Poetry Critique

Try to write something longer; it'll probably be good for you.

I was on the internet reading
angry articles about how everyone
is wrong when I realized
that what I think does not matter
any more than what dogs do
and whether or not I am wrong
or misled, or manipulated, or--
I am not a player
and this is not a stage.

As ſoon in aſs you'll delve
For glute in broad maſs you fell
And in flurry loſe your ſelf

Booty

Booty

Booty

Booty

Rockin' e'ry where

>do crumble
dropped. read more

i'm not him, but your criticism of rhyme scheme doesn't really hold. plenty of poets move into and out of different schemes. that being said, the poem has other flaws

too short, too bland, for my taste. reads like a bad translation of one of the heteronyms' fragments

It is one piece. I dunno what to tell you, it's supposed to be unorthodox.
Ha! Good try Mr. Angst but I've only posted this one other time at the end of a dying thread.

It's interesting to earn such venom for merely employing an approach that conflicts with your preference. It'd be prudent to figure out what you're overcompensating for. Though, if your patronizing tone is any indication, I'm sure you already consider yourself perfectly self aware.
I'd like to hear what your opinion is.

I woke up this morning to find myself missing
Something that should have been there.
At first it was subtle and then I realised
All of a sudden I just didn't care.
I thought back to last night
then with a start
Shock filled my brain.
And suddenly I remembered
my 'Significant Other' pain.
I leapt up with a shout
My heart full of glee
And in my mind's eye
Kissed goodbye to a Banshee.
And yet then I turned,
And Surveyed my domain
And found myself staring
At where w-
At where I had lane.
The smile fell and my heart died
The room fell silent and bare.
Then I strained and listened
For a voice that just wasn't there.
Panic struck in a moment
I burst into the other room
Fell to my knees and realised
That I had sealed my doom.
For I fear the cold and lonely
I fear an empty bed
I fear to look back at my life
With bitter memories filling this head.
For love is a thing that Warms
this cold and jaded soul
And only the heat of love
Can ever make me whole.
I feel like I'm lost somehow
Despite what she was was a bitch
Yet she was better than some of the rest
Don't ask me names I won't snitch.
At this point now a feeling
So familiar begins to creep.
Memories of Eight,
Of someone I can't hate
Through my mind, they start to seep.
Then it really hits me
Maybe I need a break
These women are really too much
They just make mind and body ache.
And so it seems
that I'm not ready
to again feel this strain
No, maybe I'm not quite ready
For 'The Significant Other' pain.

...

Can I ask what's wrong with it?

Saved. Wonderful work, user

Of that encrusting passion,
endurance only,
to the lost;
where once her gaze,
froze that pedestal heart;
on sojourn call,
hark! and that,
frigid plain,
foamy and rife,
abreast of fear,
and of strife;

such quality, only to tempt,
lemnian recourse;
addressed in elfin cloth,
so yet, still I dab,
with wantsome course,
mingling, mingling arrays,
ever such moil,
does tardy, our caress.

Antes de mi viaje, emprendedor invisible
Será mi deseo, caldera en mis entrañas risibles
Que sean las imágenes que retraten mi novela
Historia de olvido e infinidad desconocida
En mis días que habré aceptada y mal bebida
Y encendido en luz oscuridad de vela
Lujo entero en vecindad de mi alma

Al saber que la lluvia es buena y trae calma
Veo lo suave y se destila en mis manos agrietadas
Por sostener alas que nunca volaron
Que son cenizas en el espejo de las ramadas
En ramas rojas, hojas de navajas cremaron
La sombra que dejé en la rama alta.

In the dream of evening
the spirits journey,
Many become lost
Perhaps, never a sound is spoken
or a shadow cast

"Don't follow your dreams"
The dead echo
down a chasm of self pity
You might aswell kill yourself
You're already dead

Kill the hierophants
of shattered dreams
They are of no use
let them speak
their common tongue of self defeat.

Crossing the threshold
In a forest dark
Maybe this
Is where my peace lies

just kys itd save time

Save time for what, exactly?

Shit I just realized the relation between these. Sorry for not reading your poem.

Fake a smile as I dream my life away
One step forward, two steps back they say
Ashes of pictures that once were you and I
Scattered in my backyard so the Phoenix doesn't rise

>imperfect sonnet
REEEEEE

>1

Shit,
Damn,
Motherfucker

She's a tree in autumn, auburn
as wind rustles her leaves
but they never fall and
you suppose they never will
but if I could strip the cloak
that hides her now, she'd
be a sight, in starry night

no god to judge us -
makes me happy,
makes me hard.
no ruler,
no father,
no mother...
no mother.
motherless universe...
lonely smile
unasked question

MAYBE U NEED TO GIVE UP
U REPEATEDLY SUCK
YOU IN THE LEAGUE OF A DUCK
YOU A MEASLY SCHMUCK
IF U WAS SPEEDILY STRUCK
BY A GMC TRUCK
I WOULDN'T GIVE ONE FLYING SIXTEENTH OF A FUCK

If the five stages of grief are 1. Denial ; 2. Anger; 3. Bargaining; 4. Depression; 5. Acceptance, then one of the useful products of this thread series can be a comprehensive framework of young, artless poetry. Along the five stages, I propose, as a starting point:

1. The Plebe Stage
Shitposting troll with zero on the literary ball decides to justify his own low opinion of poetry by posting a shit poem, often under the declaration "this is my first." Further identified by vulgarity and obscenity, both of subject and vocabulary.

2. The Novitiate Stage
Sensitive teenagers with damaged or malformed social histories become aware of one or more aggrandized mythos associated with a literary figure. Grazing through a library Norton with no clue, they often stumble upon something which sticks. Pieces can be identified by formlessness, incongruent vocabulary, lack of self-awareness, and hyper-sensitivity to criticism.

3. The Dilettante Stage
A committed amateur has read some canon pieces and some anthol bios of a few poets and now fancies themself an expert. Rigid antique quatrains ensue, along with obsolete vocab, self-absorption unto maddening solipsism, and the stench of Laudanum.

4. The Carpet-bagger Stage
The student now wears the persona of "artiste" like a black trenchcoat. They can recite a few stanzas of Plath, may have heard of Lowell, and secretly aspire to totes go HAM on the coffee shop slam. Someday. Identified by pre-occupation with post-structural notions of semantic metamorphosis, elliptical syntax, and self-imposed structural whimsy.

5. The Re-entry Burn stage
Having failed to grok in any meaningful way, the disaffected poster locates a sufficiently "obscure" poem by a canon poet, strips off the title, and posts it as their own. If they are lucky enough to get a bite, inevitably will post how plug-ignorant Veeky Forums is not to have recognized the poem of [whomever], proving conclusively that their pre-formed judgement is true and final, and will often include a declaration that they will never visit again.

You float,
and from the delicate waves you create
water lilies flower

I come,
and pick one or two.
But the stream carries you way to quickly
for me to savour their perfume.

And I wait,
eternity again,
until the next fleeting spring.

a beautiful morning to check e-mails
thump thumping in my chest, i angrily reply
as a side effect of stress

ra-ta-ta-tatting, past my point of view
out into the distance
zooming, i digress

the grass grows greener on sunny days,
unlike today, few i have ever seen
like an unearthed memory, holding a dull sheen

to it, i assume, associated negative feelings
none present today, a day to hit
send send send send send send

and i’ll PPPPPP,
until no one see see see see see see’s
the darkness in mimimimimimi

my greatest fear, are clouds in early noon
the sun leaves home, refracting light in my room
reminds me of my day

i hope, full of pleasant memories,
too lost to do good,
wastes all of my energy,

running away away running
small children in a field
return to a place so familiar that we cannot sit tight

exciting exciting
a glimmer of hope,
returns to me in e-mail, sending, sending, sent

ascending my dear child,
to the edge of the earth
a beautiful mourning, feeling lost in the womb

i’ll cry cry cry cry out
and kick kick and scream
no one will hear me, alone in my room

close close and then open the door
a clear beam of light
phone ringing, birds singing,

a feeling of bliss,
to end off my morning
a lingering cough, and the smell of cold coffee

I am nobody I am everybody
Heaven forbid that any killer could be better than me
You'll never see me
I'm chameleon
Premium
I could be bohemian or deviant
Or dressed up as a chef experimenting with deadly ingredients
My rope'll tighten up your vocal cords like breathing helium
I am not evil, I'm relieving you from tedium
With anesthesia that's really rather lethal than convenient
Keenly clinical
Cold, clean
He isn't a criminal
He's cleaning up the whole scene
Keep it minimal
Turn believers cynical
Certain that i will achieve my goal, reach the pinnacle
Be it difficult, formidable or physical
Every killing's critical
To a level that's spiritual
I stay subliminal
May as well be invisible
Never leave a shred of evidence, I'm not empirical

I am nobody
I am everybody
Don't remember when there was someone who ever loved me
I am nobody
Yet there's forty seven of me
Blend in like a true clone
End them and collect the money

I have no relatives
Collateral or leverage to pressure with
So you'll never give a hemorrhage
My only blood ties round my neck with elegance
I'm educated in the etiquette of decadence
Any chemical elements are potentially venomous
Even adrenaline has benefits
And when it hits
I can taste the blood of Christ in the sacrifice
He made through the sacrament
To save us in the afterlife
Every soul is sacred so no one has to die
I just changed the pace of the roll when I cast the die
Fate, hear the pastor cry
You may be a mastermind
But if you're my prey then there's no chance you'll last the night

r8 my 6ameters:
ἀλλ’ἔτι kάλλιστόν τε kαὶ ἱμεροέστατον ἄλλων
παῖδα φίλον Kρείοντος ἀμύμονος Αἵμονα δῖον