left in the bucket. what i’m going to do is take one out, soak it in warm butter throw it down the bowling alley. is that okay with everyone? i’ve announced what i am going to do and i plan on doing it okay? i’m doing it now. alright alright. calm down. this is what you wanted. yes. i still need you.

This is a poem I just wrote.

Overall interesting but I felt like the motivation behind your sorrow is left too unknown.

Brutal. What does 1608 mean? I love how the second-to-last stanza is only two lines - it feels as if the first five stanzas are universal and from an abstract thought you bring me into a single moment that ends so fast without me even expecting it! The motif of being rejected by a girl is a bit uninteresting to me, but the last stanza kind of redeems it. The meter is great, and rhyming is nice too. Good job, user.

But hentai, antidepressants and vaporwave is the exact opposite of sex, drugs and rock n roll

>No one noticed Ungaretti and Kavafis
This board is full of sophomores

Raze the Earth
Extinguish the stars
Shatter the Moon
Drench us in tars

Our world is of creation
By something unmet
An entity hallowed
Who we must not forget

The eyes of His presence
Remains in the air
So when you roam out
Stay calm and beware

Hiding exposes
Prayer imprisons
For when on one’s knees
Who is it that listens?

So heed you my warning
Do not go unrest
Ignore all He does
And trust I know best

My witnessing subject
Do not carry fear
His might shall not conquer
His thrust shall not bear

But keep you in mind
The reason we’re here
Is not for He loves us
Is not for He’s kind
Is not for His might
And not His endear

The reason Earth remains
The reason it still is
The reason we stay
Is for He does not notice

"Hellish hounds evicserate my rodent mind" is pure garbage, if I read that in a poem I would probably giggle. Also:

>Tl;dr: advice to write poems with effect and interest rather than pitty or attempt

Are you ESL? Because I don't think words mean what you think they mean.

No real meaning behind 1608, but I needed a number that was large enough to convey a long period of time, like one has to endure at the DMV. I was going for a bit of kafka when I wrote it. I changed it to 1108 to give three instances of the word one in the first line

Violets are blue
Violets are blue
Violets are really blue
Very blue