ITT we critique each other's shitty poetry

>ITT we critique each other's shitty poetry

the grief of the early riser
is bound to his company ,
who wars with the lonely phantoms of his dreams
who braves the hallows of his fears
which, by your mark
fades into the dusk
like a cloud imposed upon a gaze of stars.
Like the rainy blades of green
and the dewy mists of morning,
how they cloud my sight.
As is the fogginess of dawn.

on a morning so gracious
to bring our connection to mind.
Nudging at my shoulder, pointing to you
adorned
and on display.
Painted with a brush so new and fine.
And the wind carries the scent:
what a warm alarm it is to wake to
and be reminded
that I'm embraced and accompanied
day in and day out

for all its humours,
reacquaintance
has found us furnished at the heart,
burning behind the eyes.
On fire with the same force
that lights the sunrise.
Soothing
like the smell after rainfall
before the heat of the day
has a chance to meet my cheek

how warm it is to see
the thawing of the damp,
smoothening the coarseness
of the early hours
as they burn
torrid
with the same fever
that struck the embers
once glowing
shyly
by our toes

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allpoetry.com/ecomaniac
twitter.com/AnonBabble

Paris is so beautiful from afar. Shame the French government ruined it.

>Paris is so beautiful from afar.
Nothing lasts forever, user.

Your last stanza is completely unlike the preceding ones you twat. Restructure it.

I am fat
I feel it all around me
Smothering
Sweaty
Disgusting
Fuck me
I am fat.

5.
Bugs are sticking to you
with cigarette burns and
DEEP inhalations for it to
fully hit you. This feeling of
empty bliss they sold y’on, huh?
Never gets better if it keeps getting.
May just break down, by the sounds of things
if our somniferous potions
tempted you no further
smiling, kind, happy—all things a guy
needs for him to be wanting
glistening, and rippled
biting lips and looking up if it’s okay
to air those thighs out by the
cooker if you’re not looking, ya hear?
Just a grab of this, that, and
oh, sometimes more
will have you feeling real
happy, our money back. Please.

15.
Whitman, an American as good as any
of us, left poems in his wake
by the fistful. He sold them out
on country roads (39¢) to show
he could disregard and fly from
any love currently his. His tip hat
is overturned by bills and bullion and
tender so green you could bite its
worth, not, into a single tumbling crumb.

17.
Slickened and slathered I need you
not too warm but just right I’d like to
thrust: UP. U-hP. Up. Heavy, forceful, one
more time let me guide your hands to
where I am. To flip you and find you
right where you were. Buttered
and battered you collect yourself
when I’m through with you yet. Mewling
once more, I’ll meet any gaping cashmere
your hems dribble out for parting
with brigades, seizing last left
legs of your feast to vulture.

I quite like these. Characterful, and they flow well.

I just posted in t'other thread
.. been struggling a little with it.

Better than most of the poetry I read on Veeky Forums actually. Kinda comfy, lad

Liked 5. You have an interesting style. I can't tell if it's cool or pretentious, but for the moment I'll say cool

Mine below. Please tell me why it's shit

It goes in steps
It goes in cycles
Ex Machina in stasis
Ergo, I claim to levitate
On plastic play wings
Because I do not possess
The real thing

I say so let’s
I’ll say so let’s
Let tomorrow inside
But its going to have to rape me
Penetrate my head space like
Rubber digits did the womb
To clip me of my prosthesis.
But impending are new shears
Like intending pianos
Old fear new fear
That only the half-ways know

I have blue shoes
That I never wear
Instead, black socks and stoicism
It’s like a disease
My dead glow bug
Guiding me apathetically toward
A blank coliseum
But forget the pupa
And his self importance
Because, in the end,
I’ll rendezvous with the matador
Who lived most arrogantly
But at the minimum lived

Dad just had a birthday
Mom just had a birthday
I have a birthday
The wallpaper peels
Because time is damage
It’s the gradient,
Ghillie suit arsenic
So cleverly pretending to be
Really nothing more than it is
And yet still I fell for it
Like the fly did the web
And finally it has occurred;
Not even Ziggy was immune

The Bug dangles laterally,
Like a pendulum,
Within his chrysalis
Dwindling from those who ask
How or what he’s doing
Neither nothing
Nor something
The caterpillar lacks definition
So how long has he been in there?
Looking jealously out at all the butterflies
Like the shadow who chose his craft
For its lack of independence

I navigate my contradictions
Like a seeing man pretends he’s blind;
Quietly
Admit aloud my prognosis, no
For it’s the confessional I fear
Bowie was no hero of mine
I know only that he is dead
Don’t ask me to extrapolate
Upon my inauthenticity
I contain multitudes
Each drop
More tasteless than the last

The last time I changed
Was an exchange
Of black socks
For black socks with holes
The Arachnid is approaching
But it’s all null
Because that which is not alive
Cannot contemplate being dead
And yet dawdling on am I
Within the web
About the artifice
Which I create
But chemical imbalance
Comes like a dream;
Wet, and inevitable

just read the last paragraph cus its long but i liked it

5 and 17 were pretty fun to read. Very artful technique, I kind of want to start exploring this style.

Felt kind of clunky. Some of the phrasing and shock-y parts came off a bit turgid, especially
>but its going to have to rape me
>guiding me apathetically toward
>because that which is not alive

The blocky language you're using is causing the whole thing to plod along rather slowly. There were some bits I liked though,