Poetry critique thread

Once riding in old Baltimore,
Heart-filled, head-filled with glee,
I saw a Baltimorean
Keep looking straight at me.

Now I was eight and very small,
And he was no whit bigger,
And so I smiled, but he poked out
His tongue, and called me, 'Nigger.'

I saw the whole of Baltimore
From May until December;
Of all the things that happened there
That's all that I remember.

want so much
to be someone
i lie and lie and lie!
what it was
that was my sun
your eye your eye your eye!

Silly Words

To think that such fair eyes may chance to see
Upon myself causes a shift so nice;
My heart goes from solemn to endless glee
My soul, it seems, in your eternal vice.

What grace it takes to make such regal strides,
A feat of which no man may find surpassed;
My hopes to meet in such my heart confides
In you, who’s caught my sparkling love at last.

Oh, dread the time when I must speak to thee,
For words do not know what they must become
In light of their imperfectness they plea
Before whose words make others’ seem so dumb.

But what candle may I yet grasp or hold
To you, whose love outshines the most pure gold.

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.

I love reading these even if there's not much critque.

Another day pocketed beneath the fleece.
A ding struck to a dull clock,
and all the suns might sunk deep.

It was a laze,
a lose from the swing.
Its hand swung back and forth,
eyes moving to judge its hinge.

Then there came a sombering.
A most insistant
ding, ding, ding.

I plucked a primrose from my mind,
an anxious, quiet and rude thing.
Not her, but me.

There was a metamorphose.
A waldering, a wilt.
Those depressed feelings came from bloom.

I wanted to catch it,
snuff it,
beneath the high noon.

Only thing I would change is the formatting, say it outloud to yourself and whenever you stop or want to add emphasis cut to another line. You dont want to drag on too long. Brevity is key aye.

I can see the style of writing is very focused upon the literal rather than using metaphor. This inst a critique more of just a "I can see where you're going"

Seriously m8? This is not the early 19th century and you're not Lord Byron. Pretty cringe. It's not offensively bad if we lived in that time period, just get real and be true to yourself and your own voice. This is not the real you.

>implying anyone reads Burrito

不知道
去不去
吃不吃
好不好

Alright lads, r8 h8 apprecia8

Remember my best night?
I thought I did. Always in your light.
The cold rain, porous and glycerin.
Don't talk to me about the rain or
what inconsequential oblivion awaits,
what infirm clock watching angels spill
dark-wise from tiny cars like clowns.
A plastic thermometer in my chest
pops and tells me that we're done.
Breakfast then comes pouring in
with the new shadows, and coffee.
Clouds approach. Lies flood
the bad neighborhoods of my tongue.
You move to turn on the light
and it's some time before it lights.
Hello, hello. Hello? Your navel
proves to me that you were born.
That living things die in false ones.
Remember me, like a mouth that
opens in the dark. I'll remember you
like a grave forgets what fills it.

I have reached the winter.
I wish I could speak
But the air is cold.
Even now my hand swells.
Soon these words, too,
Will frost over and collapse
And be lost.

So, don't write sonnets? No, that can't be it.
Did you mean that the language was too try-hard? I know it's flowery, but it was at least used appropriately, right?
What's the cringiest part?
What about it makes you think that this is not the real me?
Do you know me?

I like this, but the two halves seem disconnected. Still good, my friend. I wouldn't think it out of place if I came upon it in an anthology.

Don't listen to him man, I liked it. I though the language was on point where there was enough vibrancy without it being flowery and it seemed real enough to me.

I think, and Im going to stress I think he might be talking about the concept. The language used seems, real. But if you told anyone to describe to you how a woman makes you feel thats what they would write as a poem.

I think its a beautiful poem. But where is your mark. What separates that poem from one of anyone else on the same subject.

Cállese

Two princesses,
dressed to go out,
have toppled over
and come apart.

Most people
lack the negative capability
to appreciate
snuff films.

I’ve always been drawn
to gore
and filth
and real things that happen.

My traveling companion
didn’t want to
see this.
I wanted to take a picture.

To think,
their last breaths
were wasted on crying
much like their first ones.

Perhaps two men
dressed to go out are sitting
somewhere and
waiting for their arrival.

How long will
it be before
they realize
no one is coming.

And tomorrow,
when the road is hosed off,
the two Men will be
waiting for different girls.

When everything we need is under snow,

I walk back into that burning day

Into postcards of places long ago

I drive along our Wakeland Row,

on frozen ground where we once lay

Now everything we need is under snow

At the post office I see what I'll never know

In what you’ve said, but now can’t say

On those postcards of places long ago

I come home in the evening’s glow

And drive until my thoughts decay

And everything we need is under snow

Then I stare at the beach in Mexico

And the castle in France in its meaningless grey

On those postcards of places long ago
And you’ll keep writing, and I’ll still go

Wading through your tired cliché

Now everything we need is under snow,

And in postcards of places long ago

I declare this /winterpoems/!

Winter by user

It's when all the small people
and the kids
make things out of snow on their front lawn.
It's stuff for all the passing cars to catch
In their headlights, driving by.
Or for their fathers and mothers
Returning home.
Down the street there are lines of snowmen.
In the spring they all melt away.

Okay, how do you feel about this one then?

Not that guy, but I wasn't particularly fond of it.

It seems to be trying to match some idealized notion of what a sonnet should sound like, presumably based on some readings of Shakespeare or Spenser. The language is clichéd and tries to be archaic in a poor and sentimental way.

Some of the phrases come out pretty butchered as a result of devotion to the poetic structure your idea of sonnet language. "A feat of which no man may find surpassed" is particularly egregious.

Finally, it makes use of some dead metaphors. "I can't hold a candle to you" and "your love outshines the most pure gold." are pop song love clichés. They've been overused to the point that any original meaning in them has been lost; poetry is better when it finds original ways to express its ideas.

Hope this doesn't seem overly harsh, just trying to give some legit criticism.

Poetry is dumb
Poetry is gay
Hooray

Okay,
you got me to smile.
But this is what you wanted,
didn't you?
A (you)

Hey wait a second, u didnt write that, ya man

Okay, here's my criticism for this one. It's worse, IMO.

The title is, again, an overwrought cliché. This is generally an obstacle to good expression, instead of trying to think of what poetic language should sound like (thee and all that), try to understand the feelings you are trying to express. Ask what's the best way to give that feeling to the reader?

The first stanza is pretty awful. "On bike a man with bag in hand that bore a message oh so grand" is a very sophomoric attempt at writing poetry. In trying to fit the rhyme and meter you've lost a whole lot of the original meaning you're trying to convey. Nobody says or should say "on bike." "oh so grand" reads like parody of bad love poetry.

Try to understand a feeling and how to express it best, without thinking of what a proper poem should sound like first.

You post in a critique thread
and get mad when critiqued
You really need to
kill yourself,
my man

I like the poem, especially the small people part, but I think the last line is awkward with the rest of the poem.

Other than that, pretty good my man

No, no, you're fine. It's hard to find legitimate criticism these days, especially on a website who's primary response is "OP's a faggot."

It could defiantly use some originality, now that I look at it. Poetry is an art form, and as such, should seek new methods of expression past the traditional clichés and idealizations of the genre. The message could be less broad, too.

And now for some backstory. I have to admit that this work was written over 3 months ago to someone I felt very dear towards. Incase you're wondering, no, things didn't work out, and no, it wasn't my shitty poetry. I found out that she was a shallow person, so now I feel it's time to get rid of all this garbage I've collected to keep myself sane.

I'm anything but mad. In fact, I should thank everyone for their time in critiquing my stuff. It takes a certain patience to describe a pile of garbage in such a way that the owner knows why it was trash in the first place.

That's a good way to take it. We're all amateurs here, and writing and reading poetry is the best way to get better at it.

On a final note, love poetry is good when it has ideas that go beyond "I love you a lot." Shakespeare's best sonnets combined love with a belief in the preserving power of literature faced with a future of decay and mortality.

Lolita, one of the greatest love stories ever written, is about a disgusting man in love with a twelve year old.

I'm sure you have more ideas than just "I love someone a lot." Those ideas are what you should be trying to express. Good luck!

Thanks, man. I was thinking of taking out that line. I added it after writing to bring some conclusion to it, because it feels unfinished. Do you think it would be complete without it?

How often I find I'm reminded of what I thought I already knew only to discover that already knowing something is often no way to find

Summers are lazy days, like tangled waves
crashing down the skin, and she smiles once
and twice, and a thousand times as the sun
trades with the moon, almost by mistake.
If I had two ounces of hours to spend
it would be here, with infinite nothing ahead
and behind, where each break in the path
is allowed to be an accident, unlike ---
But here I can give, and all is returned
in pleasant measure and natural time
and if I ask for her, my warm surrender
we will take the time, forever in a day -
forever is a day, for to ask any less of each
cycle is the live in hell, in paradise,
haunted by images of great skies and endless
chance. If I took her she would have me,
If I waited, she would take me in a day
in an hour, in a second or a thousand,
and she would smile

>Try to understand a feeling and how to express it best, without thinking of what a proper poem should sound like first.

Is this really good advice? I would have thought your first order of business would be to force a rigid adherence to the common metres until you start thinking in iambs, trochees and dactyls. Then, when it comes natural to you, start trying to express yourself.

Just like if you want to learn music you start by learning your scales, rather than being yourself and all that gay shit.

Maybe I should have made myself clearer. I'm not necessarily advocating departure from poetic forms, just a changing in writing procedure.

Instead of starting with the idea "I'm going to write a love poem," I argue it's better to start with "I have this emotion. How can I best express it?" Then, as you begin to develop the ideas you want to express, you fit them into the best poetic form to match.

Strict rhyme and meter was mimicking oral epic tradition anyway.
Unless someone was kept
illiterate
for the sole purpose of producing poetry,
what's the point in trying?
Hardly anyone even speaks their poetry anymore,
and you can have the same aesthetic appeal and emotive transference without a strict structure.

Yes, some people listen to Webern and pretend it's music. Some people get off on eating shit.

Some people have serious problems and deserve our support, but not our respect.

I took some inspiration from Excelsior by Wadsworth when I was making this. It's pretty blatant around the first stanza, actually. I suppose my allusion went too far, but I honestly don't know.

In all fairness, the first stanza shows a failure to meet the expectations of the strict structure set out for the poetry. I'm not very proud of it in comparison to the rest. Also, the third line of the seventh stanza was actually supposed to have an "into" rather than an unto, not that it would make that much of a difference.

In this case, the cliché was a real event, where I was physically delivering her my first sonnet over 15 miles of hills to her house. I wanted a structure that would allow me to work in a storytelling format, so I went to the nearest example I had on hand. This poetry never saw the light of day since it was committed to paper.

I don't know if this information helps or not, but I hope it at least clears some things up.

While I'm at it, here's another piece of trash for the dumpster fire. This is, by far, my worst piece yet.
Full disclosure, I'm talking copypasta-level-cringy bad here. Read at your own discretion.

I can't write to save my life. I am a talentless, piece of shit. Why do I even keep trying?

Oedipus complex.

I can tell you have good ideas and emotions to work with, but I personally don't dig the rhyme and meter. It's better to reveal this through vernacular, of which you have a better command. When most of you poems are expressions of powerful personal emotions, why write in something other than your natural voice?

That doesn't make any sense

He is implying you write as subconscious therapy, which is something Freud theorized creatives as doing.

Castration Anxiety.

I suppose the more intensely I speak, the more formal and archaic I become. In a sense, this is my natural voice. Perhaps, I feel speaking normally isn't powerful enough, but this is a habitual writing style that I developed. I don't try to do it, I just do.

The more intensely I speak, the more formal and archaic I become. It's my writing style. It doesn't happen because I'm trying, it's a habit. In a sense, this is my natural voice.

Here's a more natural, modern piece of poetry I made.

And blood was saltier than tears,
And the earth was watered with blood,
And salt-pile mothers loved their sons
With hearts of stone.
Every slug of thought was fried
Upon the boiling, steaming soil
And evaporated with the oceans.

The possessed, they forge swords
Out of the blood's iron,
To tear flesh and spill forevermore,
In a red horizionless world.
Till the suicide of the tongue,
The repulsion by any taste and flavor,
The sealing of the throat
The occlusion of the
Insatiable thirst for death.

This boy had oceans in his eyes
And seldom when I'd gaze in them
Two violent maelstroms I would see;
Above, the skies would roar with
The thunder - dancing on the sea,
And down beneath the raging blue
Marine life slithers on the ground -
His thoughts wrapped up in eerie shapes.
One day I heard he ran away
And left his parents as they slept.
Dear Adam Shore, forever gone,
Two maelstroms weeping in the night.

Unlovable bullied faggot bullshit incoming, get ready for your faces to fold in half from the cringe boys

I went from pauper to ballin messiah swift
Washed up in Eden from where the pariah drifts
Still i remember lurkin in solitary rifts
Still my roots beckon, they beg me to call it quits
Demon to hero just for huffing the spliffs
Zero to brother just for memorizing the myths
I recall times they called to bloody my wrists
Now they call me to join when they burnin bud to split
I been spitting with two faces, a real jeckyll and hyde
In order to do somethin other than stutter and hide
But no good is redemption from sodomites and they kind
Must i turn they kingdoms to salt just to open they minds?
I knew from day one we worship diff-er-ent shrines
So why in their company do i squander my time?
Must be human nature that binds fellows from different vines
Even when vinegar produced in place of sapient wine

None of these words even rhyme what the fuck this isnt poetry this is SHIT

it is good bro, just keep in mind the number of syllables in each line (unless that was your original intention, in which case I'm a faggot)

Look m8, before anything else I want to say that your apparent love of poetry is nice, and you should of course keep writing poetry, you'll get better if you read more and write more, but...

>did you mean that the language was too try-hard?
Yes.
>I know it's flowery, but it was at least used appropriately, right?
"Used appropriately" is irrelevant. It's like a pilot saying "Yeah I took everyone to the wrong airport but at least I landed appropriately and it wasn't a crash landing." You shouldn't be using this kind of language in the first place, it doesn't matter if you used it appropriately, just don't use it at all.

>What's the cringiest part?
Your use of "thee". Stop, man. Seriously just stop. Can I give you a history lesson? "thee" (and "thou"), back when they were used, were **diminutive pronouns, spoken to age and/or social inferiors**. "You" was formal or spoken to superiors back in the day. One of the reasons "thee" and "thou" fell out of use is because class division became less distinct as time went on, so "you" was used to be on the safe side.

There is no reason for you to use "thee." Why use it? Unless you really think that special lady is your inferior.

>What about it makes you think that this is not the real me? Do you know me?
I know enough to know you are are probably a teenage to early 20's person living in the 21st century. Again, you are not Wordworth, you're not Shakespeare. You are not writing in your own voice, you're writing in the voice of people dead for 150 years or more. it is painfully obvious, mate, that you are writing how you think you're supposed to write and you are supremely besotted by your (as of now--limited) influences.

Look man, please just read more poetry. Have you read any poets from the 20th century? Try Lowell, try Berryman, try Anne Sexton and Silvia Plath if you want tog get the ladies in there too. (Sorry for only Americans, I'm American what can I say--but they're all very good).

>copy pasta level cringy
It's bad but it's honestly your best one. How can you think all the try hard wannabes with "thee" are less cringy?

I am the puma gazing from the ridge.

post it/on a
is actually a decent enjambment, but whateve

Could be a good start.

I posted a rough first draft of this in the last thread, seriously edited it; thoughts on the new version?

Cups of tea measure
The minute hand's passing;
Made up of smiles and a kiss,
Cars that rush to work;
Longing looks of leaving.

Not sure of a title, considering '7 am start'

I always struggle with good enjambment. What're the secrets to it, user?

I know i'm not good at writing
therefore that is all i know
i know i need time to refine,
my skills are blunt,
i know my mind is shallow
the idioms i come up with are lazy
they are not good, they are pressed,
for i want others to know i am good
but my writing is bad
i see flaws, which make it hard, i can't get it right.
but this opening, that i've given is for others to like
i want this to let them scatter, i want this for them to know
i am good at writing, but only, when i say i'm not

I wrote this for a girl I met while travelling. We knew each other for 10 days, and I'm going to mail it out to her some time tomorrow. Is it good enough or will she think I'm an autist? Keeping in mind we're both 18. She's not stupid though, straight-A student and knows her literature.

Daughter of the shephard of the earth,
Shrouded in the corner of the long-road truck.
The restless sun it shifts,
Igniting the fine crevices of your amber skin.
So deep those hazel eyes,
They ponder the ceaseless landscape.
Come home, Come home, Come home,
Lost child of Eden

Your numble feet patter along the soft sand,
A curious pilgrim from forgotten lands.
A child of the sea, he cries
Touched by a mather's smile.
Come home, Come home, Come home,
Lost child of Eden

As sweet as Mercury's wine,
Your eyes glisten and shine,
Sacred, a thing divine.
Cleopatra springs to mind.
Silhouetted by the mountainside,
the sea seems to caress you.
Come home, Come home, Come home,
Lost child of Eden.

A mother's touch, you do not rush.
Gentle as a doe.
A Child's eyes, a child cries,
From where you came they do not know.
Generous maid, in Midas' braid
Their hearts did overflow.
Come home, Come home, Come home,
Lost child of Eden.

If she likes you, she will like it. If she doesn't like you, she won't like it.
I write shitty poetry, but my gf adores it, no matter how bad it is. That is, because she is biased towards liking whatever i do.
It doesn't flow, and you're just saying how beautiful she is, not a really deep meaning anywhere. In short, it's to much.

relatable
if it means anything, to this layman it sounded nice

Well as i said, i'm not good with poetry.
So my judgement isn't that good, but my advice is what should be accepted.
For my critique, i don't like it when it feels like worshipping, especially with such a small window has been opend. (10 days)

This is something i wrote for a girl i talked to a lot to just when i started writing at 19
confinement
I'd love to confide in someone. someone who I could talk to
I wouldn't want to use them, but i see no other way.
and i know whenever im finished i wouldnt even stay
so please let me get to know you
i hope it doesnt seem strange, because a part of me has fallen for you
just like you have, little star

btw, when i read threw what i write i do notice my mistakes, but i'm at work and can't read threw what i wrote because of time issues.

Oh wait, you answerd to my other post, i'm sorry, i thought you were answering to Well thanks. i feel a little better now.

Back when my grandma used to dance
I had a puppet called Jerome
and we played hide and seek for days
until my fathers gun was born

Back in the night when I was young
I dreamt of being a raccoon
but once I found out what they eat
my freedom broke apart at last

Back at the spot of my intention
I never had the right to choose
but once they gave the wheel to me
I realized I don’t like cheese

There once was a man named Dan
who liked to post on Veeky Forums
he posted on Veeky Forums
his poetry was shit
but he never received a ban

this is actually pathetic

>Daughter of the shephard of the earth, shrouded in the corner of the long-road truck

This is actually nice.

But the rest of it is pretty bad, man. But at any rate it's the thought that counts. If she's a nice girl she'll appreciate your gesture.

And how is Ramona, these 12 years later?

Only one enemy remained; two if you counted God.

I'm writing an epic poem, this is my starting line.

I found I wanted to leave the door
But little do I know what lies in store
For every creek and leafy glade
For every light moment in the shade
A shadow-Cascades

The wind howls in my ear
It is always talking
Making sense
But no words
I am always left gawking

Intentionality. Length of breath. Rhythm. Kind of hard to explain. Compare the original to this more prosaic layout:

I am going to type random thoughts
with random line breaks
and post it
on a Chinese moral philosophy board.

And the pseuds will eat it up

This version loses a lot of the comedy of the original, even if nothing is necessarily 'wrong'. Poetry has a lot in common with stand up comedy. Any banal subject can be made interesting based solely on the delivery, word choice, emphasis, and pacing.

Think of the words on the page as the instructions for HOW to read the piece, and not simply an aesthetic arrangement. The line breaks guide the tone and pitch of the reading. - read the following out loud:

They taste good to her.
They taste good
to her. They taste
good to her.

it's like... syncopation- but in spoken language, the way one says a word or even the timing of it can change the meaning. you are composing music for another man's mouth.

>All this cringecore with rhyme and meter

It's like you guys are literally all 16 year olds who have only been exposed to poets from English class.

Holy... I want more!
Crash! Came the noise, loud at the door!
What could it be, the sound that awakes?
Golden Retriever, or Mom's pancakes?

Better/10

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

I'm not getting the ladies anytime soon, believe me. I made the mistake of loving someone for who I thought they were. The greater tragedy would have been us dating and me finding out that the person I fell in love with was not the same person at all.

Thank you for the advice. I'll read up on some of the people you mentioned, find a voice of my own.

I hope you'll like this one, , better than the others.

Now here's a self therapy/cliché one I wrote the day I found out she was a shallow person:

I am free,
I am free;
I was blind,
But now I see.

Something damaged,
Something broken,
But 'tis not me,
For I am free.

thats not a very good poem

all day from high within the skull -
dome of a pantheon, trepanned - light shines
into the body. down that stair

sometimes there's a fog: opaque red droplets check
the beam. sometimes tall redwood-tendoned glades
come and go, whose dwellers came and went.
now darting feverishly anywhere,
manic duncecap its danseuse eludes,

now slowed by grief, white-lipped,
grasping the newel bone of its descent,

this light can even be invisible

till a deep sparkle, regular as script,
as wavelets of an EKG, defines
the dreamless gulf between two shoulder blades.

This is a poem.

You can't prove otherwise.

"Oedipus in Harlem" by Gerry Murphy:

>Yo, motherfucker!

There was a time when the ice would freeze and the girls would sleep with braided hair in the hopes of curls in the morning
When the antelopes were spring things and the men in dark suspenders bobbed and bowed twisting marvelous killing machines
All before the bombs and floods and washes of death and far before the jungled asphalt and muddied seas
Long ago summer people said darling words like butterfly and calliope that clung to the French doors until the fog lifted and the whitened cityfolk came jalopying back over the frozen ice hills. Curtains were made of sheer silks and organzas and fingerprints of hollering housemothers. and the universe smelled of stolen Apple pie.

I took some really good LSD a few weeks ago, and tried to write some poetry while nearing my peak. It probably has no sentimental value to anyone but me. The door hinge bit, I remember, is about how I felt loosely double-jointed in every one of my joints.
It's quite terrible, but this'un makes me smile.

It's a transcript btw. The penciled original was nearly indecipherable.

two text messages
under the influence
reliving old ass thumbings
delighting in cheap bourbon
crawling to my target
underplaying my state
taking her back home
terrible at small talk
easily disrobe her
rigorously thumb her ass

Agreed. Poor rhythm, and odd line breaks.

My dark core, painted stark white
Leaks through crevice and weakness
Daring to impede good will
Against greater will and greater reason
Leaving a thrashed organ to do it’s bid
Though selfish am I, what could be done
For plights of gentle sin?

Branches & Leaves

you gave me seeds
and I took them.
tiny little seeds.
I took them all, thought
I had them all.

I buried them
in me. I dug and dug
and buried them under the
blanket of wet leaves
into the soil.

no vines came, for
the ground was frigid;
the sun could not be found.

all that’s left
is thick green moss
that covers this
damp forest floor.

Basically you'd be well served to get away from trying to write poetry with rhyme and meter altogether. It's just not where the evolution of poetry has taken us. I have a theory as to why poetry with rhyme and meter (and poetry as a whole) is far less prominent than it used to be. Back in the day poetry was basically like a kind of surrogate for music I think. If you were a guy in 1810, you didn't have access to music unless someone was playing an instrument in front of you. So reading rhyme and meter poetry was the closest thing to a record or an iPod there was.

Rhyme and meter poetry still lives on, it's just in the form of song lyrics now and it doesn't really need to be otherwise.

we get along much better
as strangers
we were lonelier together

>That night with the green sky

It was snowing and you were kind of beautiful
We were in the city and every time I looked up
Someone was leaning out a window, staring at me

I could tell you liked me a lot or maybe even loved me
But you kept walking at this strange speed
You kept going in angles and it was confusing me

I think maybe you were thinking that you'd make me disappear
By walking at strange speeds and in a strange, curvy way
But how would that cause me to vanish from the planet Earth?

And that hurts
Why did you want me gone?
That hurts
Why?
Why?
I don't know
Some things can't be explained, I guess
The sky, for example, was green that night

He walks
To the gates of my heart
Not in Crocs,
But in Birkenstocks

>The Poem I Wrote In My Room After We Fought On The Internet And You Called Me A Dick And Said You Had To Go To Sleep And Said You Would Email Me Over Thanksgiving From Home But Then Said ‘Forget It’ After I Said About You Emailing Me Over Thanksgiving From Home That ‘I Doubt It’

A metal rod a lot longer than my head
can fit easily in my head.
I don’t want to think about it. I want to rearrange furniture
using telekinesis. I will make my bed
go through a wall. My bed will bump people
at Whole Foods, in the cereal aisle. ‘Sorry,’ my bed will say, and feel ashamed.
And cereal will feel ashamed. But what would happen
if you were a non-sentient being. And I was god.
I think an unrelated third-party would suffer.
I think I would like to break all the secret records.
The one for most consecutive days of quality over quantity.
Or just into your email
account. Because I like you very much, it is sad

that if I were you
you would be someone else. A disaster I think just happened
in the room that I am currently in. But I didn’t see. And it was sleeping
when it happened. And it didn’t happen. Carp had a secret.
It involved a beautiful muffin, a reoccurring dream,
and a kind of yearning that causes muffin shops to go non-profit.
Carp don’t have that anymore. Last week I saw TV snow when no TV was in the room.
I was staring at my pillow. My head was on it. When I was four
I stabbed live fish
in their faces. Every fish I stabbed
went to secret heaven. Secret heaven is the one where
the other heaven is called secret heaven. At night in secret heaven no one knows what to do.
Sometimes in secret heaven everyone is afraid of secret heaven.
My bed is thinking about secret heaven.