Didn't see one up, so here goes:

2 poems from me thx

the first two stanzas are p cozy but what struck me most is the last quatrain, it's really dynamic in contrast and feels good.jpg

the only thing i have to say other than the "i was happy" redundancy is maybe try to eliminate 'me' in the last quatrain for redundancy again

this one's kinda weak imo the imagery is a lot of cliches about being sad and doesn't seem to have a real throughline other than "feelsbad.jpg"

whoa that last sestet is an incredible change of vulnerability. the meter overall feels really cohesive and strong i'm into it

is that third line supposed to be emphasized-long or did u miss a line break
otherwise p cool in terms of overall imagery but as a matter of personal preference the diction is a little archaic for me

Thanks for the nice words
Is this an improvement?

praying*
we* at the last line
dammit

Night Hogs

There was music playing
Out my window—
A sweet tune
And quiet, too,
And It sounded real.
And the angel voices
Were buried
By crickets and frogs
And other night hogs
And I know they were real.
God left my window open
For me to hear his angels sing
And his crickets scream
And his perfect guitars play.
I cannot explain that sweet music.
It sounded far away.
I wanted to touch
And dance—
Tonight is a dancing song;
God made tonight that way.
Then the music stopped...
I never see frogs,
I just now realized,
But every night I hear them
They're not far away.
There are real frogs out there.
And I wonder
Why did God make them so damn loud?
And why the music so far away?
And where did it come from?
And did they dance?
(You know it would be a sin not to dance)
And was it real?
And will it play again?
And can I dance out there too?
Those crickets and frogs
Are real.
And when that music played
I think it broke my heart.
And the frogs laughed.
Shit. That's some powerful imagery, it flows wonderfully as well. As others pointed out, it definitely feels archaic and romantic, but it has a genuine feeling. I really like it.

the first five lines here can be entirely cut and it makes no difference. the whole "sweet music" conceit is really dated and you're not really going anywhere novel until about halfway through; maybe like one mention to 'a sweet tune' to establish the premise? or get rid of the "i cannot explain that sweet music" in the middle and place it somewhere closer to the beginning

otherwise though that second half is cool as fuck, a sort of faustian magical vibe that just reads really fun and different

Cinder block candy drops
gnashing down on air
turned to Barney Rubble
branching outside and in

thrown stewy heaps
a sea of smiles
blankets of silk of blue of
light dead stopped by
pitbulls with hands
pitbulls with hands
pitbulls with hands

The moor softly sighed
a gentle breeze be why
obsequious the weather
Laquesha be the pleasure

kolsti pls leave forever

Dialogue 1

[Enter TYCHE, wandering in Elysium]

TYCHE
O Father,
O Son of Kronos
Why do you desert me thus?
You let the fertile country of my heart lie fallow,
You let my youthful eyes turn to ash in their sockets,
You let my spring pass for mild summer.
I was not made to be one of the mortals!

[Enter ZEPHYROS, dancing, adorned with a wreath of hyacinth]

ZEPHYROS
O Tyche
O goddess of the white arms,
Weep not,
For you no longer have eyes with which to weep.
Is this not true?
Take my hand,
And rise with me,
And taste the airy vault of heaven.

TYCHE
O lovely Western child,
You were dear to me in my worldly mornings,
But your words now are mere rain
Against the granite cliffs of my resolve.
Go now,
Yes, go now,
O you who may still be restored!

ZEPHYROS
Words?
Your fear deludes you,
O mistress of all men’s days.
I speak not,
For I have no tongue with which to speak.
Is this not true?

[Exit ZEPHYROS, TYCHE watches as he leaves]

TYCHE
O Zeus,
O my Father,
Why do you tantalize me so?
The fine bracelets you once gave me
Now begin to tarnish.
I must fortify my heart against all things.
It is a good thing to give way to the night-time.

I died and went
to Heaven
which was
Detroit in the 50's
and I was a sidewalk.

Interesting poem, would love to read more of your stuff.

>get rid of the "i cannot explain that sweet music" in the middle and place it somewhere closer to the beginning
Actually I really like this idea. Other critique is helpful as well, thanks for the compliments.

that economy is a+
room to expand for sure but just this alone is really cool

I'm trying hard not to feel ungrateful
And I insist that I'm feeling just fine
They seem like things from forgotten fable
These things they hide behind human sightline
But they show themselves to me to taunt

The other's mouths flap open and then shut
The teeth clench and grind, then part
and bite down
This party's poisoned me down in my gut
The faces arrange their features to frown
They force a black hat on my head

I can feel the walls shifting with each breath
I build towering fires on the shores
Pillars and monuments to the god Death
I keep nazi guns, knives and blue eyed whores
The fires are warnings to lesser things
as I live as the best of outlaw kings

Tampered with plastics
coat my inner cell
baritone rumbles tummy prone
to swell

count a dozen dozen pheasants
and fill them with
stairs

Discolored urine
mysterious laughter
my sheets feel softer
and my feet move for good

But pageantry suits
iguana and bimbos
peacock at blanks
fill in the blanks

On the toilet I sit
Where I usually shit
To find a vein
To remove the pain
A needle goes in
It's fast and thin
You see I shoot smack,
but least I'm not black

Sweet beauty of yours
like heroin through my veins
Sweet words of love
like drums to the ear
Your arms like grace
awaiting an embrace
Your eyes like glass
holding water till a fracture
Your mouth so sweet
dancing on my lips in a sing
Your legs were worn
waiting for a rest from the floor
Your breast like money
cause theyre the first thing I notice
just joking about that part
Your sense of humor
very much superior
Your Intelligence
captivating and unjealous
Your cake so sweet
like cheeries on cream
See it isnt just that all these things
Will make everyone see what I see
It's that all these things
Are what mean the most to me
Were like atoms when we come together we are matter
And like matter we cant be destroyed
And like atoms we gas up and explode
into a beautiful secenery
And they'll take pictures
And they'll call it history
But to you and me
Its just a cornerpiece
to our masterpiece
Painting

By C.W Smith

I'm at work, so ill come up with a short one. (Acctualy i'm bad at long ones anyway, so fuck that, this is a normal one)

light behind me
is this the way to flee?
darkness awaits
every fiber in my body hates
im waiting for a twist
maybe ill just cut my wrists

Another i guess, it's boring as fuck here.

i want to paint with my words
it shall be a picture,
fiction
it must show addiction
and flow in a stricture
free like birds
i guess i should stick to paint
there my thoughts wouldn't be so faint

Sick, I wish I could do so well with so little

The rhyme isn't entirely consistent, and bits like 'forgotten fable' and 'human sightline' feel compressed as a result.

the first and final stanzas are neat, but some of the line breaks don't feel quite right. 'stairs' doesn't need its own line

Fool me?
Maybe a few times
It’s hard to tell
Mouthing out
The words in the back of our head

it’s nice

But I tend to leave bits and pieces
Of me
Everywhere I go

Chewed fingernail

Tearing on rusted dull strings
A little bloody

Stay flagrant
Don’t burn the house down

Teabags
Half-stewed and lukewarm

Desert a 50 from your mould
To keep that light on at might

‘cos you can and can’t sleep without it

That kind of blue
Which its at the back of your eyes
It’s reassuring to know its there
But when it is you don’t want to leave

Holding your attention
A little longer than necessary

Lingering

How many library books beneath the bed
– Tsuundoku – at least they’re automatic
Renewals now

Freudian sniff?
I have a cold, not paranoia

Business worries me
Wearing the faces of fat cats
But it feels so good when I let them in
And then I’ll leave ever so quietly

A lady of the 24hour night

In these stairwells
Vulnerable
It tasted bitter but everyone says its tasteless

The faces in the dim energy bulbs
Flicker with green-tinged worms beneath the skin

My bookshelf is not entirely straight
a dislodged nail lifts the wood on the left hand side
(please do not stand on the left hand side)

the below wall above is bare
but still adjacent to the bathroom
and each time
sick bellies eat stranger foods
the door slams

the wall shakes

a few wolves and a wallace
fall somewhere out of place

time disjoint, suture your eye the lint of the god-artist
who makes names for himself on the gamble of nothing, forget the die!
red never stains well on green.

I love shit like this and need to read more of it.
>that last six lines
goddamn
not fond of "the sky is crying" however

Stotan
summer/night is a great enjambment , but the previous one is lacking
I honestly don't see the need for the 2nd to last line otherwise cool piece

Puntledge
the enjambments are much weaker here
see if you can find new ways to break up the lines after turning it into prose
otherwise this one is really neat (I would encourage you to play around more the concrete part

I agree w/ about most everything
>an angel voices were buried
would be a great opening line anyway

>thread
All yours rhymes and petty poems are spewed from the gutter.
It seems every one was written by an egosentric nutter.
Who only write what's in front of their eyes
Fooling themselves with lies
Of being a genius poet
Put the trigger to your head and blow it.

Heroin by Lou Reed
"I don't know just where I'm going
But I'm gonna try for the kingdom, if I can
'Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man
When I put a spike into my vein
And I'll tell ya, things aren't quite the same
When I'm rushing on my run
And I feel just like Jesus' son
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know
I have made the big decision
I'm gonna try to nullify my life
'Cause when the blood begins to flow
When it shoots up the dropper's neck
When I'm closing in on death
And you can't help me now, you guys
And all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk
You can all go take a walk
And I guess that I just don't know
And I guess that I just don't know
I wish that I was born a thousand years ago
I wish that I'd sail the darkened seas
On a great big clipper ship
Going from this land here to that
In a sailor's suit and cap
Away from the big city
Where a man can not be free
Of all of the evils of this town
And of himself, and those around
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Oh, and I guess that I just don't know
Heroin, be the death of me
Heroin, it's my wife and it's my life
Because a mainer to my vein
Leads to a center in my head
And then I'm better off and dead
Because when the smack begins to flow
I really don't care anymore
About all the Jim-Jim's in this town
And all the politicians makin' crazy sounds
And everybody puttin' everybody else down
And all the dead bodies piled up in mounds
'Cause when the smack begins to flow
Then I really don't care anymore
Ah, when the heroin is in my blood
And that blood is in my head
Then thank God that I'm as good as dead
Then thank your God that I'm not aware
And thank God that I just don't care
And I guess I just don't know
And I guess I just don't know"

>that selfreflection
Good job user, you're starting to understand.

I wipe my behind
with toilet paper
and then I flush
bye bye smell you later

People talking about understanding
About information that is expanding
The pretentious cunts almost sing, like they believe they know what is up and what is down
Fooling around like a clown
Thinking they know everything
That's the way they sing
We know nothing
- Jeum Schneu

>i...irony
I don't know dude, you seem to think that you are above people, because you embrace what you think is right.
And what you think is right is condescending towards others. Also by saying you know nothing, whilst i know i know nothing you're already putting yourself above others.
But ah well, don't we all do that?

wrote this for one of my anniversaries, I'm fairly sure. looking back it's actually one of the better poems I've written over the last few years:

What We Grow

Affection, duty, pride, and passion, all
Bound up and abound in love for you
As flowers, fungi, birds of prey, and grazers do
Make up the latticework for life’s vine
Where any one strip of structure gone
Brings down the sagging whole to stone
While yet, alone, a yeast begins to grow
And soon attracts a fly, and more
Follow, an ecology of beings becoming one
Through cycles as big as our hearts,
Making each other live that same paradox,
Inexplicable - ineffable - us
And as we traipse down pathways
Of this lifelong, reciprocating embrace,
Our arbor for each other sows a forest
Full, baroque with beetles, squirrels, and filigree
Much as these words, to match their subject,
Depart the sound of familiarity and sail
Time-lapse, vine-like, over the lexicon
To fill each rich niche with less-sung stuffs,
Dividing the finite our lives may last
Down into an unending fractal past,
A glory of profusion, glistening the beholder’s eyes.
- Adam Wykes

I like pretty much all of this because it carries and rounds out its own tone very well. However, "darkened" seas is precious and points me, at least, directly at Homer, which I don't think is apropos to your mood.

You should listen to the song if you have not already.
It was more to the poem I replied to, because it said described love as heroin. So I saw it ironic to reply with a song where Lou describes heroin as love.

Irony is fun hypocrisy, I know
Since you don't know I'm trolling, you must be slow.
I'm not above anyone, except people in wheelchairs. Because they are low
That was a bad joke, I know.
If nothing is known, how can I be right?
I can feel butthurt shining bright
From your cheeks, I can feel the Earth tremble.
Why is it me you are trying to resemble?
We all are wrong, useless lost causes of society
So why do you try to keep such a propriety?

I have not listened to it, but I'm not sure how that would change the inappropriate reference.

>inappropriate reference
I'm high gimme a break

Not on heroin though

nah cunt, nah

does Veeky Forums look like a place where you're likely to catch a break?

Is this a bit better?

Devoid of comfort and distress alike
This duality grows
As compatible as oil and water
Further separated by the curtain of the stage
The performance of one dazzles
(Brilliant, happy, warm, glowing)
The silence of the other paralyzes
(unmoving, unyielding, unflinching, unfeeling)
A black abyss to contrast the facade that shines so bright
As if to drown the darkness in its light

More of a break than your mommas /clit/ gave me last night

maybe she'd have let you ride if you paid, you skank-ass scrub what got no money no prospects, no nothin, good-for-nothin' high ass nigga

>if you paid
>implying anyone would pay for such a shitty and worn-out product

>implying that wasn't the product you used
>implying you chose it first before other products
>implying you have any choice in the matter

shoulda paid for the ho you tryna get

but then again you ain't got no money

bitches be trapped rhetorically.

>implyingimplyingimplying
>not sure if bad at greentext or just mad

Bitches always be tryna change the topic and front on formality and convention when they done got REKT

On a serious note though, stop trying to sound gangsta online. It just sounds stupid

If you desired to raise the dialogue past the point of insipid bad taste, thou ought not to have begun the dialectic in the form of a jest on the subject of mothers, nigger

Thanks for entertaining me while i was working, i actually liked your poems.

Labyrinths inside my dome
Closely resemble a hive
Where horrid creatures like to roam
And nothing seems alive.

Walking through its corridors,
I saw a ghost strolling loose.
It seemed to be a foreigner,
Its character I tried to deduce.

Many alike I had already seen.
None were as ugly or strong.
It kept writing: "you have sinned",
On the dark walls all along.

Attempts to soothe it were fruitless -
They magnified its passion.
Every wall is painted now, yes,
I'm stuck here as its ration.

Saturday

My seat is warm; I’ve occupied it since the morning--
A stiff and drowsy awakening in a blue lethargy,
Blue from the sky, which had no moon, no sun, no star,
Just blue. Just shapeless clouds arriving in Saturday.

I know nothing's happened but daydreams dreamed,
Leftover homework left for another day, I accept,
And laugh apathetically at all the free people dancing,
Getting drunk, getting lucky, getting high off Saturday.

The ideal is just a fantasy that maybe I’ll once enjoy,
Once upon a time that I, alas, cannot anticipate.
I don’t see anything but blue; yellow’s a forgotten color
And Saturday is just a loss. Sunday looks no better.

LOL my poems not about heroin

I
How good it is—to be composed, and calm;
to be awake, and let my branches spread
through placid air, and petals from my palm;
the space between the trees, my eyes to tread
these lattice-woven leaves—how good this is,
to be alive—to live, to look, to breathe
this moving air, the morning breeze, the bliss
of this, of life, while sounds around me weave;
sensations sift, and, sitting quiet here,
my eyes, half-lidded, rise above my book,
to tread through all of this I hold so dear;
the space between the leaves I love to look—
how good is all of this; the air, the life;
and, basking in this moment, free of strife . . .

II
And yet—despite this dreamlike gift of breath—
I dwell on how perverse it is, this life,
of wretched pain, and sickness unto death:
to catch the handle of a falling knife,
you reach, and grasp that sharpened blade instead,
and so it is to live—a life uncouth,
of stumbling through this strange and lonely dread,
and failing in your arms is fading youth,

not knowing why, or where, or what you are,
and what this is; but here you are, alive—
you crawl through knives and see out there, afar,
that roaring end, whose winds will soon arrive,
to sweep you out of this—and into what?
Someday, I’ll see . . . the day my eyes are shut.

bump

This is a translation I made from a BR poem.

ISMÁLIA,
by Alphonsus de Guimaraens

When Ismália went mad she came by
A high tower, to which she did flee...
There she saw a big moon in the sky,
And another big moon in the sea.

There her mind wander'd high, oh so high,
That she dreamed of a moon full of glee...
And she wanted to fly to the sky,
And she wanted to dive in the sea...

Soon her hand at a song she did try,
Though nobody could listen but she...
She was near, very near to the sky,
But so far, far away from the sea...

Like an angel she spread out to fly
Her whites wings - what a marvel to see...
She desired the moon in the sky,
She desired the moon in the sea...

And those wings that God gave her, says I,
Led her very high up, flutter'd free...
And her soul flew away to the sky,
While her body fell down to the sea...

I'm stil a beginner at these things. Maybe my English still sounds a little bit ridiculous, I don't know...

bump

See

pls critique, also i kinda want a critique buddy because i have no friends whose opinion i value

here's another :3

This is a rather long poem about a waterfall near my home. I put quite a bit of time into it but am ultimately unhappy with it, but it was good exercise. In any case if anyone's brave enough to read it (partially or otherwise) then I would really appreciate your thoughts. I suppose the title would be "Great Falls."

...

...

...

...

I saw JD Salinger at
the Coco Cabana last Thursday.
He said, "have a seat."
And so I sat
wondering why the bartender
vanished.

Today a fat bearded man
flicked me off on the road.
He was driving a Miata
and didn't allow me to pass
forgoing the use of his blinker.
As I finally passed him
high on epinephrine
I threw a jizz tissue at him
only hitting his door.

not bad OP, not bad. even made me feel something

The writing is a bit too edgy, but time is a good theme.

I see now

This isn't a poem. This is a text message. A tweet. Keep this garbage on your blog.

Crab and the Swimmer

We scuttling claws dwell in the dim havens
Where light pales and sand gives way.
Our wart ridden vessels, wet with rot,
Protect us in the still, the pregnant silence.

A Venus wades in the shallow above, gliding.
Her brown tangles catch on spires of coral.
No payment too great for the
Pleasure of her embrace, her angelic caress.

She takes a spill in the riptide into my trough
And for a moment her body is on mine.
Her soft swell against my hardened shell.
Heaven is surely her body in the drift.

Then she crests again through the current.
I am resolved. Ride the drift behind her to the shore.
My Venus and I
Shall be reunited again.

revision notes? I kinda want to do a more structured form.

FUCK these shameful don’t-hurt-what-you-couldn’t-care-less-about conclusions,
the maiden voyage of violence should never
be so frowned upon, but we’ve already christened
our complicit spectatorships

while a scuppering punch in the face just seems
so… personal,
so intimate, too close for comfort when
the cold shoulder is a far more inviting turn on,

practical, convenient,
a no man’s land where witch hunts and death orgies divine their own myths as toilet reading material for constipated soothsayers.

pleasure ALWAYS fails to escape its orbits, eclipsing
what little love
was expressed at each diametrical moon,
unweighted into submission like a
bloodbath at a waterpark

but the slides are still open and the lifeguards are giving you the all clear saying its fine,
no need to worry about all the bullets, they’re inflatable bullets see, but you look into the murk of the plastic pink gullet
and you KNOW the blood is gushing from the vents behind your heels because you can see it
flooding
between your toes and before you can cry you’ve been shoved headfirst into a hilarious
grotesquerie, labyrinthine swing from side-to-side,
a pretty gestalt gown into which fat flesh is squeezed and
stuffed
only to arrive, furiously screaming our first breath
down

Self-pity only gets us so far. we must carry the burdens of our beginnings to the grave. Sharing the load is a hateful crime against personal space and you should be ashamed of yourself. Now wipe your mouth, darling, you’re dribbling again.

Fuck it all to hell,
Everything will burn,
Crumble and fall,
The world stone will break,
And the Devil will be born,
For the truth is nothing,
And it's for all.

JUST SOME INFINITE CRISIS ON EARTH

loathsome

revolting

reminds me of the god-awful 'poetry' i wrote when I was sixteen

>no substantial criticism
>no original poem

is that why you gave up and decided to make yourself feel marginally superior on a cantonese whale farming board?

I would like to read more of your work.

He spends all his hours in mental asceticism,
Knowing full well the path to freedom,
but electing to the take long road

Always coming back, never really staying
Physically capable but separate from his mind
never united, always in doubt, even with things that never needs reassurance,

He's the worst of them all -- Everything handed to him,
he stands idleness, never in peace,
Complacent lacking any sort of vigor --
he's walking the wrong way and he knows it.

The dog says bork
and the stork flies over
now the brownshirts are killing
all those migrants at dover :^)

a pretty high skied picture hangs
from the drifting bottom of wells
and somber rooms with empty guests,
those silhouettes of shattered light
that interrupt how bleak the corners,
how low beneath and high we stretch.
from a shifting seat according high
to a standard figure thrown nearby,
such that the dead and their like alike,
with sharing tombs in frightful night,
all equal share with forgetting soon
where lay bare we down under the moon.


but follow me hither, in the afterdream
where safe and still rest side by me
below which brings back yesterday,
in a broadback valley's image in grey,
a calm but prospering shadow at noon,
and introduce ourselves, so it begins.
to my loveliest a most the terrific you
that i dedicate better and make anew
an assembly of words that all can see,
private hooray and greatest victory,
to it that i make with justice more
for what i too lightly asked before.


proceed the creeping dawn of terror
and color my picnic a terrible mauve
then embrace the ascending cloud aloft
or take refuge, strewth, the incredible
takes grace in laughing at our escape,
and while you are the intangible string
that sets the heavens right and sends,
and a pretty eyed picture in the sky,
you haven't taught the world to paint
but peacefully settled as our manor
with practicing your palette and brush.
run by my eyes the colorful array
and strike me harder, for i'm a world,
marveling, complete in your glory.

here's a part's of a piece i'm working on
if you go farther back my works drops off almost immediately

this one is planned to go villanelle->terza rima->blank verse->free verse in structure

i figure, even if it's shit it'll be a good exercise in structure

I wait for God as patient as a tree.
In my stillness I was cast in statue,
So note the rust of waiting, breaking me.

Let dew be cast in rain, let lakes in sea.
Cleanse the river with the flooding, will you?
I wait for God as patient as a tree.
.
Can rain exhaust the dew and shake it free?
Wiping wet from iron proves an issue;
I fear the rust of waiting, breaking me.

The rust and dust could coat the royal We.
Throngs appear to pull away the Virtue,
I wait for God as patient as a tree.

The cold of dew can freeze a break in me,
Water growing ivy pushing into
My fear of rust, of waiting, breaking me.

------------------------------------------------

With Cracks as bark on gnarly trunk of yew,
Scales of Icy shards surround a sapling.
Will frost destroy the sprouting plant that grew?

……………………………………..

Sheets of glass
pass in waves
like heavy rain[?],
clipping through
each other.
Light through light—
like through glass
refracting a Picasso
in tesserae.

Wrapped in a Splint-
ered I find myself with
broken planes, my face
sharp angles. I am
the aviator dragging
their plain colors
across the sky.
I scry daily,
fearing for my son,
who will never feel
the sting of
colored glass
staining him
Immortal

Oh, I remember reading this [terza rima, unless you add the quatrain, which is mysteriously absent] in the last critique thread! Very well done, very disciplined and controlled. Your style reminds me of another poem posted here called 'Patent Foramen Ovale', perhaps you're the lucky author of it?

I feel as if you're lacking on the side of smooth transitions, though.

And if you toil to reap your worth
then sow, we've dug up all goddamn.
Toss off those dreams of lassoed sky,
then the prayers. Quit the world's bedside.

"For Lord will soon emancipate me."
"And surely Lord will swivel the ship."
"Whirldom met song, heart to succor heart."
This sinks too, by the bye.
Yet look.
"And Lord is Just and all is fair."
"And Great is He in all I fare."
"I am knit a sweater of salvation in silk."
Or made mute, like a bureaucrat.
Or deaf to myth, defaced in dirt.

Ah, when the earth is bereft of its music it simmers
like Hell. The pit lush in pathetic wail.
The luthier's dead and the oven floods.
Valor gone besieged, love's ribbon lost.
Judgement is penned in new alphabets.
The devil is in high frenzy.
When the earth is unwashed, sweet's the hour then.
Oh, Arch of Olympia will thunder on.
It soothes me. Yes, and it gives me color.
Sit under the blueberries and sleep your fill.

Still.
The ensemble will cave.
It collapses in silence.
It flakes, then pares in its odd anguish.
The hinges fall off timelessness and mops us in horror.
This is not sadness.
This is not death.
I do not know what I see.
What for the love of your remains do not talk, speak.
This is the hour.

No wing to console me.
I turn to no backdrop.
Lia
So-phia
Pe-ne-lo-pe
I surround myself mercilessly.
And as the sorrows of man are never borrowed, I will soon become them.
There is no prayer like awakening.

Hit the road, the musk of a shirt unwashed
By about three days
seeping up through a foreskin jacket.

Each cycle is networked, each rotation traced
There, and back again, screaming down the hill
Hoping the breaks don’t give out,
But they never do.

Funnelled wind blasting a horizontal skew
across the path you thought you’d take,
nearly drifting into the cars parked stationary
on either side of this precarious thread.

Arse already sopping, but the camel’s eye
Blinks orange at the last minute–
And the square-backed weight bears down over
Your head. Two blue haired ladies cooped
Up to your left in a beat up Citroen
Are chuckling sympathetically at your soggy predicament.

Never mind the clicking in your knees,
You’ve got work to do.

Easy money, rings true in your ears again,
And again, though less convincing
Each time your stunted breaths fail to keep up.

From out of the aether
Your incompetent overlords
Start plugging commands from across the circuitboard,
‘Here! Now! What are you waiting for?’.
It’s that tipple time of the evening, and one punter
Whacks the box as you sweep
By in the wrong direction.

If you pull up onto the pavement,
A callous man with an
Ugly wife will jab a finger:
‘Do your job. The pavement doesn’t belong to
Your kind.' Get back in the gutter, you
Pretend to hear him say.
You grin your little gap and flip him a tender bird
As he snaps a sombre picture
At a safe distance, but
God knows why.

Kind words and a couple pound coins
Are enough courtesy to keep you
On course for another few drops (at least).

But, as is the standard,
You reach the peak of a particularly
Tiresome road, the gutters streaming their
rich sewer stink
Like you’re piloting an uphill pedalo through a river of gravel and shit,
Lightning skewering the trail ahead of you,

Only to be met with a cold grimace,
When you passover the ‘fast’ food
With a soggy hand and speechless wheeze.

You shelter in the arch of a brown-bricked estate
And kick yourself for feeding
That old arthritic machine, one way or another.
Time disjoint, suture your eye
The lint of the god-artist
Who makes names for
Himself on the gamble of nothing, forget the die!
Red never stains well on green.

are you the same person

No I'm dad died dude

Hello yes this is dog

oh

you three should get together and write something

yeah, I'm not happy with the transitions right now, but hopefully after adding enough to it it'll work out.

Adam made me, 1803
On contract are these stones laid
At twenty hogshead per year, wherefore
The hounds shall be made to follow
What feet should too much long for leaving

(Songs leaked from beneath the deck,
Now all but spilled across the Atlantic,
Crawl forth from your ships, Godspeed!)

Children of a land nowhere,
Whose blood spring spans continents
What do you say in your half tongues?
What lamentations are yours alone?
What tower is made to guide you through this densest fog—
This thick smoke that hangs and clutches on history?
What small redness of sun makes your world
Other than endless, palpable night?
Writhing of unflowing water, of the mortar
between seasons, the seasons themselves dying
How did you happen into this thin wood?
These ill trimmed and heavy-vined yards,
These scattered whisps of third growth
stuffed with untold walking—
(hurry now, flock to palsied nowhere!)
Who has not taught you the names of all things?...

Dude stop talking like youre from the 19th century

Sounds ok to me, do you have the original?

This is one of my favorites in the thread!
My critique, though, is that you really need to work on flow and rhyming. The flow especially is very choppy, and makes reading it kind of awkward. Some of your rhymes also read awkwardly ("seen->sinned", "fruitless->now, yes"). Here's my attempt at fixing some of it (taking some liberties where I couldn't find adequate rhymes/flow):

Labyrinths inside my dome
Closely mirror a hive
Where horrid creatures like to roam
With nothing seeming alive

Walking through its corridors,
A ghost was strolling loose.
It seemed to be a foreigner,
Its qualities were abstruse.

I had seen some other ghosts--
None as ugly or strong--
"You have sinned," it boldly posts,
On the dark walls all along.

It was fruitless to soothe it--
This heightened its passion.
On all walls was this message writ,
I'm stuck here as its ration.

Wrote some untraditional free verse poems, just want to hear what people think.
First poem:
A hallowed death by a withering tree,
A falling of leaves that brings upon tranquility.
The soul made boundless from the shackles of mortality,
And carried aloft by wings of peace.

Only through death is there true life,
So please, do go gently into that good night.

Second poem:
A link made eternal will not sever,
As a mind tormented will always snap,
One at war with body and mind,
For a cause unsure,
But a link everlasting clutches to the broken pieces,
As a shattered soul endures it allI

Here's a fresh one about my fear of Gamma-Ray Bursts

Some refer to life
As being snuffed out,
Like a candle in your chest.

But frequently,
It’s like beating a fire
With a heavy wool blanket.

Tenacious fire
Can force waves
Of buffeting suffocation.

Some even leave
Embers that spring
Alive with each breeze.

Meteoric extinction
Is somehow much nicer
With it’s constant thudding,

Than bursts of light
Piercing through ether,
Like a rushing, mighty wind.