Poetry Critique Thread

Post original poetry, receive feedback.

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>There are dreams they left here
>Scattered among my fathers things
>and my mother's dust

soot-tainted glass —
buried before the logs
burning, yet translucent
in midnight surpass — the
campfire warmth embraces
and audibly applauds

as the fingers I insert
into the flames and
the burning manifestations
straight from my brain
clothe the shelter
the memories,
the porous eyes
externally insane

but dim as the glass
weeping limited the rain
the midnight wind carries the fire,
touching and tame
as I whisper Ebonics in
back-faced refrain...
"here's to valued an emptysome pain"

Learn to versificate. I wish I could read this to give you more advice, but it's just atrocious.

I'm going to pretend it's not greentext and just say I like it, honestly.

I like apples but I can't eat them.
I died today, as I was born dying
and as I will probably perish: dying.

10/10, great economy

Why can't I love as you, who can't teach me? Thank you, my new friend.

Am I publishable?

That's a good piece, had to really discuss it, as it is fairly straightforward, but damn. One of the best things I've seen put here.

hooo doggies the rhyme in this hurts me.

"Uranus"

People who live there
would be wise to avoid the
obvious name joke.

You guys are dangerously validating to my useless ego.

more messy and cluttered than you intend. Best line is probably, "oh how it suffocates." The rest doesn't feel nearly as human

>doesn't feel as human
could you elaborate? I do want it to feel messy and cluttered

toward the back and come to the
edge
then it
wasn't so
she is getting
so far ahead I cannot catch her.

If I I will be
the fish
"The fat son of a bitch."
he fell off the
church. He looks down

up the path
I am not anything.

Good stuff, very to the point. I see the relation between your parents very clearly
Not bad
You have an interesting style do you have anything else?

Here's me

>The essence of her being actualized by the action, its effect traversed a mile of mind
>coming into being with the best of yourself; the art of the moment, as if you were painting time with your movements and mannerisms.

B harsh

>do you have anything else
a good bit, here's one that was written in the same week as the previous. It's also a tad rough
pt 1 of 2

...

She's going to
Jail
Black mail the
Black male
It's all true what (he) said
Rimbaud was right
No one cares about your shitty diary entries
Poetry is stupid and
Surpassed by the
Novel
And internet
Memes
This is Biblical, Biblical
Biblical

Genuinely excellent
Very good, but the last line seems a little clunky Not sure if there's anything to be done about that though without completely rewriting it.
Hard to read: too unstructured, should be a four or five line poem. But I like the concept and the word choice.

R8 mine gais?

As I come around madness
I am greeted by the dull fire:
whose puddle diverts the ink
through the cloaked wild things,
growing; and to it I am drawn:
As a moth to a flame,
so a man to Inspiration.

Not sure about the choice of the words "come around," but I need to convoy going around something, but decisively, not meandering.

Messy, inorganic, draft again and be more concise and less pedantic.

This is much better though. There's one consistent idea here.

Unkindled Ash,
Unfit to even be cinder
Roam the world kindled time and time again,
Seek the Lords of Old, Deliver them to their Thrones

The first flame fades softly, the deep comes from below
Pray to the saint who dreamt of these horrors
Devourer of Gods, Lord of Cinder, prophecy he shall show
Faithful to Aldritch, The Pontiff, and McDonnell, misery ye shall sow

Lain down his arms and forsook his shield, Duty-bound to kindle the flame
Hollow of mind, King of the Profaned Capital, he reigns
The fire does fade, the profaned flame burns true
In time, it shall fade too

Legion of Hollows, Sworn to wolfs blood
A fight against themselves, for the abyss is in each man
Futile, or perhaps, it is life in of itself, to resist the inevitable
Farrons Keep, the Unkindled will meet

Lordships last reward, to be delivered to their throne
Two princes of old, one young, one bold
Lothrics holy light shines brightly in the dark,
Souls of the Twin Princes burn against the moon

Soul of Cinder, Lords of the Past
Gwyn marches, blade in hand, these Lords of Old will fade
Legacies of Ash consume the past
Endless Sunlight Spears, Gwyns last tirade

Unkindled Ash, Unfit even to be Cinder
Rise from your grave, deliverer of Kindle
Heir to the fire of Lords linked-past
Postpone the end of flame, A Colossus dies in Vain

Horrors lie certain
under heavens soft snow
untouched by sunlight
not a place you should go
but we ventured down
for the good of their kind
us vessel of spirits
to see what we'd find
it was cold and damp

you won't die today,
you won't perish nor skedaddle
you're a faggot waiting at bay
tell me, how you like dem apple?

boy, did you get a wedgie?
cause you sound very edgy
i knew you could never catch her
you're as ugly as grandma Thatcher

The walls whimpered through the night, bereft of silence.
Coldness of steel, the scent of rust.
And her breath smells of alcohol.


r8 pls

High-school tier "humor"

Fallacy of imitative form

I like the idea and the imagery, although the rhymes seem somewhat forced. I think the poem, with its message and imagery, would work out pretty good if your focus had been more so on the meter, flow, and rhythm rather than rhyme.

>Sheen'd
Dropped
Its 2016, do you srsly think ppl still need your shitty eliding apostrophes to pronounce properly?

Sorry, maybe I should say
>Dropp'd

While I'm no poet (probably less of one than you), I might phrase it, for example, as follows:

Horrors lie certain
Under the soft snow of heaven,
Devoid all sunlight,
And with luck human presence.
Yet down there we went
For the good of their kind,
Us vessels of spirit
To uncover the truth -

It was cold and damp. . .

This is much more pleasant to read

I read these two today at our "Live Poet Society" meeting. No one gave feedback other than applause or "I really liked it". Maybe they're actually really good; I want some legitimate advice moving forward.

The Bottle:
The embers of the procession thrashed
Against the floodgates in a blizzard
Of brown, speckled feathers --
But the cage was glass and
The cork was thick.

Rain pelted the false walls,
Taunting the cistern that
Yearned to pour its doves --
To expel the coos of mourning,
To nurse the tattered shred of warmth.

The case was revealing
And within was clear.
To release one was
To claim the other,
And both doors were heavy.

The sparks grew silent as
The murder pushed forward
And the trembling hands struggled --
But the cage was glass and
The cork was thick.


Sunrise:
Between silhouetted sycamores
Roves a hermit, held
By rumor and hope of an
Unrivaled
Treasure.

The revealing beams
Share slowly, shadowing
Staggering breaths that
Starve for what is
Unseen by Solitude.

A lantern is lit,
Seeking its fortune
With fumbling flame,
Fervently fleeing from
The Bringer of Dawn.

Searching by light
Of dull, dim ego
Gold remains rusty;
All but forgotten
In its eastward ascent.

Its nice to see a critique thread that isn't just filled with trolls and people deriding every and any poster. There's actual critique going on here, and that really nice to see. Of course most of us aren't great writers (and probably none of us are world class), but in all honesty Veeky Forums users do seem to be more educated and intelligent than the majority of the general public. Most of us here are in fact fairly young and inexperienced, but in time I'm sure some of the user here really will become decent writers. People act so cynical on here all the time - as though anything and anyone on lit is just pseudo-intellectual trash. In fact though, I'm sure there's real talent here, and statistically speaking, more so than amongst the general population. I'm sure that one or two (or more) people that have used, or will use Veeky Forums over the years, will become notable writers of the 21st century.

Anyone? I've never actually shown this poem to anyone, and I'm pretty new to poetry, so it'd be nice to get some criticism.

I'm sorry

Pls someone

I would replace the semicolon with a period and then start a new line with "and to it I am drawn:" I think perhaps you should be more selective in your usage of the definite article. Selectively dropping a "the" or two would improve the flow of the poem.

Enjoyable but I would avoid cliches like "moth to a flame."
Rate mine in return

Sure, gave it a read. I haven't played III or II, but I did play the first one, so I sorta get the setting, but not well enough to really comment on the content. What I really liked was how the last half of the poem seemed to pick up the pace with every line, that was very engaging, but I feel like the last line sorta fell flat. Try rework that to be more of powerful. With a poem that long, you can't have a flat ending like that and hope that people will enjoy reading it, unlike in
Where the flat ending comes after a short enough poem that I can appreciate the message without feeling like I've wasted my time.

Even with all of the shitposting, Veeky Forums is an oasis of decent original poetry in the mire that is other internet platforms. I was encouraged to make a Tumblr to find people to workshop with, and trust me, it's utter shit.

A lot of the cynicism and memes on Veeky Forums are here to keep the "pseuds" out. It took me a while to get it, but I think that helps. The more I've lurked and been in discussions here the easier it is to find good content and conversations.

As to your final sentence, I honestly hope a lot of people here will be notable writers in time. I'm personally a STEM guy (going to double major in philosophy though), so I might not go too far, but writing is still a great hobby. I draw a lot of parallels between poetry programming oddly enough, which makes it feel like every poem is a puzzle I have to solve. I'm probably going to submit a manuscript for the Walt Whitman award next year though, so who knows?

The last line doesn't seem to fit the flow. maybe something more terse like 'her alcohol breath.'?

How do other anons feel about the re-articulation of in post ? These are two different posters; I'm user-79, replying to user-73. Like I said, I'm not very literary and don't consider myself a poet, nor do I really spend any time writing poetry. I have written one here and there over the years, but I wouldn't go so far as to call reading or writing literature or poetry a hobby of mine.

However, I'm a little curious as to whether anyone thinks I have any potential - not to be a great poet or anything like that. I'm more of a STEM-fag (and I do appear to have a fairly promising future in that area), but I think it would be cool to publish a poem or two in a modest literary journal. It would certainly boost my confidence and make me feel like something of a petit-renaissance man, as it were.

I ask because my English teachers and professors in high school and college have complemented my work (but not of course suggested that I'm a brilliant literary mind or anything like that), and my sister is a published writer and my father an English professor, both of whom have complemented my writing. Of course, family members are likely to be biased, which is why I'm asking the inter-webs. Not that I want to be the next Rimbaud or Holderlin, or even some lesser trendy hipster poet, but it would be cool to know that at least a few people have read my lines in some obscure publication.

Thanks guys, how's this?

As I come around madness
I am greeted by dull fire:
whose puddle diverts ink
through the cloaked wild things,
growing.
And to it
I am drawn:
As darkness from flame
so a man to Inspiration.

Tried to take both of your advice on board, definitely think it's an improvement so thanks a lot. Debating splitting up "And to it / I am drawn" though, but I think it might flow better this way. What do you think of the alternative to the moth cliche?

To repay the favour, I'd recommend changing the last line. You've already mentioned scent, so I don't think it's necessary to do so again in such a short poem, and it seems too long-winded, or relaxed, even, for how anxious the rest of the poem is.

...

I really like the language here, but the story and message are somewhat nebulous, or at least hard for me to follow. Admittedly, I always have difficulty interpreting poetry, and some poets even seem to be consciously nebulous, so that might not be a very significant criticism.

I do like the wording of the rewrite more, but I feel the original flows much better, and also delivers the last line with more force. I think the issue is that you did away with the rhyme scheme, which the last line purposefully broke in the original, making it a bit more of a shock. In free verse, it's a lot harder to emphasise a turnaround in theme. I'd be interested to see how you'd rewrite your rewrite to include a rhyme scheme.

I watched as your Adriatic hair
crashed upon the rocks
of a dark wine sea.

From out of the fog
the siren came
searching for your lighthouse
to bring you home.

Though the sea is now too rough
and my boat is filling with tears.

This is pretty good in an imitative sense, so to speak. As an attempt to, for example, capture the spirit of certain works of 19th century romanticism it does a pretty good job. In other words, it seems to show a decent awareness and appreciation of a very particular form or type of poetry, but it lacks uniqueness. Basically, it seems somewhat formulaic and unoriginal. Thus, it ends up being well executed, but not very creative or insightful. I.e. I can't say its a very elegant or original contribution to the usage of descriptive language, nor does it convey a profound or interesting message. A story about a "pixie princess" is perhaps cute and pretty, as it were, but it doesn't speak to me on a deeper level. It seems impersonal and generic, despite exhibiting decent, albeit unoriginal, poetic form.

The second one is actually really good, but as that other user said the message of both is rather nebulous. Too nebulous for me in the first one; there I can't quite properly figure out what's going on, but the second one I do like a lot. Your style is too metaphorical for me to be able to comment on much though, other than saying that I liked them.

Excellent. I think you're a significantly better poet than I, because I can't find a fault here.

Fair enough, and I appreciate the feedback. One review is better than none.

...

The title is "Streetlamp," by the way. Forgot to put that in there.

The tide has swayed, the turn is imminent
As the blade pierces my skull, my face runs bloody.
Release me from my leglorn prison or I shall die.
I will not submit.

We fled into the new glass jungles
and sought shelter
under canopies of streetlights.

Bathed in neon
and scent of cheap pizza
lining up for moments
of overpriced novelty shots
well timed trips to the washroom
and balance a tightrope act between
the white lines
and
the watchful bouncer.

These moments of loss
dissolving into pulsation
rhythm and neo-blues
will be blurred by dawn soft light.

Thank you user :) after getting a rejection letter yesterday from a poetry contest, this has made me feel slightly better

There was a time when I used to see the ghost of Hitler walking down the hall into the bathroom. He never turn to look at me, he just walked. Then I got really depresed about my writings, and I stoped seeing Hitler. A couple a days after I stoped writing alltogether and shortafter I saw Joyce's ghost walking down the hall, he stoped and looked at me, opened he's mouth, as if he were about to say something, but didn't spoke a word and went off to the bathroom. I tought that it was a clear sign that I was going mad, so I went back to writing to not think about Joyce. I never saw him or Hitler again. Perhaps he wanted to say that all communication is imposible but you have to try itanyways, I'm not sure. I just hope I never get to see Joyce again

The Crown of the Doomed

Sleepless nights yet again,
the only thing I've got is pain. Bloodshot eyes, filled with tears, ice cold heart, mind full of fears.

Everything inside is long dead, terrifying thoughts controlling my head.
Voices screaming, shouting loud again,
pulling me down, holding me with a chain.

Pressured to grow up fast,
a horrifying spell was cast.
I will never be set free
or be able away to flee.

The chains holding me down,
on my head's the death crown. Never to be without the pain, never to have something to gain.

Half-assed attempt to be like Cummings

because of the use of indention? sincerely asking.
that's kind of vague, I would greatly appreciate specifics, because, frankly, I was worried was too messy not that the "vines" one.

isnt there remotely in the spirit of midgets of subcontinents scaffolding the swedes and sweaters who wants to go on the consequence? heremetic man or letters mundane facets of the conniving synergy like sumodemons along the minute subcontinent blistering lodge even as the nasal lady who wants the plum but defeated côte. they probably just cheer and clap and don't even laugh on the cross! psycho in the corridor, these tribal trolls amongst the worst of the living the omni-immigrants hormonal convent and create crime for special-attention people who wish to bum only commuter musk to get attention on anal levels. let’s stay to the pathological,in pairs they have to respect, defend the honor, the priest in the piss red throw of crimson island life- farce & son, readers of draconian revenge play deliriously drone climax, collages and kinky drone modes have yet recovered from infant scream trauma who long to find the reason there aren’t even any ladies out on stoner rock. the hughs there are like all the shirtless men (views keyhole execution) on man and godless beak on silk block of face-lick strangers are laughing! their spirits are light! timid garcon a a a reptile... not killing softly a hard death, cosmetic monolith, its nice that their hearts were full of song but they cant really sing. it frightens me. it feels like an eel-scented gap in that mans headphone bill. time has no emotion no appetite no insignia the problem is that we'd like to start fire we pissed on sawdust and drank the provincial broth. the beach war otherlands the feel spectre did not doubt that our mood laughing at the intensity of the feeding ghouls the attack of tired sunsets so arresting the performance tents with unlit yurts wired with much to say "you were chaos arpeggiating."

a high castle secret

an illusion born of boredom and blindness

the hallucinations have agenda and they cling to it like a frightened mite. the storm is sheltered in this black fang voice but if ever there was an occasion for it, for slanted articulation during firm aisles of surf music holiday BURN hypnotics that make me proud of my people. the electric laceration applause that makes me proud of my people. yin tu baum sorry for the firebird that makes us question all clean as clinically extreme narcs as the ball playing the wrong kind of static. not the gonzo sleep-aid ss gier. she had the wrong kind of babies- lucky for her, none of them were born. he had a checkout approved handles not in flame. the bongo man is flaming- he's not barbin anyone tonight. did you go without saying goodbye?

what the fuck

I think ending it with "alcohol on her breath" would be better

This is pretty le edgy
"As the blade pierces my skull" and "i will not submit" are drenched in cliche

I'd say the potential is there but avoid blatant Homerian references like that

I dreamt.
And so I found the World Tree.
I have been what was, and what will be.
I have been every stone,
Every branch,
I have known every name upon the wind.

I have lived forever in a moment,
For every moment I have dreamt,
And in each moment again I did dream.

This I have dreamt, and so too now do I dream,
For I am being what was, and what will be,
I am being every stone and every branch,
And I am knowing every name upon the wind.

If I'm being honest? this isn't good

do you have others to share

also what is this

It makes sense that it isn't good, seeing as I just wrote it and didn't polish it any.

I don't have any more poetry, because I lack inspiration, this piece was an actual dream I had, so that was my only inspiration fodder.

This is beautiful. You've used the "obscurist" style marvelously here. Poetry packed with metaphors and words of visceral emotion always move me. There's an incredible amount of depth, and you've left so much room for interpretation that if published, I believe would provoke serious discussion. Keep at it user.

Then,

there,
here and now and fall is all of a sudden rain.
Air to new air and poesy is dead.
A bridge careens in a flood of May,
when many a Mayhap blossoms to kite
small prayers over a river.

Run, water will pray never stop.
Wet yet swift, does the lining of a rinse cloud
drop. A day caught in turbine flux.
It is love o' clock and the world has to go.
Sun set in low brevississimo,
as birdeyes wailed into a color dead east.
Water and water will drown but an isle, lopped from earth's memory bottom to head.
We go on elsewhere. The raft still rotting and us,
uncertain on a flush piercing of red ingots of noise.
The gulf bent quarreling with a mad wind in a bedlam beguiling dead to the dead.
Water and water black and black overlap
up, up and forever wash.
Verse me a world and we will reverse
to some other thing, life is rinse and rehearse.

You'll rot easy on both sides as a metaphor: no martyr dies to name similars in things.
A word is high heresy, innuendo to joke, is a box of love is a box full of blood.
Kill it. Then lower meter into the yard, vowels mewl in small agony:
A bird in single paradise until man sang its threnody.
Wren wran werther,
across the appalachian sea.
Is death is the word what's worth in itself.

(O' Icon, what the hell do i mean?
Quem cavalo, quem cavalga?)
Snowmen, snowmen everywhere.
But not where we live. Sad, isn't it?

While megalomachina has a brief lemonade evening
sulking in an orange lagoon of sun, while the hour
is simmering, when time i---------
They will know most particulars and come slowly to hate them.
Polite, quick to quip and dapper.
Tea dip crumbling crisps and natter.

Meantime, leave me to whom a poet has created in me
and made us sad and cry and alone, let the
waterworks gush, chiseled me out of stone.
(Never so much have i seen a river,
never an ocean, cashmere nor basmalah.)

hey, this is very good
are you a musician per chance

No, but I live for music.

wonderful work my friend
i'm a musician, most of what i write are lyrics. i just asked because what you wrote feels so musical. i wouldnt consider anything i do poetry thooooo.... the shit i posted is just vomit i coughed up one morning in paris

forgot to mention what i posted was the "did you go without saying goodbye" one

Ah, it would be much better if you cut your poem into sizable verses. But let me give it a read, hold on.

Economy. I have one word, economy. You see the poem I posted, the one you like? I spent two weeks on it. It was four to five times its size and browsed over four different languages in little segments. Were pretension a poem, my early draft would be the quintessential example. Unfortunately (and what misfortune!) I had it on a pastebin that expired too early to recover. Let us be honest, pretension is lovely. Where else do we find people venting besides within their words and gestures? You have a lot to say, friend.

A cursory read of your rap (this is how I read it, and I apologize if this is offending, or that I should have read it in some other signature) tells me you have much to export to the reader. And yet, you make the mistake of expelling me from that joy. I'll be honest, I am a dense person and sometimes when I'm drunk I'll drop a "loquitur" here and a "jongleur" there, sprinkle some "aqua regia" and viola, I am eloquenticious. And I think making mistakes is a wonderful thing, because truths get boring after rote and repetition. You should be grateful for your mistakes, user, because you have many. I won't go about telling you which they are for two reasons:

1) When God created my clay, he did not borrow from Cicero's.
2) It is wrong to voluntarily interfere in an artist's act of becoming.

You will learn, and you will learn fantastically. I sure didn't know much about poetry, leave alone music (and God, what I'd give to be able to play in something like this: youtube.com/watch?v=vdGDHGk_49w&feature=youtu.be - and it melts my heart that I can't.). You fare better than most of us, even if you do find yourself at the top of Mount Nadir. Chin up, lad. Rework in this hymnalong life your singalong and fiddle on.

The subject isn't actually that edgy if you knew the context.

Coup de Grâce

a eulogy for the nights we didn’t have to speak.

a warm blanketed embrace was our aubade to the settled serein and the rising sun who illuminated the steam of our breath as we said farewell; you, so fair, made me well.

these nights I long for loneliness to constrict me & choke me to sleep but my bedfellow looms over me;

a tumultuous love that deafened you and weaved it’s way into my long, greasy hair that won’t ever terrorize your bed sheets again.

if I cut it off perhaps you’ll be free of me.

my God gives me signs and your universe gives you signs. We read them & burn them down.

great one

At the fall of the senses the external will flourish,

The crown of knowledge is not upon us but last is the external world jury to indict this.

If there's value It's in the nothing that might absolve us!

If experience is restrained by us, what be our restraints?

To what container do we thank for coddling, and freeing the fear that we fear of the nothing that is spirit?

(Let not the unknown bestow us with the burdens we mustn't carry.)

The seat is open for you.

Seasons, for us, change with us.

Have the colours died and we with?

You've been to class, use your rational, do you take the seat or pictures of it?

(I'd die to do this twice and in my second life be a romantic again)

// The violet's of life

I can touch of you,

On the degrees of all my love

flows to you!

Delicate you and I both be,

Does this sacrifice

suffice with you?,

O I've mourned and

Lov'd with everything

Upon you.

To this night i'm too drunk

(this night) to write to you,

Yet I can't stop!

The lyrics come to me

as greatly as I can love of you!

An honest man sits
Alone beneath a tree,
And the whole world dares to listen.
A man whose words
Are bittersweet,
But the world does not dismiss him.
In fact, he feels,
With every sin
The world begins to miss him.

An honest man, here, once sat,
And told the world so much.
When on this tree he hung his hat,
The grass forgot his touch.

I like it, pacing is nice, imagery is nice. I like the feeling that an honest man is one of sin, implying that one cannot be without sin and there's no fault of man in that, the world will still listen.

The ending is fairly abrupt though, I feel you could jump right into another verse after this and it could follow nicely. Much better then my poetry.

These are the horrors
left out in films
the unraveling of silk
into heaps of woe.

A once great king
of 20 acre land
now lives in a 5x10 room
watering plastic plants.

I felt warmth from her cheek,
The feel of her hand,
The silk of her gown,
As we danced round and round.

What song was playing?
The melody I forgot,
To her, my attention was bound,
As we danced round and round.

My feet were unskilled,
Hers were a grace,
And never did she frown,
As we danced round and round.

My heart raced faster,
I know what came next,
The music was slowing down,
Yet we danced round and round.

The song came to an end,
My heart nearly stopped,
Her lips, mine found,
Our hearts danced round and round.

Walking, walking, walking,
Through the city, so grey.
Walking, walking, walking,
Nobody's Looking my way.

Walking, walking, walking,
Through the town at night.
Walking, walking, walking,
Hoping nobody wants a fight.

Walking, walking, walking,
Through the woods, so brown.
Walking, stopping, praying,
Nobody's around.

Walking, walking, walking,
So peacefully in the rain.
Walking, splashing, living,
No heat, no worry, no pain.

Not sure about this one, It's imagery feels weak or maybe it's that I feel it's not a moment that needs to be poetic? A night out on a date? Are you dodging bouncers and doing coke? How are these moments of loss, what is lost? The memory is what's lost to the soft light of dawn? Too many questions I honestly would care if answered because for me the imagery isn't there.

Don't like at all. Makes no sense. The unraveling of silk into heaps of woe? What is that, why would silk be turned to heaps of woe just from unraveling?

A once great kind of 20 acre land? A great king would have a kingdom, not 20 small acres of land, and why the watering plastic plants? That line is just stupid, it's too abrupt and obvious.

The poem has no emotion, or atleast none shown that makes any relatable sense or imagery.

Kinda fun and easy to follow and read. Doesn't have much of an underlying story or moral (that's fine with me). It seems like a happy poem and the colours used definitely don't follow that feeling, I think if anything this has a crisis of direction. I also think the last, "no heat, no worry, no pain" is a bit overdone, and the no heat part doesn't make sense to me.
Nothing special on it's own to me, would make a nice little song to sign while walking though. Keep at it.

Imagery is there, I like settings like this but there is too much cliche. The repeating of round and round I think is a fairly weak way to keep the whole poem moving. There are a few others that kill the vibe, I'd say like : Frown, unskilled, my heart nearly stopped. There are some others. I like it but only at a first glance, at depth it is shallow and the voice chosen to speak it is weak. Would like to see this done properly.

Gonna take a break, I'll review these when I get back.

saved

ayy, kinetic poetry guy, glad to read from you again

memories fade, and neither alcohol nor formaldehyde can preserve them.

a freezer of selfishness holds my heart in an empty bottle of gin. I bought it for you & drank it all that same night.

I mixed it with mango soda that’s been bittered with deceit.

-a couch in your livingroom
-an empty bottle of gin
Both green and empty, but used to be full.

Pieces of myself remain in each and can’t be preserved and will fade away at whatever speed you choose.

empty promises have roots but will never grow branches and leaves.

Complacency lost


Darkness, crafter of shadow
Dance behind me
I long for you no more
Disappear in the night

If lost, would you return?
At dawn
You cast behind me
At dusk
Lost to the night

I ask, shadow
Do you walk and strut?
Fret your hour upon stage?
That perhaps,
Is why I hear you no more.

As always, embarrassing.

lol

I wrote this a few months ago. Not sure if I've posted it on Veeky Forums.

On what year or what month?
Or day, or hour, or minute?
There can't be any run
--Oh, your days were quite fun
From omens of death, innit true?

Your life was such a waste
But no need for a haste
Judgement is at the gate
--Not bothered about it, wasn't you?
Still God tries to make up with you.

The dusk comes nears the verge
Dawn is in front of your face.
Doth the thief has the urge?
No man knows, all is a grace.

I like this one.

I am to death as a child is to Christmas,
agitated, anticipating,
awaiting the arrival,
only to wake the next day,
disappointment lingering,
pee pee tingling,
I must see what I wreck,
praise almighty kek

He, Stanley, stood standing.
Stanley's standing stood outstandly.
And he, Andy, fancied Stanley.
So Andy stood with Stanley standing.
Thus, Stanley's Andy's and Andy's Stanley's fannies
Fanned away with manly canty.

Also,

Her smile was a blaspheme creamer.
With a tongue crimson as hot cold blood.
A holy hell fire hydrant's slippery thick mud. Outspoken in chastity yet embarking on roads of cleavers.
Her smile was a blaspheme creamer.

I am to black as a child is to Christmas,
agitated, anticipating,
awaiting the arrival,
only to wake in the shed,
wife's BLACKED,
pee pee tingling,
I must see nubian wreck,
praise almighty kek(old)

Whoops. Forgot to comment. I agree with other posters that it's quite good. Puts a lot of meaning in few lines. But can someone explain why it's exceedingly awesome?

This is mine.